Puppets (9/11)

1988

I looked out from our room. 

“Foreigners?” I asked the boy on the other side of the concrete bed. 

Ridiculous really. Only an inch-thick piece of a sponge mattress is enough for them to claim that they’ve given us adequate living conditions. But it wasn’t worth fussing over. After all, anything was better than lying on the unforgiving concrete surface on a cold night. 

“Americans,” he grumbled and went back to lie down on his cold concrete bed. 

I turned back to writing my letter to Tuấn. Tuấn had moved to Australia after he left the re-education camps. He took his entire family with him. If only I hadn’t been the arrogant and driven boy I was, maybe I would have been married and had a family by now. I signed off the letter with a short sentence, with the substantial English I had learnt from reading the books in the study room. 

I will come soon. 

I was sitting cross legged in the corner of the bed, overseeing the ruckus from outside, when the door flew open. A loud yelling came soon after. I scrambled to my feet, smoothing my hair as though anyone in this place gave a damn about how I looked. 

“You! Come here.”

Two guards grasped my arms and threw me into a spacious room, with a lanky wooden table and two chairs on either side of it, one of which was occupied by a built, young man sporting a cleanly shaped moustache. He lazily waved the guards out of the room, then gestured at the empty chair across from him.

Grudgingly, I sat down.

“You talk to the Americans. Tell them how great this place is.”

He opened a drawer, taking out a pad of paper and a pen, and slid it across to me expectantly. 

“No.”

I started walking back toward the door until I felt an inescapable grip on my forearm, reminding me of the relentless handcuffs that brought me here.

“Poet! You talk to them, you’re free.” 

Dozens of American journalists surrounded me as I stood on the slightly elevated step in front of a large tree. The guard believed that the tree would look better on camera and to the Americans.

White people. Skin so pale that you would assume they bathed in milk. 

The guard at the back signalled for me to start. 

I unfolded the flimsy yellow paper out of my pocket and read.

“Our Vietnam with Communism as our hands and feet, is strong and eternal. From 1979 to now, a total of about 3,000 inmates have been gifted with Communist wisdom. Our flag, red with the blood of victory, bears the spirit of our country. The gold star of our flag in the wind, leading our people, our native land, out of misery and suffering. The Communist have been the long-awaited relief fertiliser to our nation’s drought. Ceaselessly— ”

The dozen or so men, malnourished and hollowed, stood on the crusted dirt and beside the dull concrete buildings, blocking out the sun. They were all but a shadow. The boy, whom I hadn’t made the effort to learn his name, despite spending the last four months sleeping next to him, looked at me with his wilted almond eyes, disgorging his next few years of suffering. With exhaust, he raised the anchored side of his mouth, trying to mask his ache. As if he was trying to tell me that he would have done the same thing. As if he said that they would all be fine. 

My lower lips quivered as words slowly made their way out of my mouth. 

“—they strive for the people’s cause. Some people are sad to go because the Communist have treated us so well, giving us plenty of food and water. This truly is our home.” 

If only he had looked at least slightly disappointed or angry. At least I would be able to live with myself.