So when my parents came to Paris my mom saw some old friends, one of which she hadn’t seen in 50 years. And when they saw each other it was “Hey, glad you survived”. Literally.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
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