TRAVELING BEYOND THE TRAIL.
At the entrance of Mong Phu's communal house.
In February 2001 our Vietnamese driver and translator, Tuan, said in English, "We are almost there."
I was quiet, sitting in the back seat of the car and looking out the window at the peaceful countryside. A foreign landscape of tranquil rice paddies, farmers at work, mountains, and rivers rich with history unfolded before me.
My friend, Tom, who had hired the translator and made the trip possible, turned around in the front seat. He said, "Are you okay?"
I gave him a smile for reassurance. I said, "Yes."
"I'm happy we're here," Tom said and leaned back to give me space. He didn't want to be in the way of my journey home.
The car moved forward. The rocks beneath the wheels crumbled, and I thought about my father walking barefoot on this same dirt road sixty-three years ago. That was 1936. He was six years old and in search of work, food, and wood to keep his family alive.
I was quiet, sitting in the back seat of the car and looking out the window at the peaceful countryside. A foreign landscape of tranquil rice paddies, farmers at work, mountains, and rivers rich with history unfolded before me.
My friend, Tom, who had hired the translator and made the trip possible, turned around in the front seat. He said, "Are you okay?"
I gave him a smile for reassurance. I said, "Yes."
"I'm happy we're here," Tom said and leaned back to give me space. He didn't want to be in the way of my journey home.
The car moved forward. The rocks beneath the wheels crumbled, and I thought about my father walking barefoot on this same dirt road sixty-three years ago. That was 1936. He was six years old and in search of work, food, and wood to keep his family alive.
I saw my father being both frightened and brave, his gaunt face smiling for his parents to help ease their hearts and minds. My father, who never spoke of sadness or revealed a single tear to his children, lost his own father when he was twelve. It was 1945, a year when famine struck North Viet Nam and took more than several thousand lives (according to some, the death count in the end reached two million plus in the final, famine year).
A villager shows the way.
"We are here," Tuan said, parking the car in front of a large, weathered
gate. On the other side children stopped playing in and around an
ancient, communal house guarded by sculpted phoenixes, dragons, and
other symbolic carvings. They watched Tuan, Tom, and me approached the
entrance. A woman selling sweets, rice, and tea looked up to see. A tiny
woman dressed in black peasant clothing and showing black, betel
nut-stained teeth followed us in with her eyes. She reminded me of my
grandmother living in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
"This is Mong Phu," Tuan said, "one of the oldest villages in Viet Nam."
About two hundred people live in Mong Phu. I heard my father speaking to me, recalling our conversation before I left for our homeland. It was where your grandparents, parents, and uncles were born. Tell anyone in the village you are my daughter and someone will show you the house we lived in. Other family members now live in the house. When we can, we send them money to help take care of the house. Tell them you are my daughter. Tell them we say, Hello.
My knowledge of the Vietnamese language was limited to a handful of words. Tuan spoke for me, asking the tiny woman dressed in black for the directions to my father's childhood home. She pointed to another entrance. We thanked her and walked through a maze of passageways flanked by high brick walls. Children giggled and trailed us on foot and bicycles. Tom, staying a few feet back, took pictures with his camera and talked to the children, drawing them in with his smile.
"This is Mong Phu," Tuan said, "one of the oldest villages in Viet Nam."
About two hundred people live in Mong Phu. I heard my father speaking to me, recalling our conversation before I left for our homeland. It was where your grandparents, parents, and uncles were born. Tell anyone in the village you are my daughter and someone will show you the house we lived in. Other family members now live in the house. When we can, we send them money to help take care of the house. Tell them you are my daughter. Tell them we say, Hello.
My knowledge of the Vietnamese language was limited to a handful of words. Tuan spoke for me, asking the tiny woman dressed in black for the directions to my father's childhood home. She pointed to another entrance. We thanked her and walked through a maze of passageways flanked by high brick walls. Children giggled and trailed us on foot and bicycles. Tom, staying a few feet back, took pictures with his camera and talked to the children, drawing them in with his smile.
Mia listens to her aunt's family stories.
We
came to a man standing outside an old, brick home. He was about my
father's age at seventy. Tuan explained we were looking for a house
where my father once lived when a boy. The man, whom I have never met,
studied my face and said in Vietnamese, "You are Mr. Nguyen's daughter. I
know your father. You look just like him. You have the same high
cheeks."
