Spring is usually a time of rebirth and hope, but for the people of South Vietnam, the spring of 1975 brought death and destruction when the North Vietnamese communists invaded the south. The once green meadows turned fiery red. The beautiful melodies of chirping birds were drowned out by the deafening blasts of explosions and the relentless bursts of rifles. The clear blue sky was covered with black smoke, casting a shadow over the land. Even the silver moon, a gentle beacon of light in the night sky, seemed to illuminate the terrors that unfolded. The spring of 1975 had an impact not only on the minds of the people, but also on their souls, and those repercussions can still be felt to this day.
As a 4-year-old child, I struggled to comprehend the purpose behind the violence that consumed Vietnam. My innocent mind could not grasp the magnitude of the evils at play. All I knew was chaos because that was all I saw.
Those distressing memories are still vivid and unforgettable. Due to those traumas, I remember more about my childhood than most people do. My memories usually come as random flashbacks, but over the years my curiosity has led me to explore many of them from my parents and my siblings. Although they each have their own versions of what happened, I have managed to put those memories together over time as if they were pieces of a puzzle. Everyone’s account may carry its own nuances, but together they form a cohesive whole—a testament to our resilience.