Page 354 - Xuan Giap Thin 2024 FINAL 2

like a shower, I saw in front of me brothers falling, beside me people sought refuge and

I was unharmed. A blessing. A miracle. It's impossible to speculate.

At noon the Viet Cong retreated towards the Four Quarters plantation. I shook hands

with Captain Lai in front of the headquarters of An Lac commune. Watching the bus

carrying people back to their hometown to celebrate Tet stuck for the past two days at Di
Linh, opening the newly opened road and still smelling of gunpowder, I felt my heart

burst with joy. Passengers in the car raised their hands to wave, the driver honked his

horn, and the sound and image of the chaos created a source of joy for the soldiers who
had just touched the ball of death. Collecting small sources of joy to fill the pain is to

confide in the soldier who has worked hard in the war for decades to comfort himself.
Recall Tet in 1970, a family set off firecrackers to welcome spring in Dai Lao hamlet just

as the American Corps of Engineers was passing, thinking they were ambushed and fired

towards the explosion. The whole family was in distress. Red blood mixed with pink
firecrackers. The sound of small firecrackers brought joy. The loud gunshots contained

grief. War and peace are narrow. Happiness and suffering are close together. The

blessing is incalculable.

Lam Dong is a special place that has opened its arms to welcome immigrants, an easy

place to stay and difficult to return. It is similar to America, welcoming visitors with all
sincerity, a place that is very difficult to come to, comes and then is very difficult to leave.

During the Christmas season of 1984, Saigon turned cold. The city took on a new name,
deserted and sad. I was just released from prison for three months after more than nine

years of exile from South to North and then again from North to South. Every day, the
police in the area monitored me very closely and forced me to report regularly. Every

night when I pass by my house, the police ask: Is Mr. Tao at home? Every time I hear

banging on my neighbor's door, my heart skips. I had more mental distress than when I
was in prison. I have to leave this place; otherwise, I will be re-arrested in detention

sooner or later. My eldest daughter, Nguyen Thi Mong Diep, arranged everything.

Before leaving, on the evening of December 22, 1984, we gathered around a Christmas
cake. This was the first Christmas family gathering after the day of the dehydration.

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