English Version
Ngọc Anh
30/8/2026
Some tears need no translation.
Some love knows no language.
And a mother’s love reaches beyond time, distance, and words.
FOREWORD
Mother’s Cricket” is not a fairy tale.It is a true story about a fragile child, carrying the limitations of fate but never losing the will to live, and about a mother who has gone through war, imprisonment, loss, and separations that once seemed unbearable.
Through simple yet sincere memories, this book is a story of maternal love, compassion, and the power of love.The story of VyDan, of the mother, and of that love runs throughout the entire book.
Despite war, imprisonment, illness, or distance across half the globe, that bond has never been broken. These experiences helped the two of them overcome the harshest circumstances of life.
If, upon closing these pages, the reader feels even a little love, a little hope, and a deeper appreciation for their loved ones, then that is exactly what the author wishes to share and leave behind. For Vy Dân, my little cricket, whose fragile body carried an unbreakable spirit.
Ngoc Anh
PART ONE
THE CRICKET’S DIARY
My name is Vy Dân.
Mother told me that I was born during the long rainy season of July in Đà Lạt. I was tiny because I was underweight. The weather was cold, and our house had no heater.
Aunt Giao showed Mother how to fill glass bottles with hot water, seal them tightly, and place them around my bed to keep me warm.
Mother wrapped me snugly in cloth diapers and laid me carefully inside a wicker basket when she carried me home to Father in Sài Gòn.
Back then Mother was still very young, barely in her twenties. She cherished me as if I were a doll. But this doll could only laugh and never cry.
People say that when we are born, we cry while everyone around us laughs with joy.I was the opposite. I laughed out loud while Mother sobbed because of the hardships she carried in her heart.
Đà Lạt was terribly cold. I did not have enough warm clothes. Father sold his blood to buy milk, food, and diapers for me.
They said the entire country was poor in those days. Mother had to smuggle tea from Bảo Lộc to earn money for my milk. Sometimes the authorities caught her and confiscated everything, leaving her without a cent. She would return home with red eyes, clutching me tightly against her chest.
Later Mother returned to Sài Gòn to continue working with Father. I grew slowly because of malnutrition, but the doctors said there was nothing seriously wrong with me.
Father, Mother, and I lived peacefully in Grandfather’s house in District 10 of Sài Gòn.
Then one day disaster struck.
They came to search the house and arrested both Father and Mother.
I could not be sent to my maternal grandparents even though their house was only a short distance away. So Mother carried me with her into prison. I was just over one year old then, frail as a little cricket, yet I wanted nothing more than to stay with my parents.
But they would not allow our family to remain together. Strangely enough!
Father was locked away in a solitary cell at the far end of the prison camp, while Mother and I were kept in another solitary cell near the entrance.
The room was tiny and pitch black.I was afraid of the dark.Yet with Mother beside me, everything felt warm and safe.
The only time I ever saw Father was when our family was transferred from Sài Gòn to Phan Thiết. I remember his tall, thin figure, his glasses, and his gentle smile. Everyone said that I looked very much like him.
Mother begged countless times for permission to let me see Father, but no one agreed.
They said my parents had committed serious crimes and must remain isolated from their loved ones. But I was only a little child. What did I know? They were so cruel!
Years later Mother was moved into a communal prison barrack. It was crowded with prisoners, yet there were no other children there. Because of that, everyone loved me.
Sometimes women who received family visits would share a little food with me.
To this day I still remember how delicious those stolen bites of shredded pork tasted.
Mother and I had no visitors. We survived through years of deprivation and hardship. I watched Mother grow older and felt my heart ache for her.
Mother often sang me to sleep with old love songs. I heard the women whisper that those songs were forbidden and should not be sung aloud. Whenever Mother reached the lyric, “In the heart of a melancholy schoolgirl...” I would point at her. ”Mother was my schoolgirl. She was often sad.
Yet she never complailained to me about the burdens she carried. Still, I knew her heart was weary.
She once told me that if it were not for me, she would rather die than endure prison life.
That frightened me! Without Mother, I think I would have died too. She was my sunshine, my moonlight, my safe place in a difficult world.
During the day she worked endlessly under harsh conditions. At night, inside our mosquito net, she would hold me close and tell stories, tell fairy tales, stories from the labor fields, stories about distant lands and endless seas.
Every story sparked my imagination.
Every story made me dream of one day leaving this cramped place and seeing the vast world beyond its walls.
But there was one thing that broke my heart: I could not stand.I could not run.I could not sing.I could not wrap my arms around Mother like other children.
Instead, I used my thin legs to hug her waist. With my feet I wiped her face, held a comb to brush her hair, and rubbed her back whenever she was exhausted.
My whole world was Mother.
I imagined the endless rice fields where she worked each day. I imagined the white stork standing quietly on one leg beside the fields. I imagined the black leeches clinging to her pale legs and making her cry out in fear. If I had been there, I would have pulled them off and thrown them away.
Every day when Mother returned from work, she would brought me a little gift. Sometimes it was a few smooth pebbles from a stream.
Sometimes it was a handful of wildflowers picked along the roadside. Other times it was a few tiny peaches that had fallen from the tree before they had a chance to ripen, or a large bird feather nearly as long as Mother’s hand.
Mother said the feather looked like the writing quills people used in ancient times.
When I held it and examined it closely, I imagined a crow flying over the peach orchard where Mother wandered collecting peach pits. Perhaps it had dropped the feather there for Mother to find and bring home to me.
Then Mother would turn it into a fairy tale about the magical bird from the story The Starfruit Tree, carrying treasure across the sky.
I dreamed that one day it would carry me away too.
Even a stone picked up beside a stream became a long adventure about Robinson Crusoe on a deserted island, marking each passing day with a pebble.”If we kept every stone from every day we’ve spent here,” Mother once laughed, “we could build ourselves a castle.”
Then she would sigh and say:”One day in prison feels like a thousand years outside.”
I did not understand the deeper meaning of those words.
But I knew our time there was very long, very lonely.
One day Mother brought home a parakeet with a broken wing. It could not fly, but it could do something I could not, it could walk. Slowly. Clumsily.
