Dang Thuy Tram’s Dairies

April 26, 1968. I received a letter from H8, not M’s letter, but from Tam. Read the letter and I felt very sad: all those days are gone and over. Why do you still bring that up Tam? You love me but don’t you know you hurt me? You let me know that M is sick: you said you understand me and love me, but really you don’t understand me. Do you not understand the self respect of a girl like me coming from the Student Class? If you understand me, then better to tell me right now all the important things: “Do a good job, be vigilant”. That’s all I want to hear.

April 30, 1968. Still sad Thuy? Some seriously wounded patients who I thought would die sat up today. Didn’t all the smiles from those pale, smiling faces make you happy? Didn’t all the praise for achieving cures and the organization of the clinic last month make you happy? No, still very sad. Sadness soaks into my heart just like the long days of rain soak into the earth. I want to find some mindless happiness, but I cannot. My mind has wrinkles already because of worry. Is there no way to erase them? The only way I can handle it is with one request: to make the patients get well, and to build the hospital well. Oh! Why was I born a girl so rich with dreams, love, and asking so much from life? My situation is the envy of so many people… very good family, able to improve myself, get a suitable job, loved by all. Is that asking too much? Answer the question stubborn Miss Thuy!

May 1, 1968. One more time to welcome International Labor Day in the jungle. This is a long and quiet day, filled with recollections. I miss Hanoi; miss my parents, and my brothers and sisters very much. I just closed my eyes at noon and I saw my parents and brothers and sisters in the house at the Party Chapter Public Health School*. There is still that narrow road; I crept through the broken door in order to get out to the street again like when I was small. Away from home more than a year already: will this be the last year away from home? Suddenly I think of those happy days before KN, filled with happiness and hope. Now! Just like before, happy like the victor who has already grasped victory in hand. The Revolutionary song is in my ears “Go down; go down the road to break all the chains, even if we have to sacrifice ourselves, keeping authority in the hands of the trade unions”.*

May 4, 1968. I cut conversation off by keeping quiet. In the dark I still see the two patients talking to me. It seems they understand the heavy calm about me is filled with tears. They care for me truly, the more they talk, the more they make me hurt. They ask why I did not struggle for political rights.

Why am I worthy to be a member of the Party, but am not acceptable to the Party Branch? Why and Why? Who can answer this my two lovely friends? Really, I cannot answer, so I remain quiet and calm. I think I can say something about the obstruction. It seems that almost everyone says “Tram is worthy to be a Communist”, but still I am not in the ranks of the Communists. It is not because I don’t want to be, but the more I want to be, the more I am hurt.

These few days are very sad. Every day all the letters arrive, all the words, all the actions showing that they love me and like me. But that kind of life is like a flame lighting dry wood. Why does everyone love me, like me, and admire me, but the Party remains so hard and ungenerous to me!!

May 5, 1968. My dear M! What can I say to you now? I still love you very much but the love is mixed with hate and blame. M, you said that I don’t understand you. No, I do understand you, but not completely. Therefore because of that I am sad when all around me everyone looks at me with pity. So M, you give me self respect. My wound never heals. What can I do? I will carry this broken heart with me all of my life.

Heard that M is sick…miss him and love him. If I was near him I would take care of him the way people had planned for me to do (even though the truth is not like that). My dear M, you are not mine but I would like to bring my love to rub your wounds. How can I do that now? Something tells me that I will not meet M again, and that the day we said good-bye is the last time I will see him. On the day that M stood there and looked at me leave I did not turn back even though I knew his eyes were following me. All the days of lying in the arms of the comrade I love are now like a long, long ago image.