The Burning of Leaves

The Forest

Gentle shakes and leaves fall again. The forest doesn’t understand. A couple days ago, her body was fine: drinking in the warmth from the sun, her roots expanding across the dirt so she could glimpse all of her children—but now she can’t feel or see. She can’t see her rabbits sleeping under the earth, her rats sniffing and squeaking to the brightness of the sun or feel her water buffalos’ tongues drinking from the rice fields. She can’t even taste their leftovers, her monkeys gnawing through a ripe papaya, dripping rich juice into the soil.

This is what she remembers before all of her senses were lost: A healthy body. Branches that never cracked. Her trunk hard and strong. Leaves dark as jadeite. And her roots extended deep into the crust, gulping from the waters of the Trà Khúc River and absorbing nutrients from decaying jeweled mantises and rattan trees while the quakes from the ground became stronger. She wasn’t surprised. She was used to their destruction, their violence, their guns—exploding and killing the children of sea dragons and mountain fairies. She would always grow back, and so would her children. But it was different this time: the sky thundered, planes flew above her, low enough to reach the treetops, and orange dust rained on her. The grime seeped into her skin and melted into the soil, burning. It tasted unnatural. It wasn’t sweet or refreshing like the warm summer rain, but bitter and rotten, like a decaying pheasant infested with maggots.

The Monkey

When the monkey runs across fallen leaves as orange snow sprinkles from the sky, he will try to understand what is happening to his home. He will climb up high and swing from branch to branch, glancing up at the treetops once filled with evergreen leaves that are now bare. Below him, animals lie on the dirt, eyes wide open, mouths slightly parted, bodies paralyzed. Something is wrong with the monkey’s home, but he chooses to ignore the stories and the warnings from other parts of the forest, the whispers from other animals. Then leaves fall. Branches break. Roots recoil. Invaders from the sea swarm the land more and more, destroying everything they walk on.

The monkey needs to find his family. His home is dying.

And so the monkey runs.

He runs past the falling trees, jumps over large trunks, and escapes from vines that capture his feet. He leaps over bodies of animals: pheasants, lemurs, gibbons. They lie on the ground, lifeless. He creeps toward their bodies, gently moving them one by one. His older sister. His younger brother. The monkey presses his ears against his father’s chest. No heartbeat. No breathing. No sound. And beside the monkey’s father, he recognizes his mother right away. How could he not? That body that once carried him to the treetops when he was a young infant is now frozen, hands clenched into fists.

The Father

What is the child doing with the leaves? Creating a huge pile and then jumping into it. She’ll get her clothes all dirty before lunch. Tiên is so much like her mother, Bản thinks. And she’ll complain about cooking and tending to the farm. Bản knows his child well but can’t help spoiling her. She is his firstborn and reminds him of himself when he was young—curious and stubborn, never backing down from adventure or trying something new, but soon she won’t be alone anymore. In two months, she’ll be a big sister and will learn to help her mom with the family.

Bản pulls weeds from the soil as his daughter runs toward him, waving two large sweet potatoes. He picks her up and places his child on his shoulders. They run through the field, pretending to be a flock of cuckoos while their two hound dogs bark behind them. They jump and twirl, and they zoom toward their home and to the kitchen where his child leaps from his back and then places sweet potatoes into a plastic bucket. Bản pours water, watches his daughter wash the entire body of the sweet root, removing dirt from skin, which turns the water light orange. She then places another block of wood under the stove. The flames flicker, dancing under the pot as steam puffs to the ceiling. One by one, she bathes the sweet potatoes into the boiling water and partially covers the pot with a lid.

The sweet potatoes soften an hour later.

Bản cuts them in half and gives one to her. But his daughter doesn’t eat it. Instead, she stares at her food, poking it until the soft surface falls to the floor, letting the dogs lick it. She peels the skin of the sweet potatoes and shows him the root. Inside, an orange rash pulsates within the white flesh.