I shook the man's hand and was in disbelief at how he recognized my father in me. He introduced me to his wife and granddaughter standing at his side. He asked how my father was doing.
"My father is well," I said in Vietnamese and showed him pictures of my father and families in America. "My father says, Hello."
Tuan translated for me, as we continued to talk to my father's childhood friend. More children came to see. A woman showed up, having heard the news from one of the children that Mong Phu had special visitors. After listening to hear who I was, she introduced herself as my aunt on my mother's side. She took me to my father's house.
Tracing the steps where my father grew up and where our ancestors's spirits continue to reside, I felt the whispers of an untold story.
Mong Phu is a quiet and beautiful place. My father was speaking to me again. There were many difficult days. We were poor and sometimes did not have food to eat ... Your grandparents worked hard ... We all did. Not everyone lived. Later the war came. I joined the French army. We lost and moved south to Sai Gon. Another war came. We survived.
We walked down another path, this one leading to a river at the end. My aunt stopped in front of a tall, brick wall. She opened the door and spoke in Vietnamese to the people inside. Glee and joy broke out, encircling me. A woman, also an aunt and wearing a green shirt, took my hand and welcomed me home. The warmth and radiance of her smile stretched around us. The Vietnamese New Year, Tet, was near, and my unexpected visit was a sign the days and months ahead would be blessed with happiness, good health, and prosperity.
The faces of my family—aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant relatives I have never met or known—gathered together. We talked, our voices mixing with the fragrance of rice and earth in the air.
I shook the man's hand and was in disbelief at how he recognized my father in me. He introduced me to his wife and granddaughter standing at his side. He asked how my father was doing.
"My father is well," I said in Vietnamese and showed him pictures of my father and families in America. "My father says, Hello."
Tuan translated for me, as we continued to talk to my father's childhood friend. More children came to see. A woman showed up, having heard the news from one of the children that Mong Phu had special visitors. After listening to hear who I was, she introduced herself as my aunt on my mother's side. She took me to my father's house.
Tracing the steps where my father grew up and where our ancestors's spirits continue to reside, I felt the whispers of an untold story.
Mong Phu is a quiet and beautiful place. My father was speaking to me again. There were many difficult days. We were poor and sometimes did not have food to eat ... Your grandparents worked hard ... We all did. Not everyone lived. Later the war came. I joined the French army. We lost and moved south to Sai Gon. Another war came. We survived.
We walked down another path, this one leading to a river at the end. My aunt stopped in front of a tall, brick wall. She opened the door and spoke in Vietnamese to the people inside. Glee and joy broke out, encircling me. A woman, also an aunt and wearing a green shirt, took my hand and welcomed me home. The warmth and radiance of her smile stretched around us. The Vietnamese New Year, Tet, was near, and my unexpected visit was a sign the days and months ahead would be blessed with happiness, good health, and prosperity.
The faces of my family—aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant relatives I have never met or known—gathered together. We talked, our voices mixing with the fragrance of rice and earth in the air.
Mia is welcomed to her father's childhood home.
I did my best to speak with the very little Vietnamese I knew. But all that seemed to matter
was seeing each other in the flesh and standing; and this alone was
evidence of hard times having passed. I showed them pictures of our
families in America. We shared stories. I listened. Tuan translated. A
great aunt, another uncle, nieces and nephews, cousins, and other aunts
lived in the village. I tried to follow the family lineage, but became
lost in all the links and connections that were bound by either blood or
shared history, if not by both and more. If you were a good, honorable
friend, you were also family. They asked me to stay for dinner, to stay
the night. They would make space for my guests and me in their one-room
home, where my father, his parents, and two brothers had once slept. I
politely declined, not wanting to intrude.
My relatives showed me around my father's home, displaying the care they had taken to preserve the home through the years. We took pictures for my families in America, capturing the pigs and chickens, the storage room, the washing area, the kitchen with a primitive stove, and everything in between, including the clothes hanging and drying on a line in front of the house. We walked to the lush, green vegetable garden with the perfect rows of lettuce as vibrant as the ones my mother grew in Michigan. I knew that if my parents were with me, they would be smiling.