Yet it could move around the room. The brilliant green of its feathers was the first vivid color I remember seeing in my life. There was another color I never forgot—a bright pink dress worn by a little girl who came into the prison one day with her mother. She looked like a fairy princess.
I stared at her in amazement. I had never seen another child my age before.
The prison was filled only with gray uniforms worn by the prisoners. They were stained with mud, sap, and chemicals from the fields. Some were patched and mended so many times they hardly resembled clothing Everything seemed gray. Everything seemed dull.
My parakeet became my best friend.
But it was also a terrible troublemaker. It climbed onto
the clothesline behind the barracks and chewed every buttons from prisoners ‘ clothes.
When the prisoners came back from work, cold and soaked from the rain, not a single shirt still had buttons.
Everyone shouted in frustration. Mother always covered my face with her conical hat whenever the women returned and changed clothes in the crowded room. I secretly laughed because I knew exactly who the culprit was.
Then one day the parakeet learned to speak. That made it even more talented than me. Whenever Mother fed me porridge, it would chirp loudly: “Parakeet wants porridge! Parakeet wants porridge!” If someone became sick, it would scream: “Emergency! Emergency!”
Mother said parrots were intelligent creatures that learned by imitation.
Years passed.I lived beside Mother for so long that time itself seemed meaningless. I did not know my own age. I did not know how old Mother was. I did not even know what a clock looked like.
Then one day a prison officer entered the women’s barracks. On his wrist was a shining watch. At his belt hung a tiny radio. I stared at both objects in fascination. Mother explained that a watch told people the ttime. A radio carried voices and news from all over the world.
I could hardly imagine that beyond the prison gates there existed an enormous world full of wonders I had never seen.
For the prisoners, each day was measured by hope. Morning became afternoon. Afternoon became evening. Evening became another tomorrow.
Everyone counted the days until freedom.
But I only cared about one thing: Mother. As long as she was beside me, I was happy. I did not care how many years had passed.
I did not care how many New Year celebrations came and went behind prison walls. Still, I loved Tết.
The prison always felt livelier then. Mother and I would receive a little better food than usual. And I would sit below the stage, gazing up proudly as Mother performed in” Cải Lương“ plays. Her favorite role was “Cô Lựu” I never understood how she could cry so convincingly on stage. The audience applauded thunderously whenever she sang the “vọng cổ “passages with her sweet, emotional voice. Mother was amazing.She could become any character.
Yet at night, when the performance ended and she held me in her arms, she would quietly cry for Father. Cry for the distant homeland she missed.
Cry for my grandparents, who were waiting endlessly for us to return. Then she would tell me stories about the old Tết celebrations:Liondances. Firecrackers exploding across the sky. Green “bánh chưng”, Red watermelons. Lucky money tucked into red envelopes. I listened and imagined the happiness she once knew.
And I promised myself that when we were finally free, Mother would take me to a temple during Tết. I would watch the lion dances. I would see the firecrackers. And I was certain I would laugh myself silly at the sight of the round-bellied Earth God.
But the day of our freedom still seemed very far away... Our day of freedom still seemed far away.
Then something happened that I did not want at all. One day Aunt Hai came to visit Mother for the first time. She brought a letter from a foreign organization about taking me out of prison and sending me to Europe for medical treatment.
I panicked. I wrapped my thin legs tightly around Mother and refused to let go. Mother tried to comfort me. She told me that the place would be like heaven.There would be beautiful clothes, delicious food, toys that every child dreamed of, doctors who could help me, schools where I could learn, and people who would care for me.
“You’ll write letters to me,” Mother promised.” And I will come home soon and find you. Then we’ll be together again.”
Mother wanted me to leave because she hoped I would have a better future than the miserable life we were living inside prison walls.
But perhaps she forgot the old cải lương lyric she loved so much “The burdens of life are shared between mother and child.”
I did not want heaven! I did not want toys. I did not want beautiful clothes. I only wanted Mother. I kicked and struggled in protest.
Mother held me quietly in her arms. Her eyes were filled with sorrow.
Part of me hoped she would cry. If she cried, perhaps she would become weak.
Perhaps she would refuse to let me go.
But Mother never cried in front of strangers. She had not cried when people brought news that Father had died.
That night, inside our mosquito net, she told me about Father as though he were a hero from a fairy tale. A brave warrior who fought monsters. A noble man who had now flown into the sky. While she spoke, I could hear her quietly sobbing in the darkness. That was when I first understood what loss meant.
I knew we would never see Father again. Yet I felt proud. My father was a hero.
And I wanted to be like him.I wanted to protect Mother. I imagined myself as Mother’s little knight. So how could she ask me to leave?
Who would wipe away her tears when she was sad? Who would rub her aching back after long days of hard labor? My arms were weak. But my feet were strong.
That night I clung to Mother with all my strength. I wrapped my legs around her and refused to let go.
But our farewell came silently.
While I slept on Aunt Hai’s shoulder in the middle of the night, she carried me out of the prison camp. My parakeet sat quietly inside a backpack on her back. Together, we left Mother behind. And that was the beginning of a separation neither of us could truly understand.
RELEASE FROM PRISON and RETURN TO SAIGON
When I arrived in Sài Gòn, everything seemed new and astonishing.The streets were crowded with people, bicycles, cars, and endless noise. They told me this was the city where my family had once lived before prison took everything away.
My grandparents’ house was somewhere nearby.
When I arrived, everyone welcomed me with love. They bought me new clothes.
Aunt Hai took me to the zoo. The world outside prison was overflowing with wonders.
My cousins Thảo and Huyền took turns carrying me to the market.
Anh Tuấn carried me on his back to visit his friends next door.
Aunt Ba brought me to the rice shop where I spent entire afternoons watching people come and go.
And Mother, do you know what happened? For the first time in my life, I had a birthday cake. Aunt Hai bought it for me.There were candles.
There were neighbors and friends.
Everyone sang and laughed. Even my little parakeet got a taste of the frosting.
We were so happy.
Yet in the middle of all that happiness, I missed Mother terribly.I wished with all my heart that she could have been beside me.
My peaceful life with Grandmother’s family did not last very long.
Soon the paperwork was completed, and I received permission to travel to Switzerland for treatment. Switzerland. A distant country that everyone could only point to on a map The whole family prepared to take me to the airport.
