The Mountains Sing

by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

“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. . . .”

“The war might destroy our houses, but it can’t extinguish our spirit,” Grandma said.

I wondered why foreign armies kept invading our country. First it was the Chinese, the Mongolians, the French, the Japanese, and now the American imperialists.

“Well, in times of war, people are patriotic, ready to sacrifice their lives and their families for the common cause.”

“Want to know what I really think?” Grandma leaned toward me. “I don’t believe in violence. None of us has the right to take away the life of another human being.”

Do you understand why I’ve decided to tell you about our family? If our stories survive, we will not die, even when our bodies are no longer here on this earth.

Perseverance grinds iron into needles.

She and my father encouraged me to be independent and speak my own mind.

Good luck hides inside bad luck.

“The war will only end once all of our loved ones are home.”

“Yes, I’ll miss my students. But I can’t stand brainwashing their innocent minds with propaganda. We aren’t just teachers, we’re servants of the Party.”

“As long as I have my voice, I’m still alive,”

“Why should I read something from the country that bombed us?” I looked toward Thủy’s house, hoping she’d change her mind. “You know . . . not all Americans are bad. Many have been demonstrating against the war.”

I had heard rumors that American people liked to rule other races, that they didn’t have feelings like us, but now I knew they loved their families, and they also had to work hard to earn

their food. They enjoyed dancing, music, and storytelling, just like us.

I couldn’t imagine how the war had swallowed my mother into its stomach,

churning her into someone different before spitting her out.

I didn’t care what war meant. I just wanted it to return my mother to me, give me back my father and my uncles, and make our family whole again.

I didn’t want to tell you about his death, but you and I have seen enough death and violence to know that there’s only one way we can talk about wars: honestly. Only through honesty can we learn about the truth.

The more I read, the more I became afraid of wars. Wars have the power to turn graceful and cultured people into monsters.

Oh, Guava, I used to think that we were the ones in charge of our destinies, but I learned then that, in time of war, normal citizens were nothing but leaves that would fall in the thousands or millions in the surge of a single storm.

Yet on the day the war ended, Grandma and I didn’t celebrate. For us, peace would only arrive when all our loved ones had returned home.

Calm your mind, I told myself, repeating Grandma’s words as I cycled away. Build your inner strength.

“The world will only be at peace if all people let go of their weapons,”

I would want nothing fancy, just a normal day when all of us could be together as a family; a day where we could just cook, eat, talk, and laugh. I wondered how many people around the world were having such a normal day and didn’t know how special and sacred it was.

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.

A part of our country’s history has been erased, together with the lives of countless people.

We’re forbidden to talk about events that relate to past mistakes or the wrongdoing of those in power, for they give themselves the right to rewrite history.

I realized that war was monstrous. If it didn’t kill those it touched, it took away a piece of their

souls, so they could never be whole again.

Each day of travel earns one basketful of wisdom.