我们遗忘的村庄

美文宇

My village was located in the Mekong Delta， the most fertile land of South Vietnam， providing more than eighty percent of the rice for the nation. Sixty miles south of Saigon， the area was called the “barn of South Vietnam.” Like most Vietnamese villages， my village was fringed with green bamboo hedges. Its back leaned on the left bank of the Mekong River， and its face looked out on the vast rice fields running side by side to the horizon.

Inside the village， the red-tiled roofs emerged from the grey-thatched ones， the flower fences， the fruit trees， and the vegetable yards separating the houses. The villagers were simple and assiduous farmers， their lives tied to the yellow rice fields， the green bamboo hedges， the cows and cattle. They worried about the irregular weather; they rejoiced with the successful crops. Festivals took place all year long. The villagers prayed before and thanked God after each crop. Life in my village was as peaceful as the tranquil flowing of the Mekong River.

Every day， when the birds started singing to the sun， the whole village awakened. Group after group of farmers and buffalos left for the fields. In the orange sunshine， the silhouettes of my father and Can， our buffalo， disappeared behind the bamboo hedges at the end of the village. My mother also left for the rural market in the nearby village. My brother and I went to school.

At noon， I used to stand at the main gate and look out at the road， waiting for my mother. I could recognize the small， thin， familiar shape from a far distance. My mother never forgot to bring me something， either a small rice cake or a pack of candies each day. She wiped her wet face and fanned herself by the non la， the well-known Vietnamese hat， while I ate the cake. The sweetness of the cake seemed packed with all mother love to me.

In the evening， when the sun set westward， the grey smoke floating from the thatched roofs mixed with the snow-white clouds in the sky. The flutes， attached to the kites high in the air， sounded a beautiful melody accompanied by the singing of the flocks of birds returning to their warm nests. On the road， the farmers and the buffalos came back from the fields. The laughing of people， the noise of the animals—all those sounds in the air brought relaxation to the village.

At dusk， my brother and I joined the children in the village playing at the dam near the river. We were competing in raising kites. Our kite used to be the most beautiful， the highest kite with the sweetest sound. For making the kites， I had to spend all of my savings to buy colored papers and two spools of thread in the small town nearby. My brother had to spend many days to build the kite frame from the selected bamboo tree， and stick the colored papers on it. Finally， we attached the small bamboo flute my father made to the kite to create the sound. Now the kite with its parallelogram shape and motley tails was ready to fly in the blue sky. When my brother raised the kite at its highest， I took the string on my brothers hand to control the kite. Inspired by the admiring eyes of the village children， my pride and happiness flew as high as the kite in the blue sky.

Then， one day， the cane of war stirred up the peaceful life in my village. More and more people left the village to find another， safer place. I， myself， had just known the word “war” in spelling until an event happened： the death of Can， our beloved buffalo.

I still remember Can coming to my family. Like most Vietnamese farmers， my father had a dream of owning a buffalo. When Cans mother， the buffalo of our neighbor， got pregnant， each day after he finished working， my father had to work for our neighbor to trade his labor for the infant buffalo. At that time， my mother raised a group of chickens， and I used to have an egg for breakfast before going to school. One morning， my mother put all the chickens in cages， loaded them in our neighbors buffalo cart， and headed to the market. That noon， I received more candies than ever， but I also had no more eggs after that.

After Can was born， my father brought him home and I was jealous of him. Everybody in my family took good care of Can and forgot me. My milk had to be shared with Can. My father hung mosquito nets to protect Can every night; my mother warmed him with my patched clothes. Even my brother， my closest friend， was interested in Can instead. I tried in vain to regain the attention of my loved ones， and failing， hated the buffalo.

Gradually， my childish hatred faded away and I was happy to play with the buffalo. Can carried my brother and me， traveling from field to field to seek the green grass fields. Can enjoyed the finest green grass while my brother and I enjoyed the baked sweet potatoes remaining after the harvest; then my brother and I let Can lazily bathe in the muddy pools while we swam in the river.

When Can grew up， two and a half years later， he became a co-worker with my father in our small field. During the leisure time between the crops， Can towed the cart loaded with fruit baskets and us to the fairs at the nearby city. He was a member of my family; he shared the hard labor with my father in cultivating the crops， and the pleasure with my brother and me in the sunshine fields. In my mind， I had thought that nothing could separate me from the buffalo， the green bamboo hedges， the yellow rice fields， and the light blue Mekong River.

One night， I was awakened by the thunder of all kinds of guns. My whole family sought shelter under the wooden bed. Shuddering in my mothers arms， I was so panicked that I could not utter a word. The thunder was closer and closer， and an explosion shined brightly in our house. Above the thunder， the cry of our poor Can made my father forget the danger. My father ran toward the stable and tried by all the means to save Can， but he made no difference. The sound of the buffalo in agony made my mother burst into tears.

To end Cans suffering， my father many times raised high the hammer， but many times he lowered it down. The red eyes of Can， tears running down unceasingly， made my father hesitate. Finally， with all his effort， my father hit the hammer at Cans neck. The buffalo fell down and my father fell down too. At the corners of my fathers eyes glittered the teardrops. This was the first time in my life that I had seen my father cry. He cried for our poor Can， and also for the collapse of his dream—the very ordinary dream of a Vietnamese farmer. Instantly， I realized that my golden childhood was over.

我的村庄位于南越最肥沃的土地湄公河三角洲，这块土地为国家提供百分之八十以上的大米。这里位于西贡南部六十英里处，被称为“南越谷仓”。像越南大部分村庄一样，我的村庄四周扎了一圈绿色的竹篱。它背靠湄公河左岸，面向一望无际、一排排延伸至地平线的稻田。

村里，红瓦屋顶从灰色茅草屋顶之间露出来，花篱、果树和菜园把一座座房子分隔开来。村里人都是朴素勤劳的农民。他们的生活与金黄的稻田、绿色的竹篱和牛群联系在一起。他们会因天气无常而担忧，也会因收成好而欣喜。节庆一年到头都有。村民在每次收割前都要祈祷，收割后感谢上苍。在我的村子里，生活就像静静流淌的湄公河一样安宁。

每天，当鸟儿开始向阳歌唱，整个村庄便会从酣睡中醒来。一群群村民牵着水牛朝田间走去。在橘色的阳光下，父亲和我家水牛勤的剪影消失在村子尽头的竹篱后面。母亲也向邻村的集市走去。我和哥哥则去上学。

中午时分，我常常站在大门口，眺望大路，等待着母亲。我能从远处辨认出我熟悉的那个瘦小身影。每天，母亲从不忘给我带回来一些东西，要么是一小块米糕，要么是一袋糖果。在我吃糕点的时候，她就擦擦脸上的汗，用有名的越南斗笠给自己扇风。在我看来，甜甜的糕点里似乎裹着母亲对我全部的爱。

傍晚，当太阳西沉的时候，灰蒙蒙的炊烟从茅草屋顶上飘起，与天空中雪白的云朵混合。风笛高挂在风筝上，伴着一群群归向暖巢的鸟儿的鸣唱，奏出一曲美妙的旋律。……