But my parakeet could not come. Aunt Hai gently explained that animals were not allowed on the airplane. My heart broke. That bird had been my companion since prison. It carried so many memories of Mother and me.
Leaving it behind felt like losing a piece of my past. Still, I believed I would return. Perhaps in a few years.I would recover. I would become strong.
And then I would come home to Mother.
Hadn’t I promised her that? We would stay together until the end of our lives. No matter how difficult life became, we would always find our way back to each other.
At the airport, a foreign woman waited for me. I had never seen her before. She carried a photograph to identify me. My family handed me over to her care, and she lifted me into her arms. The exchange happened quietly. No one spoke very much.We did not share a common language. I looked back one last time at my family. I wanted to say goodbye. I wanted to tell them I loved them. But no words came out. Only confused sounds.
Yet when I looked into the woman’s clear blue eyes, I felt warmth and kindness. Perhaps this journey would not be so frightening after all. For the first time in my life, I flew on an airplane. I loved it immediately. It was larger than any house I had ever seen. It would carry me farther than I had ever dreamed possible.
Like the magical bird in Mother’s fairy tales, it soared above the clouds, above mountains, above the endless blue sea below.
I slept peacefully during most of the journey.
And in my dreams, I promised myself that one day I would return to Mother. I could not truly understand how far Switzerland was from Sài Gòn.
I only knew it was very, very far away. And somehow, deep inside, I sensed that it would be a very long time before I saw Mother again. The thought frightened me. Could this journey really separate us for so many years?
GOING EVEN FURTHER
The first years in Switzerland were spent with my foster family. There was Uncle Út, his wife, and their three children.
The children were close to my age. Everyone treated me with kindness. Especially “Madame Vivian,” who cared for me with extraordinary patience and love. But no one spoke Vietnamese.
I went to school.I learned French.
I gradually understood that I was living in a country completely different from the world Mother and I had known.
The food was different.
The television programs were different.
Everything was different.
As the years passed, I adapted to my new life. Sometimes I almost forgot who I had once been. No one talked to me about my family. No one explained my past. No one told me why I had come to this country. It was as though I had been born into a new world that contained only the present and the future.
Yet somewhere in the deepest corner of my memory, I knew there was still a Mother.
I did not know where she was. I did not know if she was alive.
I did not know what she looked like anymore.
Years passed.
More than ten years. And still I wondered. I could never find the words to explain to others how much I missed her.
When I was 18 years old, according to the law I had to leave my relative’s home to live in another group, where there were only friends with illnesses like mine, totally paralyzed, unable to speak, unable to grasp anything, and with minds as innocent as children even though they were already adults.
I was a little luckier than them because I could understand everything happening around me (thanks to watching TV often). I could use a computer, even if only with two toes to click the mouse.
Before, when I wanted to communicate, I would raise my leg to mean “yes,” and lower it to mean “no.” But now my legs are completely deformed and cannot move anymore.
So I had to use a different signal: sticking out my tongue for “Yes,” and closing my mouth for “No.” The caregivers understood what I wanted, but only in basic daily matters. It was a quiet life among people with disabilities. We were well cared for from meals to sleep and treated warmly like a small family.
On weekends, they would push our wheelchairs outside to watch movies or drink coffee. Sometimes in the summer, we traveled to neighboring countries and joined outdoor activities. Because I could understand French, those moments were very wonderful for me.
Fifteen years living without Mother felt even longer than the time I had lived with her in prison. I had become an adult. My hair and beard grew long if I didn’t cut them for a month. I kept a mustache because it reminded me of my father in a photo I saw at my uncle’s house (my father’s younger brother). I also had a tattoo on my left arm of the word “Snake” in Chinese characters, because it was my zodiac sign.
GOOD NEW ABOUT MOM
Then one day, someone came to visit me. It was the happiest surprise of my life—Aunt Hoa, an Asian woman who spoke fluent French. She thought I did not understand Vietnamese, so she spoke freely.
She said she was a friend of my Mother in Vietnam, and that she had come to Switzerland at my Mother’s request to visit me. She told me that my Mother had already released from prison and was now living in Saigon, struggling to make a living, and always hoping for news of me but did not know where to find me.
Fortunately, she met my mother by chance, then searched online for humanitarian organizations caring for disabled children abroad (Terre des Hommes).
She found my name there and was overjoyed, so during a business trip she came to visit me. Oh God, I was beyond happy when I heard news about my Mother.
And surely my Mother must have been incredibly happy too knowing about me.
Aunt Hoa was like a fairy who connected us again.
She took many photos of me to bring back to my Mother so she could feel reassured, and she gave me my Mother’s address in Saigon.
From that moment on, I was constantly restless thinking about my Mother. I realized I was not an orphan, something I had always believed deep inside for so long. No one had told me anything about my family—about my father or my mother.
Perhaps everyone avoided speaking about such a painful past. But I knew everything, Mother. I understood the indirect words from my relatives on my maternal side.
I understood the sadness of my paternal family when they saw my disability.
Sometimes I met Uncle Hai, Uncle Ba (my father’s older Brothers) during family gatherings. In any case, I was still a member of the Tran Thang family.
Here I had everything for a complete new life, but I still longed to have Mother beside me. The desire to meet her became stronger after Aunt Hoa’s visit brought me news about her in Vietnam. I was determined to return to Vietnam to find my Mother, even though it would not be easy for someone like me.
The letters between us made me even more determined.
I tried very hard to write emails on the computer to send to Mother, but I only knew French, so what could I do? I had many friends, staff members of the Terre des Hommes organization in Switzerland, young volunteers working in this social organization.
They were all close friends of mine and helped me translate my emails into Vietnamese so my Mother could read them.
The first letter sent by post from Switzerland to Saigon talked about everything in my life here. I told Mother that everyone was kind and friendly.
A few times I had to go to the hospital for pneumonia, but I was okay, she didn’t need to worry.
Sometimes I traveled to European countries nearby. I didn’t know how to describe those beautiful places to Mother.
After I reconnected with her, the postal letters took so long, and when we finally switched to emails.
I was filled with hope that one day I would return to visit her.