The Dogs

Before the hounds scampered toward their owner—a farmer and his family that speak to melons, sometimes sleeping with the fruit to make sure other humans don’t steal them—they were two young pups learning from their mother. Before she died, they learned everything from her: how to hunt for rats, find family by the sound of footsteps, and what death smelled like. And every night, their mother would tell the stories of her hunts while they cuddled beside her stomach.

Remember, she said, the only god in this world is the forest, and she is the mother of all animals. If she dies, then all of us will. I’ve seen it before. Animals will fight. Rats kill cats. Humans kill water buffalo. Humans from this land kill other humans from the sea. Without the forest, we’ll all die.

And this is what these two hound dogs smell as they watch the farmer leave his home: rotting flesh of monkeys, fish decaying as they rise in lakes and rivers, water buffalos collapsing from their own food that had a hint of orange mold. They dash toward the farmer. Their owner kneels and scratches behind their ears as they wag their tails, listening to his heartbeat—faster than normal, more frantic.

Watch the family, he tells them, I need to check with the other villages on something. Be good, and both of you will have bowls of rice as a treat.

The two dogs whine, wishing that the farmer stayed, but they know they have to protect in his place.

The Mother

When Trúc wakes to the croaking rooster, she remembers when she was little. Early mornings, she’d lean against her grandmother’s leg, knotting tea leaf bags to sell at other villages, and her grandma would tell her stories about the French and why women were so scared of them. We had to hide, her grandmother said, because every time they came—they raped all the young girls, dragging them outside of their homes. The screams could be heard in the distance. And the grandmother showed where she hid, somewhere in her closet, under a pile of clothes, hoping those men would never come in and take her.

But now the rooster crows again. Was it the Americans? The Koreans? Or was it the Viet Cong? The mother isn’t sure but holds her stomach as she rushes to the door. Screams and explosions echo throughout the morning horizon. Trúc dashes across the room and tells her child to wake up, that they’re in danger—something’s happening, it must be soldiers. The child, with half-opened eyes, tries to wake up. But they don’t have enough time. The mother carries her to the shed and tells her daughter to be quiet. That no matter what, she cannot say anything and she must listen to her. And her daughter promises.

Trúc covers her up with dry grass from head to toe, making sure that every part of her body is hidden.

Don’t worry, she says in a low voice, you’ll be fine—don’t move, okay? No matter what happens, just stay here. Explosions and gunshots pop behind her. Trúc turns around as light shines into the shed. There the men stand and point guns at her, and she tells them that she isn't part of the Viet Cong, but they don’t listen. Gunshots bang; blood drips from her stomach.

The American Soldier

You never wanted to be a killer.

You remember the first time you heard about the commies taking over a country called Vietnam. How you were excited to be part of the great cause, knowing that you were protecting their country from the rise of communism.

And you remember your mother’s words: “Please don’t go. Stay here. It’s safer.”

But you never listened.

You told her that it was your duty. All your friends were going off to war and you wanted to be the same. You wanted to be a hero of your country, waving the flag of freedom and democracy, coming back to a home with a wife and three kids, family members congratulating you on your service while red, white, and blue confetti rains down on your skin. But now you are nothing in this foreign country. You are not a man but a boy in this dense forest, pushing through the branches and leaves as if they are trying to stop you. You thought it would be simple, that the enemy would surrender easily. But the commies never gave in. Instead, they killed your comrades—faces ripped off from explosions. And you’ve killed people too, civilians to be more exact. Your first time pointing a rifle at families, children, young Vietnamese men like yourself. They raise their hands. Children crying. Women forcing their children to hide behind their backs. But you never lower your gun, and you have to kill them since no one in this land can be trusted. You pull the trigger as you listen to the screams in broken English, “No. Vietcong. No Vietcong.”

