With their unique pen and their own sensitivity, artists present to us, in turn, their vision of the world around us. This week, we are giving carte blanche to Kim Thúy.
Posted on March 27
When we visited my paternal grandparents and my aunt Nam in Rach Gia, a coastal town in southwestern Vietnam, I knew in advance that I would be afraid of ghosts as soon as I crossed their threshold. First, there was this huge room reserved for the altars of the ancestors. Burning incense sticks, I had to follow my aunt to greet the elders of several generations. My aunt spoke to them as if they were still alive: “Great Uncle, did you hear the birds singing ‟Kim Thúy” yesterday? Well, she arrived safe and sound. She grew up, didn’t she? » « My Sister, I find that she has your eyes… » Each dialogue with the photos or drawings hung on the walls could last long minutes. The trembling knees of the little girl that I was endured all these minutes counting infinity.
Inevitably, at mealtime, my father repeated the anecdote of the light bulb hanging above the table in their old house which moved from time to time during study time. My aunt added that they went to the attic to check if there was not a child playing tricks by pulling on the wire, or some animal chewing it up even though everyone already knew that it was. It was a manifestation of the ghost called “Long Neck Woman”, the only one who had moved with them.
Before tucking the mosquito net under the mattress to protect us from bites, my aunt reminded us to take a good look at the toilet bowl before sitting down to avoid bumping into the Long-necked Woman who often sat there. In order to cover up his cowardice, one of my cousins would urinate on his brother in the middle of the night so that the latter would take the blame for having wet the bed.
My father’s room overlooked a large terrace overlooked by a giant old tree with round, heavy fruits that the Vietnamese call “milk breasts”, probably because of their milky juice and dense, white flesh. This tree stood inside the two meter high walls. Without this impenetrable fence, the children would have climbed the immense branches of this tree, the teenagers would have engraved the name of their dreamed love there and the adults would have picked the fruits to sell them.
No doubt to spare me, my father waited a long time before telling me this story which still haunts him: one night, he heard an unusual rustle in the foliage. He distinguishes from his bed a shadow between the branches. He gets up with a gun in his hands, hoping it’s just another ghost, in love with the Long-Necked Woman. In times of war, you have to be extra careful and avoid relying on your first instinct. He therefore advances with his weapon in aim, a still virgin weapon with a finger of novice on the trigger. The moonlight reveals my father to the intruder and the intruder to my father, the glint of a knife blade on one side and a long barrel on the other. They stare at each other for a split second, then the intruder suddenly falls to the ground and breaks his ankle.
My father discreetly takes the intruder to the hospital. On the way, my father recognizes the young boy. They greet each other as inhabitants of the same neighborhood for generations and as citizens of the same country at war, torn into factions where it is no longer possible to be either for or against. My father asks no questions. He already understands what prompted the youngster to commit this dangerous act.
In times of conflict, sadness sows the seed of hatred everywhere and anger plants it directly in the hearts of children. In times of war, this seed grows every moment, at the dizzying speed of uncertainties merged with misunderstandings, multiplied by misunderstandings, solidified by bereavements; all injected with wounds.
My father explains today why he asked the police not to arrest this boy who was one of the 3300 high school students under his responsibility. His imprisonment would have forced at least 10 other members of his family to take sides on one side or the other to support a loved one, but also to honor all the wandering ghosts, or dead people who disappeared prematurely.
The high school student cried in my father’s arms before returning to school with a healed ankle and heart. Even today, my father thanks the Woman with the Long Neck, who, by immobilizing her finger on the trigger and breaking the branch at the same time, knew how to preserve their innocence to both of them.
His conclusion, always the same: “Since this incident, I have never seen her again. Never be afraid of ghosts, only humans. Because horror is human. »