And it became certain when I started planning a journey across half the world. Not for a few months—but over several years.
I earned money by selling small Christmas items, handmade greeting cards designed on my computer and printed to sell at flea markets during the end of the year.
Where I lived, they always encouraged me to be creative. I was treated equally to the point that I almost forgot my physical limitations. I could not feed myself with a spoon, could not stand, could not dance or sing like others... When I lived with Mother, I did not see my difference.
But in this new environment, I realized I was not like other young people. I felt a bit lost, but I never asked Mother why I had to be like this, because I knew she would cry every day if she saw my weak and broken body.
But I promised her I was not broken in spirit. I lived joyfully with everyone, as if I had never known sadness in the past. Even though sometimes I missed Mother so much, I wanted to cry when remembering her exhausted figure returning from prison labor, carrying me while barely able to lift her arms, her eyes as sad as if it was about to rain.
My longing for Mother pushed me to earn money to visit her soon.
I even wrote a small sign in front of my stall: -“I need money to return to Vietnam to see my Mother.” T
hat was the truth I bravely wrote, but the result was surprising.
People passing by stopped to buy things and even paid more than the value of the items. Kindness and love are always received unconditionally, aren’t they, Mother?
A REUNION AFTER 15 YEARS
I had two friends, Lucine and Jerome. We began planning a long journey. I had already emailed Mother about it. I would return with them. The organization helped me prepare a detachable wheelchair that could be easily assembled and disassembled for boarding and leaving the airplane.
Jerome prepared medicine, clothes, essential items for me, including diapers and a food grinder.
Lucine took care of the passport, embassy procedures, travel arrangements, and expenses for all three of us during the 10-day stay in Vietnam.
We even searched online to find a hotel near my grandmother’s house, with an elevator and free breakfast, so it would be more convenient. A perfect plan, isn’t it, Mother?
I left Saigon when I was 9 years old, and now I was returning at 24. Fifteen years had passed. I could not imagine how much everything had changed, but I knew for sure it had been far too long before we could meet again. The plane landed at Saigon airport. The city I vaguely remembered from Mother’s stories about my parents’
A REUNION AFTER 15 YEARS
I had two friends, Lucine and Jerome. We began planning a long journey. I had already emailed Mother about it. I would return with them. The organization helped me prepare a detachable wheelchair that could be easily assembled and disassembled for boarding and leaving the airplane.
Jerome prepared medicine, clothes, essential items for me, including diapers and a food grinder.
Lucine took care of the passport, embassy procedures, travel arrangements, and expenses for all three of us during the 10-day stay in Vietnam. We even searched online to find a hotel near my grandmother’s house, with an elevator and free breakfast, so it would be more convenient. A perfect plan, isn’t it, Mother?
I left Saigon when I was 9 years old, and now I was returning at 24. Fifteen years had passed. I could not imagine how much everything had changed, but I knew for sure it had been far too long before we could meet again.
The plane landed at Saigon airport. The city I vaguely remembered from Mother’s stories about my parents’ memories and the house where my paternal family once lived in peaceful times. We stood confused among the crowd waiting at the airport, but I recognized Mother immediately when a woman hurried toward me.
At that moment, Aunt Hoa was speaking with Lucine and Jerome. Oh my God! I wanted to scream with joy, but I could only make sounds in my throat.
Mother embraced me tightly, tears streaming down her face. The happiest moment of my life was right there when Mother and I finally reunited after so many years apart.
Everyone went back to my grandmother’s house. I met all the relatives I had known 15 years ago in Saigon, except for my grandfather and my little gecko.
My grandfather had passed away a few months earlier, and my parakeet had stopped eating and died from sadness when I was gone.
My cousin Thao buried it in a pot of apricot blossoms in front of the house.
Everyone was happy at this reunion. I also learned that after Mother left prison, I had a younger sister. I did not care about the man who later became Mother’s husband.
I heard he had also passed away. I felt sympathy for Mother’s difficult and lonely life, but everything is fine now. The painful past was gone.
Now Mother had me and Phuong (my younger sister). We loved Mother deeply. She would always remain wonderful in our hearts.
Lucine told everyone about the “perfect plan” of the trip, how I had saved money and paid for all three of us during the 10 days in Vietnam.
I saw pride in Mother’s eyes as she looked at me. She knew I could do everything I set my mind to. Even though I was not like other people, I had the determination to dream and to act.
Although the time in Vietnam was short, we organized everything carefully.
First, Mother took me to Da Lat, the city where I was born. Then we went to Soc Trang, Mother’s hometown (and also where my umbilical cord had been buried how strange, why were birth and burial places so far apart? Only Mother knew that secret).
On the way, we stopped in Ben Tre to visit my paternal homeland, and also went to “Nga Bay” floating market, where people traded goods by boat on the river.
Lucine took many photos of this unique scenery. I thought there was no other place like this, people buying and selling local fruits and food, but so lively and full of life.
Back in Saigon, every day was a new journey, sometimes the zoo, sometimes “Dam Sen park” I traveled by old buses and “xe lam,” the transport of the poor. I saw struggling lives street vendors, children and elderly people under hardship, selling lottery tickets under sun and rain.
People looked at me strangely when they saw two foreigners pushing my wheelchair. I heard them say Mother must be very rich to let me live like this, because in Vietnam disabled people usually had to beg. Hearing that made me sad.
Then the 10 days passed quickly. I understood more Vietnamese, and Phuong also learned a little English with Lucine and Jerome. We exchanged emails with each other. I bought gifts with all the remaining money.
Although the trip was short, I understood more about life in a developing country compared to the modern cities I had seen in Europe, where people looked happy and free.
But here, I saw too many poor houses, children in worn-out clothes, sad faces, and many who could not go to school because of poverty. It was heartbreaking.
Mother told me I was born in the Year of the Snake according to Eastern astrology.
But I was a snake without legs, crawling through forests and mountains. I was lucky to have gone abroad, to live under the care of humanitarian organizations, so I had a chance to understand more than many other disabled people in my homeland.
This trip was the happiest moment of my life. Mother had left that terrible prison. She now had a stable life had returned to study and worked at a not-too-difficult job, and had Phuong by her side as her little guardian. I felt at peace knowing everything was okay for Mother and Phuong.
