The Mountains Sing

by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

A breeze gusts through the open window, holding my face like Grandma’s hands once did.

“The challenges faced by Vietnamese people throughout history are as tall as the tallest mountains. If you stand too close, you won’t be able to see their peaks. Once you step away from the currents of life, you will have the full view. . . .”

Quiet pond a frog leaps into the sound of water

“People say mưa dầm thấm lâu.” Soft and persistent rain penetrates the earth better than a storm. I need to be patient with him.”

If both Americans and Vietnamese had laid down their weapons, no one would have had to die.

In the yard, the longan tree was blooming, its blossoms spreading a dome of pearls atop its green canopy. Instead of bringing joy to my heart, the sight reminded me that life’s peaceful moments could be as short-lived as flowers—gone with a strong gust of wind.

Years later, I was to learn that hundreds of thousands of Laotians and Cambodians perished in the war known internationally as “the Việt Nam War,” but called by the current Vietnamese government “the Resistance War against America to Save the Nation.” Regardless of its name, even today the war continues to kill children in Việt Nam, Laos, and Cambodia, with millions of tons of unexploded ordnance still buried in the belly of the earth.

What my uncle said made me think. I had resented America, too. But by reading their books, I saw the other side of them—their humanity. Somehow I was sure that if people were willing to read each other, and see the light of other cultures, there would be no war on earth.

My mother’s words were not knives but they would leave me bleeding for years to come.

I wish I could take back the words I’d flung at her, but words are like water: once they have escaped one’s mouth, they’re spilled onto the floor. Words are like knives, leaving invisible wounds that continue to bleed.

Once, on the way to a village, I broke down crying. Around me, rice plants began rustling their tiny, green hands. They were offering me their most soothing rice lullaby. I realized that whenever humans failed us, it was nature who could help save us. I willed myself to be like nature, so I found myself singing, just like the rice plants. I sang to Sáng and to myself. I sang out loud and in silence. I was determined to sing on. I learned then that as long as I have my voice, I am still alive.

I turned to the fire. Human lives were short and fragile. Time and illnesses consumed us, like flames burning away these pieces of wood. But it didn’t matter how long or short we lived. It mattered more how much light we were able to shed on those we loved and how many people we touched with our compassion.

I thought I’d find satisfaction seeing my enemy dead, but the sight only made me empty and sad. I realized that blood that is shed can’t make blood flow again in other people’s veins.

One drop of familial blood outranks a pond of water.

“Try to forgive and forget, Ngọc,” said Grandma. “If you bear grudges, you’re the one who’ll have to bear the burden of sorrow.”

“Heaven has eyes,” I said. “Cruelty dispensed, cruelty returned.”

“Somehow I was sure that if people were willing to read each other, and see the light of other cultures, there would be no war on earth.”