Unbreakable
"On paper, I am seventy years old," the old man told me between furtive chuckles; I could barely understand him with his accent. "In truth I am seventy-five."
During the Vietnam War, a South Vietnamese citizen could easily declare any of his important documents destroyed by the conflict and apply for new copies. In this man's case, he had declared the loss of his birth certificate. Though, when he submitted his application for a new one, he wrote his birth date as five years later.
"I wanted to go to the university," he smiled. "In Vietnam, you must be under a certain age to attend."
He never made it to the university. When he changed his birth date to be eligible for school, he unwittingly became eligible for the draft as well. In a few short weeks he found himself with a military cap on his head, an AR-15 in his hands, and a jungle of Viet Cong guerillas surrounding him.
Little did the man know, he would remain in the army for thirteen years — six of them spent in a Viet Cong prison camp. Six years carrying a heavy plow through muddy fields in his bare feet, six years eating nothing more than a bowl of rice each day. His blatant laughter while he said this made me nervous.
"One time a Viet Cong came out of a foxhole and shot me!" he cackled. "If you get shot in war, you don't cry. If you cry, the enemy finds you and you're dead. If you're an officer and you cry, your soldiers abandon you."
The man's life was the life of South Vietnam entire: he lived through the monarchy of Emperor Bao Đai, through the French colonization, through South Vietnam's takeover by the communist North. He lived while his buddies got stabbed with bayonets, while innocent villages burned with napalm fire. Here he stood before me now, laughing almost to tears as he retold his account of the Vietnam War.
"That is a harrowing story," I said to the man. "How is it you can laugh about it?"
"Sir," he replied with a vibrant smile and remembering eyes, "I laugh because I'm alive."
During the Vietnam War, a South Vietnamese citizen could easily declare any of his important documents destroyed by the conflict and apply for new copies. In this man's case, he had declared the loss of his birth certificate. Though, when he submitted his application for a new one, he wrote his birth date as five years later.
"I wanted to go to the university," he smiled. "In Vietnam, you must be under a certain age to attend."
He never made it to the university. When he changed his birth date to be eligible for school, he unwittingly became eligible for the draft as well. In a few short weeks he found himself with a military cap on his head, an AR-15 in his hands, and a jungle of Viet Cong guerillas surrounding him.
Little did the man know, he would remain in the army for thirteen years — six of them spent in a Viet Cong prison camp. Six years carrying a heavy plow through muddy fields in his bare feet, six years eating nothing more than a bowl of rice each day. His blatant laughter while he said this made me nervous.
"One time a Viet Cong came out of a foxhole and shot me!" he cackled. "If you get shot in war, you don't cry. If you cry, the enemy finds you and you're dead. If you're an officer and you cry, your soldiers abandon you."
The man's life was the life of South Vietnam entire: he lived through the monarchy of Emperor Bao Đai, through the French colonization, through South Vietnam's takeover by the communist North. He lived while his buddies got stabbed with bayonets, while innocent villages burned with napalm fire. Here he stood before me now, laughing almost to tears as he retold his account of the Vietnam War.
"That is a harrowing story," I said to the man. "How is it you can laugh about it?"
"Sir," he replied with a vibrant smile and remembering eyes, "I laugh because I'm alive."
posted by Row of Streetlights at 5:03 PM
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