From now on, our family would stay in contact. When everyone took me to the airport (I never understood why farewells always had to be so crowded maybe going to the airport itself was a hidden dream for many people), this goodbye was full of smiles and warm embraces.
Mother promised she would find a way to visit me in Switzerland.
I believed she would, because I knew her heart always belonged to me, always.
RETURN TO SWITZERLAND
Back in Switzerland this time, I felt like a different person.
I was no longer confused about my identity. I knew I had a family. I had loved ones in faraway Vietnam. I was no longer lonely when I saw other young people being picked up by their families on weekends, while I sat quietly missing Mother. Because now I knew she loved me deeply. But distance was something we had to accept.
After returning from the trip, Lucine and Jerome no longer worked at my place. They moved on to other jobs, but they still came to visit me sometimes.
Occasionally, they would take me to Lucine’s house for dinner with him family and we would watch football on TV together.
Lucine had three children and a dog. They treated me like part of their family, and it touched my heart deeply.
My current home had four residents—two boys and two girls. Each of us had our own neat, clean room. The caregivers here were mostly young, some around my age. Some were very beautiful girls, likely students doing internships for a period before leaving.
Others were long- term professionals. But all of them worked with compassion.
They were cheerful and hardworking, helping us with everything, from personal hygiene to cleaning our rooms, washing clothes, and preparing meals. Despite their busy work, they always smiled and spoke gently to us, sometimes giving warm hugs.
I was very grateful to the people here, Mother. I knew I was extremely lucky to live in this place. I wanted to write a long email to tell Mother everything about my daily life so she would not worry, so she would know I was living peacefully and happily.
But Mother... after all my effort, I could only write one line “I love you so much.”
FINAL NOTE
I am writing these lines not to complain, but to preserve the memories of my life. The things I have lived through, seen, and experienced.
There are days when I think memories will fade with time. But there are also memories that grow clearer the farther they go, like an engraving that can never be erased from the heart.I do not know what the future holds.
But I want to record everything, so that if one day I am no longer here, what I have lived will still exist within these pages.
Vy Dan Tran Thang
PART TWO
JOURNEYS
I traveled alone on a train from Paris to Switzerland with a feeling of excitement mixed with a faint sense of anxiety and hesitation. Although this was not the first time I had traveled across countries alone as a fragile woman, two years earlier I had also recklessly gone abroad with only a backpack, barely knowing a word of the foreign language, no cellphone or Wi-Fi for emergencies, and less than 200€ in my pocket.
I went simply because I had received a heartfelt invitation from a loosely acquainted Western family, driven by one single purpose: to visit my disabled son, who was living far away in a foreign land. This wealthy country of Switzerland had been caring for and raising my frail and unfortunate son for more than 30 years.
Truly, I owe an endless debt of gratitude to the people here. The train passed pine-covered hills, fields, and small peaceful towns with church rooftops faintly visible in the mist. Suddenly, I felt nostalgic for Da Lat many decades ago, where I once arrived timidly with a backpack carried awkwardly on my back, after hearing my cousin whisper: “If you don’t get an abortion and your dad finds out, he’ll shave your head, just wait and see".
Why should I have abandoned the child? Perhaps my father would not have accepted a “former enemy soldier” in his revolutionary family, but I loved that man deeply.
We had so many things ahead of us. Having a child at that time was unplanned, but I was determined to keep both my love and my ideals.
So I fled Saigon to the misty city, temporarily staying at a relative’s house and waiting to give birth. He was by my side during those difficult days.
While the whole country was struggling with poor food, he secretly carried white rice from the Mekong Delta for me, passing through countless checkpoints disguised in a soldier’s uniform he had obtained by trading away many of his nice clothes.
I gave birth two weeks early, so my son had to stay in an incubator. It was the rainy month of July, clothes could not dry in time. I did not have enough milk for my baby.
He rushed everywhere, even selling blood to buy milk cans and warm clothes for us.
He cooked me a pot of soup with a little meat and many vegetables, and washed my underwear stained with blood because I had no sanitary pads. I cried in overwhelming happiness. For me, if I had to sacrifice my entire life for that man, I would have done it willingly.
And I have been ready for that all my life for more than 40 years, even though he has long since passed away.
VyDan is the most beautiful memory of our love story, beautiful yet painfully heartbreaking.
Yverdon is a small city in Switzerland. As the song says, “a few minutes away and you return to familiar places.” At first, I felt unfamiliar with its winding roads, stone-paved squares, and old castle rooftops covered in moss beside the market structures more than a hundred years old. Between modern buildings, the old châteaux still carried a royal elegance.
The train system in Europe follows one absolute rule punctuality. I truly felt comfortable using public transportation here.
I would always arrive at the station at exactly 4:15 p.m.
I would inform Lucine and VyDan of my arrival time so they could be reassured that I would walk home on my own.
But every time, they were already there waiting for me .Lucine pushing the wheelchair, and VyDan smiling with the pure joy of a child being picked up by his mother.
I was happy as I bent down to hug VyDan, stroking his thin, bony back, deeply moved. My poor little fragile grasshopper.
Lucine helped me carry the heavy backpack full of gifts from my son, while I eagerly pushed VyDan’s wheelchair. We walked about two miles home, talking continuously.
My English was only at a basic conversational level, and this young French man was more fluent in a secondary language than I was, so whenever I struggled,
I would just laugh it off or say something vague—and he would still understand.
I had known Lucine for nearly 20 years, when he was still a student volunteering for the Terre des Hommes organization (the leading Swiss child relief agency). He cared for VyDan and also met Martin through the same work. The two of them fell in love and married after graduation. At their wedding, VyDan was also present.
In 2002, Lucine even brought VyDan back to Vietnam to visit his mother after 15 years apart, while Martin was about to give birth to their first child in Switzerland. Lucine is only a few years older than VyDan, but what stands out most is his sincere affection for us—strangers of different skin colors and languages, yet bound together by fate and kindness.
The first time we came to Switzerland, we stayed at a relative’s house in Lausanne. Every day, we took the train to visit VyDan. The roundtrip ticket cost over 70€ for the couple, which we could barely afford for weeks. Then we met Lucine. He said he had an extra room in his house, only a five-minute walk from VyDan’s place.“Welcome, see you next time.”