The Rooster

Long after the massacre, the tiny chick will grow into a rooster, and he’ll tell his offspring about that day: humans running away from other humans, blasts that broke the earth, water buffalos being killed more than other animals—and dead bodies all piled up, barely moving, and how he was lucky to escape because he hid in the tall grass and moved quickly. And sometimes when the rooster wakes up before dawn, he’ll dream of those frightening moments: how he pecked the rice from the dirt when the animals started to run away, how the forest’s last words to his family were to run. The memories of riding on an ox—hiding behind his large ears to survive—this will be the first thing he’ll tell his children once they hatch from their eggs. Over the years, he’ll teach them what his father taught him. He’ll show them how to wake up in the morning before the sky becomes a light shade of garnet and how to sing their song to the sky. Like his own father who noticed the danger, the rooster will do the same for his children. He’ll rest on a tree, watching to see if their home is dying, and sometimes when humans who don’t look like the humans who live here come and disrupt their home, he’ll sing—to warn every animal and the children of the dragon god and fairy, reminding them that he’ll always be on the lookout for danger.

The Cat

What would you do if you saw a human mother dying on the floor? Would you go and run away with your friends? Tell the rat to hurry and leave, or jump onto the water buffalo and hide behind its huge ears? Or would you just wait, study those humans—watch their every move, so you would understand what they’ll do next? Or would you stop and remain quiet under the stack of hay, feeling the trembling child beside you and hoping they won’t notice? Maybe you wouldn’t because these humans might kill you? But don’t you remember those stories that your father told you? How the children of this land helped cats? How they gave you their leftover grilled fish and rice when you purred beside their legs? Would your friends be mad? The rat? The other cats? The animals that fought so hard to live in this land? The footsteps come closer because that child makes too much sound—what will you do now? Should you help or let the child be killed?

The Village

When the village was built from the body of the forest, it provided shelter for the Vietnamese people. It started with one or two stilt houses, and eventually the body spread to a dozen and then to more. The village watched as generations upon generations grew and died. How they lived their lives and told stories to their children of golden turtles saving their country or how they were the descendants of dragons and fairies, and how their descendants farmed with their water buffalos and created their own families. The village loved seeing its family expand, and every time a child was born, it knew that it would never be forgotten—because it is the people who keep the village alive.

But as time passed, the village saw young men going off to battle. Some never came back. Others did, eyes filled with grief and terror. And then one morning, the village saw men it had never seen before. They came and dragged people out of their homes, shooting them with their guns, flinging the bodies into piles and piles. They killed children who were only three years old, grandmothers who had lived seven decades, men who held up their hands saying, “No, please, No,” young women whose bellies were swelling for seven months. The village heard screams of women being dragged by these men—only a few women wobbled out of ditches with torn clothes—and, before the village could save them, the women were killed.

They didn’t stop there. The soldiers killed the water buffalos, shooting until the creatures collapsed on all four legs, blood dripping to the ground.

They burned the village’s body.

Now, years later, only a single stilt house stands.

The village watches as the world changes, from homes that were only a tree high to buildings that can reach the sky. Its surroundings become more packed. Clothing changes from the long áo dài to pants and jeans.

And people come to visit this single house.

People from all around show their respects, some clasping their hands together in silence. But the village wishes it still had its family slumbering in its arms. Because these people don’t understand the terror this village has seen, the loss it has witnessed, the nightmares that burn when it sleeps.

The Daughter of Refugees

Here comes the daughter of the Vietnamese refugees—“the boat people” is what the United States called her parents.

The daughter steps into the streets of Saigon, trying to cross the street as mopeds, cars, and pedestrians flood in every direction. She doesn’t know what to do. Should she stop? Or should she go? Will the cars and bikes hit her? But that kind of hesitation will not help her understand her family history, one that is always involved with civil war. Because the daughter isn’t here to make political statements or find flaws in the country. Nor is she here to judge the quality of life, like how they cook the food or clean the water. She is here to understand and experience her culture, to speak the language that she is slowly losing, and to learn her parents’ homeland through her own eyes. And before the daughter walks across the street, she calls her parents, but only hears ring, ring, ring—thinking of how she doesn’t want to be like her father, who told her before she left: “What are you reading? No, learning? No, no, that massacre did not exist.”

