It takes time to soothe the sorrows of war
Quynh-du Thon-that
January 31, 2008

The ancestral altar of lacquered timber with inlaid mother-of-pearl had been carefully prepared. Its brass candle holders and sandalwood burners gleamed and our home was decorated with red gladioli and golden blossoms. At the stroke of midnight, as fire crackers exploded everywhere around the city, my father lit incense and ceremoniously welcomed the spirits of our ancestors back to this earthly world.

Sumptuous food, new clothes, fun and games, and a long break from school combined to make Tet the happiest occasion, especially for children of my age. I was almost 14. Even the fighting stopped for three days to give soldiers a chance to be with their families.

My family lived inside the citadel, the Imperial City that once housed the imperial government of the Nguyen Dynasty. Despite being the centre of the Buddhist dissension that toppled the government of President Diem in 1963, and the flashpoint of open rebellion against military governments that followed Diem, Hue was a happy place in which to grow up.

In spring and summertime, we children made kites and flew them from atop the citadel's wall, taking advantage of the gentle wind. In the rainy season, we would catch fish to keep in the outdoor ponds that are commonly found in the houses around Hue. The pace of life was quiet, the landscape gentle. With the slow-flowing Huong River, Hue had the sleepy feel of a safe, if inconsequential town.

But on that day 40 years ago, everything changed drastically. Somehow we learnt that the North Vietnamese army had taken over the city, taking advantage of the Tet ceasefire. My oldest brother went out to investigate, and hurried home to report seeing the red and blue flag of the National Liberation Front flying from the citadel's flag tower. That evening the BBC news bulletins confirmed that North Vietnamese troops had taken control of Hue but not the other cities of South Vietnam, which had also come under attack. The implications were clear: there would be a battle to retake Hue.

As the fighting intensified around us, more and more people came to seek shelter in our home. My mother recalled that on the day when her youngest son, Du, was requested to join the revolutionary forces to serve the nation, our family decided to flee from the citadel. We set off early in the morning of February 12 and made it through the eastern gate to the Gia Hoi area, where the fighting was not so fierce.

After the fighting stopped, we returned home to a scene of devastation. Uprooted trees blocked the roads, buildings were destroyed beyond recognition. An estimated 10,000 houses were either totally destroyed or damaged (roughly 40% of the city) and 116,000 civilians were made homeless out of a population of 140,000.

My family's home and its garden, an area the size of an average Australian suburban home, were hit with innumerable bullets and fragments from many mortar shells. A small rocket neatly pierced, but did not break, a central column of our house. Remarkably, our house remained upright, although denuded of its tiled roof, which we replaced with paper-thin and super-light army-issued roofing sheets. Its traditional timber structure was dislodged from its base, but we were able to shift it back to its original position.

We were puzzled to find a large mound of earth almost right at our front gate. Army experts later on explained that a bomb, dropped from a great height, must have buried itself deeply there, its impact pushing up the earth. Over time, as the ground underneath subsided, the mound of earth sank and we filled it up with the rubble of broken bricks and tiles. Advised that the best thing to do was to leave it alone, we walked and rode over this patch every day, but I never really felt comfortable about it.

In the aftermath, as the city struggled to repair the physical destruction, its population was dealt the most devastating blow when many mass graves were discovered, containing the corpses of the civilians and soldiers who had been captured by the northern troops during the occupation, many bearing signs of torture and of being buried alive. Nobody has ever acknowledged, let alone accepted, responsibility for these deaths.

The question of what happened in Hue during the Tet offensive remains unanswered, attracting little interest in the halls of academia. Yet, judging by the outpouring of grief and anger in the pages of expatriate Vietnamese community papers and in Vietnamese-language radio programs, it seems to be a deep wound that is yet to heal.

On my recent visit home in 2001, the temporary roof og our house was still in its place, the walls were still pockmarked by shell fragments, and people still walked and rode their bicycles over the spot where the unexploded bomb is buried. And nobody wanted to even talk about it, as if talking may have set it off.

The Vietnam War may have finished a long time ago, former foes have now become friends, but its legacy lingers on. To me, the unexploded bomb that no one wants to mention lest it wakes up with a bang, and the unexplained deaths of the innocent speak volumes about the long-lasting legacies of wars. Sometimes I wonder how long it will take to soothe the sorrows of the people of Iraq.

Quynh-Du Thon-That is a literary translator. Her translations of the works of Vietnamese writer Pham Thi Hoai won the Victorian Premier's Award in 2000, and the ACT Book of the Year Award for 2007.