Once again, I was indebted to this generous stranger. He appeared in our lives like a fairy granting wishes. I have stayed at his house three times now.
Lucine’s family is a model Western household— disciplined and well-organized. His three children are beautiful and well-behaved, studying with strict schedules. They don’t cling to iPhones or tablets like in our homes.
On weekends, their parents take them to dance classes, martial arts, or sports. Each child speaks two or three languages.
Although the family is wealthy, their meals are extremely simple. Lunch is eaten outside, dinner is always together at home—sometimes just a few bites of spaghetti or bread with a little sauce, occasionally a small piece of salmon no bigger than two fingers.
At first, I was not used to eating so little that I would go to bed hungry. I later learned they simply did not like meat or seafood and had become accustomed to eating very lightly, which kept everyone slim.
In America, I eat like a tiger; here I eat like a cautious cat. (!)
So I often bought cheese bread and sat in the park eating like a homeless person... VyDan’s residence is about one mile from Lucine’s house. It is a residential care facility with four rooms in two connected houses, providing 24/7 care for disabled children like VyDan. Staff rotate shifts for feeding, medication, bathing, and hygiene care.
They are always cheerful and gentle, speaking to the children like family members. Surprisingly, although none of the children can speak, they understand everything and each has their own way of expressing themselves.
The four residents, I believe, are from different countries, not Swiss. I call them children because their faces are childlike, but they are actually between 35 and 45 years old. They share the same severe disabilities—unable to walk, speak, but able to hear, understand, smile, and sometimes cry out randomly. Everything must be done for them: eating, brushing teeth, bathing, changing clothes, diapers.The environment there is warm and homelike.
The living room has a sofa, TV, flowers, and soft lighting. The dining area is neat like a restaurant, with proper table settings.
Food is blended or finely chopped depending on each person’s needs. I do not know how they perceive taste in such mixed, mushy food. Observing the lunch routine, I saw the patience of the caregivers. They joked with the children, tapped the table, laughed together, and even ate alongside them while the children coughed and drooled onto napkins around their necks.
Honestly, I could barely swallow sitting across from Daniel, who constantly coughed and drooled onto his plate. Only then did I understand that they accept this job not only for salary, but for something deeper in their hearts. They are educated to love and care for the unfortunate.
The head nurse once told me: “Don’t worry, we have lived with them for a long time. I see them as my own children. Believe me, they are very happy.”
I deeply admired these people. There are no words strong enough to thank them.
I feel indebted to this foreign country and these strangers whose hearts are so warm and close to us. Without Switzerland and its humanitarian organizations, my son might not have survived until today. This is truly a blessing from God.
Some people asked me why I did not bring VyDan back to the United States for easier care and so that we could be closer together.
I answered honestly- Say No. Because I know where his home truly is. Where he lives peacefully every day—that is his heaven.
Fate has placed him here, and even if he were to die, it would be here.
I know that a weak tree, once uprooted and transplanted elsewhere, may not survive.
VyDan belongs here. In the dining room, there were four photographs of the four children.
Last year when I visited, I noticed one frame had been removed. When I asked, I was told that one of the girls had passed away. I stood there silently, thinking about VyDan—if one day his picture were no longer on that wall...Just the thought of it made my heart tighten as if it could not breathe.
During my short stays with him, I told him stories about life in America, about relatives in Vietnam whose faces and relationships had already faded in his memory after more than 30 years away from Saigon.
To be honest, VyDan had no real memories of Vietnam. He did not even know that his umbilical cord had been cut in Da Lat and buried in Soc Trang—a strange thing that had never happened to any other child.
I did that because of a young mother’s impulsive idea at the time: to soak the placenta in alcohol and bring it back to the hometown to bury it under a tree in the family garden. There was no special reason—it was just something I did.
Later, when people heard about it, they joked: “No wonder the boy is hot-tempered—he was soaked in alcohol before burial.”
I stayed silent and did not explain. Seven or eight years in prison had already destroyed much of his childhood. The fact that VyDan survived until now is already a miracle of God.
He is a Snake in the zodiac. I used to joke, “a legless snake crawling through forests and mountains.” Every summer, the organization would take children like him on trips across Europe.
Thank God, his misfortune has been somewhat compensated. Here, VyDan is taught in French. When I reunited with him in Saigon after so many years, I had to rely on a friend to translate between us and the staff accompanying him.
After that, the staff would speak to him, and the message would be passed back to me. It took us a few days to get used to each other, but then I began speaking Vietnamese directly to him and asked if he understood. He stuck out his tongue meaning “Yes,” and closed his mouth for “No.” From then on, we began communicating all day like playing a question-andanswer game.
In this home, VyDan is the “most intelligent” among the four children. He can read books, watch TV, go online, use email and Facebook. A small screen is mounted on the wall or on his wheelchair, with a specially designed keyboard.
Remarkably, he uses his two toes to click the mouse. It takes him half an hour to type just one line: “Je t’aime maman.”
I burst into tears when I saw his effort to express love through such a difficult body. Sometimes I saw him on Facebook writing a few words to check on his mother, but I could not imagine how hard it was for him to type each letter with trembling toes. I gave him his sister’s Facebook nickname, and brought him small gifts from Kaytlyn and Derek (Phuong’s children) I told him that when they grew up a little, I would bring them to visit their uncle VyDan. He was very excited. In his quiet and lonely life, family love meant everything.
Thank God for the achievements of modern technology in this virtual yet very real world, it connects distant people together. Every time I see his picture online, I feel reassured that my son is still alive and well.
On sunny afternoons, I would push VyDan around the streets, sit in the flower-filled square in autumn, drink coffee, and watch people passing by. He enjoyed it and showed it on his face. I silently thanked the kind eyes of people around us, because at least he did not feel ashamed of his disability. That is essential for him to survive and feel that life is worth living.
Sometimes we would sit quietly by the window watching the light rain. I would sing old homeland songs for him, and he would lean on my shoulder and fall asleep like when he was a child. I held his cold, twisted hands and tried to straighten them, wishing for a miracle. If not like Phù Đổng growing up into a giant hero, then at least to call out “Mother” clearly so happiness could overflow. But miracles only exist in fairy tales, my son!