The Rat

Would you blame the rat for hiding while its friends died? You would do the same. You and the cat would climb on the water buffalo’s back to run away from humans. But they’d keep coming and coming. And when the water buffalo was surrounded by them, you’d jump off and dig into the ground with only enough room for yourself. The dirt would tremble. Blood would seep into the soil. And later, you’d watch your children running away from humans stomping at them, driving them away from your home. But you know that your children will survive—when the day darkens, they’ll huddle around your body and you’ll repeat this to your children: run and run, don’t trust anyone.

Agent Orange

Now, here are the effects of destruction. Too much of Agent Orange and the leaves fall, but it never asked to be created. It remembers the first time it landed in the forest: its body melting onto the forest’s skin, carving into its bark, and dissolving its roots—killing any plant that it touched. It remembers how animals panicked: how they ran to find a new home, swimming across rivers, frozen at the death of creatures around them. They fell slowly. Horses. Sheep. Pigs. Snakes. Oxen. Tigers. Rabbits. Their bodies never moved.

It remembers the words from a farmer that traveled to another village, showing his food covered in its blood. It’s orange! Look! Something’s wrong!

It remembers how confused it was when it saw their own destruction. Human skin turning orange. Children without legs or arms. Food tainted with its color. Plants that once flourished never to be seen again. Animals kept dying. And it didn’t understand. Didn’t it come from this land too? Its body from plants?

As it sinks into the earth and bodies of animals, penetrating into skin of human children for generations, it remembers how it saw the sunlight for the first time when it landed— but then realizes that the light is only for the living because its purpose was not to be part of nature, but to kill any creature that it touched.

The Leaves

Here’s a story: when the land was filled with luscious plants and trees, nine-tailed foxes, and golden turtles, gods that roamed across the earth, it was cared for by a mountain fairy who traveled to help animals in need, providing them cures for their aches and sickness from disease. Then one day, while talking to the forest near the ocean, the mountain fairy was chased by a nine-tailed fox and was saved by a dragon who came out of the sea. The mountain fairy was grateful and thanked the dragon for saving her, and the two fell in love. Years later, she carried their children, one hundred eggs in a sac, and when those eggs hatched, out came one hundred children. The dragon and the fairy raised their children to respect the lands, to create boats and travel across the sea, and to farm. But because their mother was a creature of the forest while their father was from the sea, they still loved one another but yearned to go back home—they had to separate. Fifty went with their father while the other fifty went with their mother.

The children cried and cried, We want our family to stay and live together.

The mountain fairy knelt to her children, showing them a dark jade color leaf. I’m always here, she said, I’m part of the forest and your father is part of the ocean. Even after we die, we will always be here. You’re never alone.

The family separated.

The dragon went back to the ocean while the fairy lived in the mountains. The children who lived on the lands grew and became the Hùng Kings while the children who lived near the sea became fishermen. They spread the story of their origin and how they were the descendants of the sea dragon and a mountain fairy. Then when their children grew, they too passed on the stories, even across oceans where the blood descendants now live.

We are the leaves of this land—this is what Tiên tells her own child as she rocks her daughter to sleep. She places her child under a light cotton blanket and watches her suck her thumb until drool drips from the side of her lips. Tiên chuckles and wipes her child’s mouth and wonders if this is what her unborn sibling would have acted like if he or, maybe she, had lived. Would they be curious and adventurous, climbing on beds and poking crawling insects on the floor? Or would they be quiet like their cat that loves to sleep and eat all day? Unlike her.

Tiên isn’t sure, but she dreams. In her dreams, she remembers how a cat, hidden under the haystack with her, rushed out to distract the soldiers and they left the shed, how her father came back after hearing the attack, how he found her under the stack of dried grass, crying and crying as he held her and her mother’s lifeless body. In her dreams, she remembers the daughters of refugees touching her father’s neck—a cancerous tumor and Tiên’s father is covered with orange patches that never seemed to go away no matter how hard he scrubbed. In her dreams, her father carries a basket of sweet potatoes and beside him is her mother, holding her unborn sibling—those tiny hands reaching toward the sky—they call for her. Tiên runs, hurries toward them and they pull her into the arms of the forest, into a pile of jadeite leaves.