Caught in a conflict

So this is what it was like: watching news of war from foreign soil in the comfort of home i.e. TV dinner between viewers and the 19-inches screen. Back then, it’s the three networks, beaming daily footage back to American homes from the rooftop of Saigon’s Caravelle Hotel.

It’s surreal, to have lived here almost 5 decades, trading places by way of naturalization, to be on the receiving end of information flow. Today, I watched Thai agricultural workers in Israel turned hostages, then released to reunite with loved ones in their home country.

If I could rewind time, it would be a younger Kissinger seen shaking hands with Le Duc Tho, then the two together shared a Nobel Peace Prize. Of course, the screen was B/W. Then and now, a lot of collateral damage. Lives destroyed, bodies maimed. Caught in a conflict.

Victims of war. Victims of birth. Victims of a shifting policy. Scars in the face and in the head. Nightmares in restless nights.

Who would come to the rescue? When you’re abandoned, left to drown at sea? Those of us who were fortunate, got “sponsored” into the four winds, by churches: Lutheran, Catholic, Baptist and in my case, a group called themselves “house church” (Penn State Profs led by an x-Unitarian minister).

So we got acquainted with a new land and a new religion. Hell was behind. The only way is up. But home is very very far away, if ever be seen again. Our president’s calls often went to voice mail, much less refugees’. So we got cut off from each other, those who stayed behind and those who must make a living in the name of self-sufficiency: a professional journey from the boiler room to the boardroom

We tossed and turned. Then throw many balls in the air, including remedial learning of the art of driving and typing (Vietnam War raged on, and we’re lucky to stay alive, pick up a foreign language and some theoretical- base learning; without the luxury of extra curriculum like baseball and basketball ; football and Prom Night).

So we learn to say “Hi”, to learn the rope and climb the totem pole. Until one day, watching the news on YouTube, hearing the sound of gun fires and bombardment from stereo speakers. Memories at once flood back. To that day of recent past, our yesterday, when we ourselves were seen on TV as those caught in a conflict, venturing out to sea to tempt fate.

Once resettled, we acquired language skills, culture skills and professional skills. But most importantly, we’ve got empathy. We know how it feels: to lose loved ones or to reunite with them. Many were held hostage for days, or months. In my case, not seeing my Dad for exactly one decade.

He brought with him our family violin. It is currently enshrined in my dinning room. Its sound is still reverberating: “Que sera sera…the future is hard to see”….But then, every other American is or evolved out of similar circumstances i.e. caught in a conflict. So the early Pilgrims, the Irish, the Hungarian, Iranian, Cuban, Vietnamese, Afghan and Iraqis. Always in between worlds and languages. Over cuisine and culture (music, art and drama) we may manage to get across our deepest hopes and fear. But mostly, we try to grow roots, to forget and to adapt.

Then the evening news comes on. We watch, from the comfort of home. This time, it’s other people’s turn to suffer, for the hope of human kind ‘s better future. But first, the pain, the punishment and the price. One lifetime, many burdens.

I now look back, having past my prime, and can clearly see patterns of conflict, shifting policies and wider perspectives. Men like Kissinger perhaps lived longer, seeing finer shades of gray. But I know beyond any doubt that little guys always caught in a conflict, no matter how tenable the solutions.

Between the screen and the viewers lays the TV dinner, mass manufactured and distasteful, like the content on the evening news itself.