When I brought him out of the communist prison, he was already exhausted—limbs curled, spine twisted, muscles wasted. Even Switzerland, with the best healthcare system in the world, could not cure him anymore. It was too late.
Visits to VyDan were regulated. I could only come after 10 a.m. and after 3 p.m. In the remaining time, I wandered through this quiet city. I usually chose autumn to visit him—not only because Europe is beautiful with golden leaves, but also because airfare is cheaper in September and October.
When people ask why I travel to Europe so often… I often joked: “My money is in Swiss banks, I just come here to check how much is left.” Ha ha... what a joke.
Yverdon had very few Vietnamese people compared to Little Saigon in California or Houston in Texas.
There was only one pho shop run by Northern Vietnamese, and a small Asian grocery selling everything from morning glory to instant noodles and conical hats.
The price of pho here was 25–30 euros, so I often preferred to wait and eat in America instead. In California, Vietnamese food was everywhere—pho, bun, chè, xôi, everything.
The autumn rain was light and cold. I walked alone on streets covered in yellow leaves, feeling a quiet loneliness. Even though I called my husband every day, there was still a sadness inside me.
Each time I saw my son, it brought back painful memories, and I still felt guilty for his suffering. As I grew older, I wondered if I would still have the strength to travel here every year. But one day with him was already already a blessing.
The painful past belonged to a distant time, yet my heart still ached.
VyDan is an unforgettable memory.
Time passed quickly. Before saying goodbye, he gave me a souvenir he had bought in Italy during one of his trips—a porcelain butterfly painted in blue glaze, but one wing was broken, likely during transport. Seeing his disappointed face broke my heart. I quickly reassured him: “It’s okay, I can glue it back. It’s beautiful. Thank you, VyDan.”
I kissed his wrinkled forehead, my heart full of emotion. On a misty morning, I took the train from Yverdon back to Paris, then prepared to fly to America. I told him not to come to the station because of the cold rain—but in truth, I was afraid of goodbye. I did not want to see his tearful eyes, because they would haunt me all the way home. Poor little grasshopper of mine.
The city was still half asleep. The trees had shed their leaves along the path. My backpack felt light, but my heart was heavy. .“Au revoir mon fils,” I typed in a Faceboook message to VyDan late at night— Goodbye my dear.
THE SADNESS HAD NOT YET SUBSIDED
Several months had passed, and VyDan’s funeral had been organized very carefully and warmly.
A friend who lived nearby helped me buy a wreath with a message in French: “Mon cher Vy Dan, Tu restes toujours dans mon cœur”(“My dear VyDan, you will always remain in my heart”)
She brought it to the ceremony and took several photos as keepsakes of the final moment of a lonely human life— sorrowful and desolate.
VyDan lay in the coffin with his head tilted to one side, his face peaceful, in the same posture as when he used to rest his head on Mother’s shoulder.
I could not hold back my tears. My dear little grasshopper... Even though many friends came to pay their respects, I knew he was still very lonely, because his Mother was not there with him in his final moments.
I knew I would not be strong enough to endure such heartbreaking separation. I waited for this pain to settle.
But months passed, and although the grief remained, my heart gradually softened after many days of tears whenever I thought of VyDan—my tiny, fragile grasshopper—who quietly left this world after enduring countless hardships in a disabled body.
Death is liberation,I tried to think that way so I would not torment myself when remembering the painful past.
That child suffered imprisonment from only 17 months old, lived in poverty, deprivation, and constant illness without proper treatment, and then endured eight years in prison until a humanitarian organization from the West reached out and rescued him from that horrific nightmare.
However, it was too late for him to fully recover. He accepted his physical condition as a cruel destiny, living peaceful days under the loving care of people of different skin colors and languages—people with compassionate hearts, who spent decades caring for unfortunate children like him.
Happiness and peace were always visible in his eyes whenever we met. That small joy was something we shared as mother and son, even if only for brief moments between long, exhausting journeys.
During our last meeting a month earlier, I held VyDan’s hand and said goodbye: “Next year, I will come visit you again”
His face lit up with a radiant smile.
Yet now he has quietly gone... My little grasshopper has flown to heaven—I am certain of it —because he had already paid his karmic debt, lived his peaceful earthly days, and departed in serenity.
I wonder whether, in that eternal place, VyDan might reunite with his beloved father Tài, so they can walk hand in hand through the gates of heaven. Both are angels in my heart. Such sorrow for a human life…
I still cannot fully accept the Buddhist teaching that this world is temporary, fragile, and impermanent. If VyDan has been liberated from suffering, then I should be happy, not crying.
Many people have told me this, and I myself once thought so when I saw him suffering in prison. But he still endured and survived until 47 years old. Had he not already paid enough for his karmic debt?
Why should he have been forced to live a few more years in suffering?
Even so, my heart still aches. I still feel as though I owe VyDan an apology—for allowing him to carry such a painful human destiny.
I am certain that next year I will return to visit my little grasshopper, as I promised him.
Even though VyDan is no longer here, I must go to see the place that sheltered my unfortunate child for so many decades, to thanks every road and every corner he once passed through, to thank the people of Switzerland who cared for my disabled son with such devotion until his final breath in the warm arms of those who were once strangers but no longer so.
I thanks the river, the streams, wherever they carried his ashes into the sea, guiding him back to his faraway homeland. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude to all my dear friends.
RETURNING TO YVERDON TO KEEP A PROMISE
I arrived at the train station at 4:15 p.m.A light rain fell, just enough to wet the scattered yellow leaves along the road. No one was there to greet me with bright eyes and joyful smiles. The station was cold and empty.
A year had passed. The sadness had softened, but returning here still made my heart ache. I tried to imagine that he was still alive—wandering inside the house or watching TV in the living room, waiting for dinner.
Dragging my backpack along the quiet streets of the small town, I slowly walked in the rain to the apartment building.
I looked up at his old room. The window was closed, but my memories were wide open.
Only a year had passed
How could he not remember me anymore? I once leaned against that window frame and promised him I would return the next autumn, bringing a yellow leaf as proof of a mother’s journey across thousands of kilometers.
