Please, son, don't sell your father's blood and bones for cheap!

(Baonghean) - Peace returned, Father's body disfigured like our country, its frail body burdened with grief. Mother and children wept - the floods muddied the Lam River, how could Father's arm ever be restored, like the river's waters building up the banks of red silt? Father exchanged his blood and bones to redeem Mother and children from the shackles of slavery, to redeem our country and people, who had lost nearly half their lives. One arm exchanged for countless lives, was it too expensive, my child? Some of Father's comrades exchanged their hearts and their warm blood.

My child has grown up, now the same age as I was years ago when I first knew the bitterness and resentment of a nation that had lost its independence. On nights when the weather changes, the pain of my wounds and the memories of a time of war and smoke startle me awake, stirring up an invisible fear that will perhaps haunt those of us who lived and died amidst bombs and bullets for the rest of our lives. I look up with my dim eyes in the night, breathing a sigh of relief as I see my child sleeping peacefully, as if embraced by the warm, peaceful sun. On the study desk, the unfinished page of my notebook is filled with neat, beautiful handwriting, like my child's hand, like a newly sprouted bamboo shoot, making me involuntarily chuckle as I recall the letter I scribbled in blood when I secretly left home to enlist. With my old, withered arm, I pull the blanket over my child, happily watching the seed of life I sowed in this world now flourish, finding it miraculous that creation has given birth to such a beautiful child from a father who was not whole.

Father, please never shun my disabled arm, even though it has never once cradled, caressed, or supported you from your infancy, through your first steps, and into the future of your life. Don't pity me or see me as disabled; no, my child, your father gave me an arm to fill the deep bomb craters that have pierced the very flesh and blood of our nation. My arm has leveled forests, flattened mountains, carried ammunition, pulled artillery, and annihilated the enemy: the country you live in today is built thanks to my hands. Returning from the war, I am no longer whole enough to stand among the pioneers building the nation as I did in my youth, but that doesn't mean I will sit in a dark corner dwelling on the past, the victories and losses, and become stagnant in the progress of a peaceful society.

I once asked my father why he had to work so hard, jeopardizing his health, when he received such supportive policies from the government. Why did a man who had "contributed and sacrificed so much for his country still refuse to rest, still wanting to contribute and build"? Why? My father wanted to ask me why, where did he plant that mistaken idea in my mind, that contributing to the nation and its people is a duty, a piece of work that one must complete to lighten the burden and enjoy leisure? I must understand that contribution is not a duty, but an ideal in life, a compass guiding my ship as it sails out into the open sea.

Even now, having grown accustomed to living in peacetime, my father still remembers the stirring words his grandfather recited to him in his childhood, the words of President Ho Chi Minh calling on the entire nation to resist: "Every Vietnamese person must rise up to fight the French colonialists to save the Fatherland. Whoever has a gun, use a gun. Whoever has a sword, use a sword; if you don't have a sword, use a hoe, shovel, or stick." Those words, too, must be deeply ingrained in me, not just to ignite a burning passion when the country is suffering, but to know how to give everything I have: my ambitions, my youth, my talents, to protect and build the land that I and those I love are connected to until the day I die.

You are my son, the son of a man who survived the bombs and bullets and was fortunate enough to return, albeit not whole. But never use that as an excuse to rely on and depend on the noble deeds that society offers in return for your father. To do so would be an insult to your father's sacrifice and loss, for he gave his life entirely voluntarily without expecting or calculating any reward or compensation. You are essentially selling your father's blood and bones for your own benefit. Does that hurt you?

Hai Trieu