We stepped inside the house, where there were two wooden beds with a blanket serving as a mattress on each, a bedside table, and a desk to the far right. At the center of the home was an altar placed high on the wall, a statue of Mary at top. I went to touch the desk and envisioned my father sitting there as a child learning to read and write, dreaming of studying at a university one day.
When we came to the end of my visit, I gave my family in Mong Phu photos of my parents, grandmother, and siblings living in America. My aunt cupped my hands into hers, wanting time to stop. We talked a little more before saying goodbye and wishing each other well. As I was leaving I met another relative who was coming in from the rice fields and carrying two baskets of harvest. More pictures were taken and more stories told.
I thanked my family and for a moment I thought about staying.
My relatives showed me around my father's home, displaying the care they had taken to preserve the home through the years. We took pictures for my families in America, capturing the pigs and chickens, the storage room, the washing area, the kitchen with a primitive stove, and everything in between, including the clothes hanging and drying on a line in front of the house. We walked to the lush, green vegetable garden with the perfect rows of lettuce as vibrant as the ones my mother grew in Michigan. I knew that if my parents were with me, they would be smiling.
We stepped inside the house, where there were two wooden beds with a blanket serving as a mattress on each, a bedside table, and a desk to the far right. At the center of the home was an altar placed high on the wall, a statue of Mary at top. I went to touch the desk and envisioned my father sitting there as a child learning to read and write, dreaming of studying at a university one day.
When we came to the end of my visit, I gave my family in Mong Phu photos of my parents, grandmother, and siblings living in America. My aunt cupped my hands into hers, wanting time to stop. We talked a little more before saying goodbye and wishing each other well. As I was leaving I met another relative who was coming in from the rice fields and carrying two baskets of harvest. More pictures were taken and more stories told.
I thanked my family and for a moment I thought about staying.
King Ngo Quyen stands at guard in Mong Phu.
After visiting more relatives in Mong Phu, there was a place I had to
see. We made a turn to my father's school, a yellow- and red-painted,
small building. I didn't expect to meet a statue, an armed warrior,
standing taller than the school. Three boys played around the warrior,
who stood ready to protect the village against all harm.
An inscription on the statue read Ngo Quyen, 897 - 944. A dedication above it was weathered and half-erased. I later learned Ngo Quyen was a renowned king known in northern Viet Nam for his staunch struggle and victories against China's invasions. His armor was thick and his cape possessed the force of fearlessness in the wind.
I looked at the king's face and imagined my father as a seventeen-year-old boy in his presence. I saw my father placing his palm on the statue's base and praying for his family's safety, for courage and strength. Whispers of war had reached his village. It was 1949. My father walked to the main hall of the communal house; there, a wooden board hung with words that translated in English as a single affirmation: Bravery deserves reward.
We survived. My father's voice echoed in my ears.
I remembered MORNING SUN, the title of an unwritten novel that came to me when visiting Vence, France less than a year ago. I walked out of Mong Phu and knew what I had to do.
An inscription on the statue read Ngo Quyen, 897 - 944. A dedication above it was weathered and half-erased. I later learned Ngo Quyen was a renowned king known in northern Viet Nam for his staunch struggle and victories against China's invasions. His armor was thick and his cape possessed the force of fearlessness in the wind.
I looked at the king's face and imagined my father as a seventeen-year-old boy in his presence. I saw my father placing his palm on the statue's base and praying for his family's safety, for courage and strength. Whispers of war had reached his village. It was 1949. My father walked to the main hall of the communal house; there, a wooden board hung with words that translated in English as a single affirmation: Bravery deserves reward.
We survived. My father's voice echoed in my ears.
I remembered MORNING SUN, the title of an unwritten novel that came to me when visiting Vence, France less than a year ago. I walked out of Mong Phu and knew what I had to do.
✶✶✶✶✶
January 16, 2012. I sit at my desk with photographs from that
day in Mong Phu. On my windowsill facing me are framed photographs of
my father and mother. In a few months my parents will turn a year older, a miracle that reminds me of their courage, and also their hopes and dreams. I reach out and touch their smiles, remembering no matter how dark the morning, the sun always rises. -Mia T. Starr
[continue with Mia on her journey into writing]
[continue with Mia on her journey into writing]
A JOURNEY REMEMBERED.
From left to right and up close in Mong Phu, 2001: children, friends, and families come together on a journey home.