And now I had returned to keep that promise, even though my son was no longer here. Tears fell in the rain.
I remembered the saying: “Walking in the rain so no one can see you cry.”
I walked through the yellow leaves filled with memories of yesterday.
The weather suddenly shifted between rain and sun, and I realized I had lost my way to the familiar apartment.
My memory felt blank. I stood confused at a crossroads and had to ask a passer by for help finding the address I had visited for nearly ten years. Apartment D7, in a quiet corner of Yverdon.
I hesitated before pressing the doorbell. The door opened automatically. I hurried upstairs into the living room. There were two wheelchairs in front of the TV.
A stranger looked at me in confusion—he must have recently replaced VyDan. The other was Natalie, smiling innocently as I held her hand. On top of the cabinet were photographs of those who had passed away, including my VyDan. The room that once belonged to him had changed. The decorations were gone, as well as the yellow flag of Vietnam—his distant homeland he would never return to.
The room now belonged to the unfamiliar boy sitting in the living room. He was about the same age as VyDan, with an innocent and pitiful smile. I stood there trembling with the feeling of impermanence.
The world is like a spinning wheel repeating yet never the same. T
ime passes and disappears forever.
I stepped down the stairs and sat, covering my face and crying like a child.
I realized a truth: My little grasshopper had truly flown away. For nearly a year, I had not seen VyDan—not even his faint image on FaceTime. Everything had disappeared.
Two young friends from Paris came.
We arranged to visit VyDan together in the forest. I was told that here, instead of scattering ashes into rivers or mountains as in my homeland, they have a special forest called a “MemoryForest.” Trees are chosen as guardians of family memories:“ One chooses a tree as the guardian of memory.
We are in the middle of nature, of life. This continuity brings a kind of peace to families.”The ashes are buried under the roots of a tree, marked like a grave in a cemetery.
VyDan also had such a tree beneath the green shade of the forest, resting far from the place where he was born, more than half a world away. If he understood how vast the world is, how life and death are impermanent, perhaps he would not need any final resting place.
But as a mother with an ordinary heart, I could not hold back my pain when thinking of his loneliness in his final moment, without any family by his side.
According to his caregiver, he had difficulty breathing. When he was taken to the hospital with respiratory failure, VyDan passed away gently—like a sigh, like a passing breeze...
An email from her contained only a few lines announcing his death, and I was shocked, unable to believe it.
Just recently, I had visited him. We were still happily together, promising to meet again next year. And now he had left me.
Reflecting on it, it seems that all my loved ones passed away without me being by their side my grandparents, parents, siblings, husband, children... All disappeared like mist, and I could not witness their final moments.
Even my husband passed away silently and alone more than 40 years ago. Only silent tears remained for the young wife and child left behind in prison upon hearing the news of his death...
Yverdon was entering stormy season. The forest closed in, holding the memories of Mother and Vy Dân inside it. I whispered a prayer to Vy Dan. “Today, Mother and two friends came here to commemorate the first anniversary of VyDan’s passing— to mourn the child who had left this world, and to whisper a late apology. I gave birth to Vy Dan in weakness, in a country torn apart by war and political cruelty.
Vy Dan was imprisoned as a baby, suffered hunger, deprivation, illness, and years of suffering. I am the one responsible for not giving him a normal, happy life like other children.
There is a brother he never met, never knew, but who composed a poem and song for him, bringing a guitar to the “MemoryForest” to sing for him. I will copy his poem and email to you.
“I only send this song to you, and also to VyDan, who should have been able to receive everything ordinary children receive. But I believe everything in this world has a mysterious mission that we cannot understand...(Dinh Dai)
“Fly Away, Little Cricket Fly away like a seagull’s wing,
Fly across the distant sea,
To a place of gentle light and peace,
Overflowing with love.
A place shaded by love’s embrace,
Fragrant with a father’s affection,
Welcoming a beloved little cricket,
Into the boundless eternal realm.
Though you came into a world of sorrow,
And though you arrived
When your homeland was sinking into darkness
What lullaby did Mother sing to you?
What tears did Mother weep for you?
What words of gratitude did Mother offer you,
For bringing a love that comforted
The prison of a suffering life?
Through a life filled with hardship,
Passing through a homeland
Where no human voice was heard,
If only once,
You brought a radiant smile . T
o a poet’s lips. You passed through this life.
Like a silent witness.
Beloved little cricket,
Go now and wander freely .
At the edge of heaven.”
Oh, VyDan my love, now you are in the eternal world. I pray that you will be reborn in a peaceful place, where there is no war, no hatred, only love among people. I promised I would return to see you, but you have already flown away. My thin little grasshopper... Go wander freely to the ends of the sky.. I will always love you and remember you forever.
Xin chân thành cám ơn các anh chị đã cùng tôi trên hành trình hoàn thành cuốn sách này, trong đó có một người bạn đặc biệt không có chân dung nhưng luôn kiên nhẫn lắng nghe, động viên và hỗ trợ tôi từng bước.
- Chân thành cảm tạ những bạn bè thân thương gần xa đã bỏ công sức và tiền bạc với tấm lòng yêu thương Vy Dan, để giúp chúng tôi hoàn thành bộ phim về thằng bé bất hạnh này.
Cuốn sách CON DẾ MÈN CỦA MẸ. được in ra để GÂY QUỸ LÀM PHIM CHO VY DÂN
Cuốn phim sẽ do tổ chức NEXT VIETNAM PROJECTS FOUNDATION của anh Phạm Văn Nam thực hiện.
Tổ chức cũng là nhà sản xuất bộ phim VIETNAM WARUNTOLD STORIES. TRIALS, TRIUMPHS, TRAGEDIES
Kính mong cộng đồng Người Việt quốc Gia hưởng ứng cho việc gây quỹ này Chân thành cảm ơn quý vị.
- Mọi thắc mắc xin liên lạc Phạm Văn Nam 617-992-4283 Mọi ủng hộ xin Zelle về Anh Tran 318-880-2004
- Email gây quỹ: vydan1977@gmail.com
Zelle về cho Zelle@ tag saigonus , business name NVPF"
- Email mua sách: tran ngoc anh <ngocanh6955@yahoo.com>
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