I guess he wanted me to become an architect, or something along those lines. Unfortunately, in 1967, the final winter of my studies, while at home for the holidays, I contracted tuberculosis and never left my home town again. At that time, for someone to fall ill with tuberculosis was usually fatal. Whilst I didn’t die, my life was completely turned upside down. For a good three years I couldn’t lead a normal life: every day I’d be in hospital, then home; always taking medication, always worrying; I suffered a great deal over my own tragic fate. It goes without saying that with my waking hours consumed with worry over my disease I soon forgot all I had learnt at university. In actual fact, I only had one more semester to go to graduate with a degree in architecture. Later on, when it seemed as if I had got over the worst of it, my father advised me to return to Hanoi and spend another couple of months studying, but by then I simply had no interest in the subject. The tuberculosis had changed me. I began to think of his time spent within the vapours of steam irons in a new light. Furthermore, given my father’s age and experience, it seemed right that he should stand aside and give me pointers rather than having to exhaust himself. This is how I slowly became my father. The memories of my illness faded, and I was content and happy with the ‘zsst, zsst’ sound of steam irons. This lasted right up until the day that American fighter jets tore through the sky, until the young people of the village rushed to the front lines, urged on by the call of the government and their relatives’ tears. It was then that something new called to me.

2

Là Kiệt had gone.

Lâm Quốc Tân had gone.

One day Mother told me that Tam from No. 32 had gone as well.

Then, from the southern front lines, a photo arrived of Vĩ Nạ in military uniform.

It was the summer of 1971. My friends and I, and other young people from the village, all wanted to enlist.

Ill as I had been for some years, I guess you could say I had reason not to enlist, and the military also had reason not to take me. In the spring of 1972, a naval unit arrived in the village looking again for new recruits. I tried once more to enlist, but the result was the same. A sympathetic officer looked at my health record, patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘Next time. The war has just started; next time.’