Past as Prologue

1949 in Taiwan.

1963 in S. Vietnam.

1972 in the Philippines.

2024 in S. Korea.

US allies cling to power by declaring Martial Law.

All from Asia, where face-saving as King Midas phrased it:” all made of blood and illusion”.

Given this uncompromising reality, we live on an imperfect world, at the fork of lesser of “the two evils”, as if Dante was writing not just about Hell.

I was a kid back in 1963, terrified at the prospect of upheaval. My world and its topsy and turvy surface above hot lava undercurrent.

Bombshells were seen in the air as I could see from the balcony and coup/counter-coup broadcast on the airwaves. “Vietnam Muon Nam, Vietnam Muon Nam.” (Poor Control Room who perhaps were under watch if not gun point each time a new counter-coup leader took over).

Names like Big Minh, Henry Cabot Lodge Jr, Kennedy brothers, Diem’s brothers were constantly above the fold (then subsequent assassinations from the US for symmetry). Pierre and I, both at age 7, on our way to school – Ecole L’Aurore, yet we were discussing politics (November 23, 1963) instead of any other topics elementary school kids would engage in.

Back then, even delegates from Afghanistan joined the UN inspectors to verify and validate cease-fire compliance e.g. Paris Accord.

We all know now what happens to Afghan women compared to SVN’s half a century ago (albeit skewed in the person of our Dragon Lady, Madame Nhu = or Imelda Marcos shoes shopping spree, Exhibit A; or South Korean First Lady insider trading, Exhibit B). In those regions, not just husbands. Wives too, clung to derivative spousal power in and of itself, derivative (friends of this nation and that nation) to begin with.

What happened before happens again.

By course-correction (hint, screwing up and saying sorry) we move on to salvage public support and save face.

I was scared. My hair perked up, animal-like. A sense of foreboding and premonition permeated the air we breathed. At an impressionable age, I feared for my little world: mom and pop, New Year’s Eve with food offering and josh stick burning. What I feared was that the altar would soon run out of space, that I would be left alone, abandoned in a world full of military hardware e.g. Carbines, Colt 45, M-16’s, helicopters, Jeeps and garden variety of grenades.

As expected, it – my world – imminently and finally gave like a three-legged stool in tornado.

What had we done to deserve fire and brimstone? Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. 2 million dead from starvation had not been enough to appease the gods? (WWII Japanese atrocity) “Bomb SOB back to Stone Age”. So, the gods randomly chose Vietnam, instead of smaller islands e.g. Quemoy or Matsu, like Jackson Pollock tossing his paint or pigeon fly by poops at the far edge of L’Indochine, intent to make a point and an example of how imploding hubris could be.

“Wah? you’re gonna ship me to Nam?” “you’re talkin to me?” The draft and dodging. No more Summer Oak Tree (Yellow Ribbon on it).

I tasted the lime wedge someone handed to me. To soothe those eyes from unpleasant tear gas, whose shells littered the Buddhist Temple (where now a days, they sell trapped birds so buyers can then set them free like Red-White-Blue balloons at Presidential Nomination Convention).

For me, the only nightmarish free flight was by one of the chopper blades (one of ours) which broke loosed from its rotor to fast approach us, faced down on a USS warship where we barely set foot on.

For generations, we cherish a proud history, in which women played an occasional powerful role, Trung’s sisters for instance, or: “Let them barbecue themselves, I will provide the petroleum -” imported and stored at Long Binh and Da Nang base.

So for a brief shining moment, Madame Nhu basked at Press Conference, only to finish out her unplanned exile in France, fooling none but herself she had once been on State level with Jackie O. or Madame Chiang Kai-shek: First-Lady derivative snobbery (leading a SVN female cadre and none of the public services e.g. feeding the hungry or teaching the illiterate).

Martial Law. Last resort. To squelch the opposition. Or when the Shah of Iran was allowed in the US, it set up a firestorm in Tehran that lasted 444 days. Pushing automobiles by day, Ted Koppel by night. Once again, we all felt that nagging fear and familiar apprehension during the height of the Cold War.

I love freedom of worship and expression. To speak and write unhindered. Ain’t book-burning. Only book-buying (even at a garage-sale of Fahrenheit 451 station).

To wrap this dot-connecting spree, I remember the night at the Lodges, his widow’s guest house – invited but unannounced. Mrs. Lodge often used the word “divine” when describing her house-sitter, my friend.

History has a funny way to divine its comedy. Like Madame Nhu, a French pupil who married up (to her tutor, chain-smoker Mr. Nhu, President Diem’s brother – always seen with matches lying about) with her famous line “I will provide plenty of petrol and ready match sticks”.

Then chopper blade, on the loose on an US carrier. Then the former US Ambassador’s estate. Vengeance (and everything else, humor and nightmares) is mine.

Birds got to fly free in front of the Temple. Tear grenades shot and sprayed freely there as well. Smoke gets in my eyes. Cry, my beloved country. BTW Those birds often got recaptured – instinctive cagebirds – for another and another round of selling (reflexive voluntary servitude). Why do the birds go on singing? Don’t they know…it’s the end of the world. In all, per Appy in American Reckoning (pg 29), more than 5 million dislodged from their home, like Cedar fall.

Not too different later with Afghan women are to cover faces (burkas) while Asia strong men save faces. Martial Law or Ministry of Vice and Virtues. My early years seem to return all of a sudden, yesterday once more. lurking in my reptilian brain…as if darkness (my old friend) has never left, undesirable long lost friend, but friend, nevertheless.

Taiwan, South Vietnam, South Korea, Iran or the Philippines. Lesser of the 2 evils living, the only option for citizens of small nations. Nothing “divine”, only dualistic: keep quiet then being quiet.

Yet we live on, unhappily, pushing our shopping cart, vowing “never again”. Really? As if we were gods of mythmaking full of “blood and illusion” (Best and Brightest) to come up with random pigeon path on a world map, Quemoy or Matsu, Cambodia or Vietnam, as the best strategy in the Art of War.