3/6/1975

These days I spend my time indoors, not daring to come out. This morning a young man passed by my window. He’d lost both arms. Such a handsome man. The men I’d journeyed south with were handsome, too. They had hope in their eyes, songs on their lips, laughter in their hearts. But at the clinics where I was stationed, the men who came to me were no longer singing. Some had their insides spilling out from torn stomachs, some had dangling arms or legs, others had half of their faces blown off. Did they hate me when I had to operate on them without the help of anesthesia? As they were tied down onto makeshift operating tables, I cut into them. Should I have tried harder to keep their limbs?

And the two men who’d been roasted alive by napalm, my tears couldn’t extinguish the smoke rising from their flesh. Could I have done more to save them?

15/6/1975

I was cooking when terrifying noises came from a neighbor’s house. A man was kicking and screaming at his dog. I heard the dog’s howls and saw myself lying on the jungle floor, my hands tied behind my back. Pain sprang up from my legs, which were bleeding.

“Fuck your mother!” A man kicked me hard in the stomach. “You killed my friend.”

I curled into a ball after the kick, telling myself not to bawl. If I did, I’d give the enemy satisfaction. I glanced around. The hut of my clinic was a short distance away, columns of dark smoke twisting above its roof. My stomach wrenched. What had happened to those who remained in the hut?

Another man grabbed me by the hair. “Show us the place where you hid your comrades!” He pulled my head up and around so I could see in all directions. “Where the hell is it?” he screamed. “Point it out to us and we’ll spare your life.”

I closed my eyes, not believing in the enemy’s promise. I’d be a fool to trust them. The shelter, luckily, was far away, on the other side of the hut. Among the patients in hiding was a high-ranking officer whom the enemy must be after. His personal guard was in charge of protecting the shelter, but if the enemy found it, the guard’s fighting would be an egg thrown against boulders.

“Tell us now, you Communist bitch with your thick cunt!” A kick landed on my ribs. Another on my face. I couldn’t help but howl.

Duyên’s children came, asking me what was wrong. Everything is wrong with me. Perhaps it’s true that the ghosts have possessed me. Perhaps they’ve taken my soul, so that I’m just an empty shell.

I pressed the diary against my chest, every cell of my body aching for my mother. I’d tried to imagine the horror she’d had to face, but it was even worse than that. How lucky that my mother had slipped through the grasp of death to come back to me. How courageous of her to have stood up for her comrades. I couldn’t wait to tell her how proud I was to be her daughter.

I cocked my head. No noise at the door. I eyed the clock once more. Time was running away from me. I lifted the diary with both hands, flipping the page as gently as I could.

17/6/1975

Last night, enemy planes roared into my dreams. Explosions shook the jungle. Smoke burned my eyes. The air stank of burnt flesh. A pillar of our clinic had collapsed onto D??ng’s stomach, the stomach that I’d sewn up the day before. Next to D??ng were the scattered body parts of Nurse Sánh. I knew I should be rushing patients down to our shelter, but I found myself running out of the clinic, into the open air. I held my face to the sky, yelling at the coward enemy who sat high in those airplanes.

I woke up again with my cries choking my throat. Every night this happens. My head throbbed. I needed some water, but couldn’t get up. My hands were sticky, as sticky as Nurse Sánh’s blood.

I want to meet the pilot who launched the rocket that killed Sánh. I want to rub her blood onto his face, so he could taste her suffering.

20/6/1975

Duyên told me there was a job opening at her factory and that she’d talked to her supervisor about me. I could take the job if I wanted to. Not much skill is required, she said. I would need to iron newly made clothes, fold them, and put them into boxes. First I shook my head, but she said manual work would be good for me; it’d stop my mind from running wild. “Besides, you can’t live on your mother’s labor forever,” she said. I let those words sink deep into me. She was right. I had become a burden for Mama, for H??ng, for her, for everyone.

I asked if I could think about it for a couple of days. I know I must work. But I fear meeting people. I fear their questions. At least Duyên hasn’t questioned me much. I’d told her everything about my trip South, but not the fact that my body had been soiled. Not about the baby.

She can’t know, otherwise she’ll tell Hoàng when he comes back. And if he knows, he won’t touch me anymore. Who would want to touch a woman who had been trampled by other men?

Today I rubbed my body until it bled. I want to wash the filth from my skin, but it’s too late.

21/6/1975

H??ng visited me. She’s taller than me now, more beautiful than I could ever imagine my daughter to be. Her skin glows its youthfulness, her eyes lit up with the light of innocence. Watching her, I saw the best of Hoàng and me. I saw determination and love for life.

She seemed very happy today. I took in her gentle voice as she read the letter from her admirer to me. I wish I could tell her that I am her admirer, too, that I love her so much. How come I can’t tell her that I love her, my own daughter? In our family, love is something that we show, not something we speak about. Mama has never said that she loves me, but she shows it by caring and cooking for me. Now that I’m incapable of taking care of H??ng and cooking for her, I wish I had the courage to tell her how much I love her.