On that particular autumn evening in California, it was just past seven.  The sun had set two hours before.  Everyone in my home was busy eating supper when a loud knocking interrupted our routine.  We heard theurgent voice of my young neighbor, Bien.  He and his wife rent a duplex with a large green lawn that separates their place from ours.  They had moved from another state with very cold winters and decided to relocate to California almost two years ago.

“Brother Number Eight!  Brother Number Eight!  Open the door!”  I immediately set down the chopsticks, pushed my chair back and stood up.  I walked to rear of the kitchen, turned on the porch light, and could see that he was out of breath.  He was panting and his face was pale.  His words soundedabrupt and disjointed.

“We just came home from work and the house is pitch dark,” he said, standing at my backdoor.  “I turned on the lights but there is no electricity and I don’t know why.”Then he told me that Doan was not able to see in the dark and had a serious fall.  He explained how he had moved her into a seated position.  “Then,” he said, “I ran over to let your family know.”

I turned around and opened a kitchen drawer to get a flashlight.  When we rushed back to his house, we saw Doan sitting on the floor with her back to the wall.  When she heard our voices, she looked at her swollen stomach and spoke in a wounded, painful, soft voice.  “I feel a lot of pain and I’m sweating and uncomfortable.  I’m not sure if the baby is all right.”  This would be their first child.

I shined the flashlight on the wall phone and told Bien to dial 911.  Within minutes, we could hear the fire department and ambulance wail as they drew closer.  My wife and Bien followed them to the hospital, and I stayed behind to investigate why their house had no electricity. 

For exiles to meet fellow countrymen in a foreign land is rare, especially in a place where there are few Vietnamese.  At most, our town has ten families scattered about and we depend on the Vietnamese holidays such as Autumn Moon Festival and Lunar New Year to bring us together.  It is not uncommon for these families to have to drive 60 to 70 miles to the Vietnamese community center to visit one another.

My wife and I, as well as Doan and Bien view ourselves as if we are all members of a large extended family.  We take care of one another and share the sweet things in life.  Bien and Doan often share homemade dishes with my family.  “We are lucky that we moved to California,” Bien said.“We have warm springs, mild summers, and beautiful foliage in the fall, and are able to ski in the mountains during winters.  We live near your family and share a kinship similar to our past lives that we once had with Brother Hai’s family, son of Uncle Tu near Saigon, after our parents’ passing.”

In April 1975, Bien’s father was jailed by the communists and transported to a prison in North Vietnam that was euphemistically called a “reeduction camp.”  It was buried deep in the jungle.  There was no medicine to help his father who suffered with asthma.  During the day, prisoners were forced to perform hard labor, and in the evening there were communist ideology study groups aimed at criticizing the old regime.  Everyone there was subjected to constant and extreme stress.

Bien shared that while his father was laboring in the jungle, an asthma attack erupted.  Receiving no medical treatment, he died and his fellow inmates buried him there in the jungle, by the shore of a waterfall, near the camp. 

Not knowing of his father’s death, it was years later that Bien and his mother were allowed to visit, only to fruitlessly discover that he had died.When they located the gravesite they saw the rapid deteriorationfrom monsoonal flooding and all that was left were skeletons.

Bien and his mother gathered what little they could of hisfather’s remains and using small knapsacks, they brought them back to Saigon so they could be crematedand interred at a Buddhist temple.  During this difficult time, Bien watched his mother weep and could not find the words to comfort her and a year later his mother, unable to maintain a bare existence, fell ill. 

As she lay on death bed, her parting words were, “Son, you must contact your Uncle Song in America and ask if he can help you financially so you can escape Vietnam.  Try to take your two younger siblings if you can.  You must always take care of them.  If you cannot bring them, then leave them with Aunt Ut.  We cannot live under this regime and we cannot trust them.” Finally, Bien was unable to bring his two sisters with him because uncle Song could not affored to support three of them. Bien was very sorry to leave his two sisters in Viet Nam

To this day, I cannot forget Bien’s face as he tells this story.  It’s a combination of sorrow and anguish with that faraway stare common to those who have survived war.  He lost his father when he was 14, and then his mother at 17, and by 18 he escaped Vietnam on a fishing boat with dozens of other refugees as they immigrated to America.

It was in an English language class that he met his future wife, Doan.  She studied cosmetology at beauty school, and he learned to repair computer systems to make a living.  Bien and Doan have successful careers and were looking forward to starting a family, so this accident has left Bien terrified.

Once in Bien’s house, I tested all the light switches and each of them failed.  Then I went outside to check the electrical panel and it was there I saw a notice carefully enclosed in a plastic folder from the Pasadena Department of Water and Power. It read, “Mr. Bien Nguyen, your bill is past due therefore the City has shut off your access to power.  You must pay the past due bill before power can be restored.  All bills must be paid at the City’s cashier office in Room 9 at City Hall.  Respectfully, Department of Water and Power, City of Pasadena.”

Because of this oversight, Bien and Doan are now in this miserable predicament.

Nguyen Huu Thoi

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