by Kim Thuy, July 10, 2013
I read this
book slowly, partly because I was reading a French novel for the first time in many years, but also because it is so beautifully written. So I took my time,
savouring the eloquent but very accessible French narrative that wove a story
of a young Vietnamese refugee.
Through a
series of poetic vignettes that flow back and forth in time we get to know An as
a young refugee in Québec and a younger girl in Viet Nam before fleeing to
Canada with her family, as well as a present-day mother with two sons. Each snapshot
is triggered by something in the previous entry, so they are connected, but not
at all linear. I found the structure of the book interesting as it mimics how
our minds flit from one thing to another, but I have seldom read a book in that
format.
The style
of the book gives the story an air of gentleness, despite some of the harsh
episodes Thuy relates. The memoir format has a very personal feeling to it, as though we are
reading someone’s diary. I was hooked immediately, although I did enjoy the
earlier part of the book with An as a young girl, more than the later part when she is an
adult.
Although it
would be understandable if An’s world view were bleak, I found her voice to be
very positive. Rather than dwell on the horrendous hardships that she endured
and witnessed, she focuses instead on the supportive community that surrounds
her in Québec, and her strong family ties. Her relationships with her mother,
cousin, sons, and uncle, are all very different, but her extensive writing
about them makes it clear how important each one is to her.
Humour also
adds to the positive feeling. One hilarious example is when a young inspector is cataloguing their possessions after the communists come
to Saigon. When he comes to a chest of drawers filled to the brim with
brassieres he seems reluctant to write down the contents. An wonders if he is embarrassed
by the idea of all those young girls and their round breasts. But no—later she
overhears a conversation among the inspectors that explains the problem—he had
simply never seen a brassiere before! To him they looked like the coffee
filters that his mother used. But he can’t understand why they would need so
many, and why they were in pairs?!
She depicts
the soldiers with humanity, outlining their poor background, and describing how
they learn to love music (in secret of course, since this was strictly
forbidden). Later they are forced to burn all cultural symbols, and the burning
of books, music, films, etc. fills the sky with smoke.
Thuy ends
the book with a lovely acknowledgement to those who have gone before her and
how they illustrated the possibility of renewal. She has followed in their
footsteps as in a dream "où le rouge profond d'une feuille d'érable à l'automne n'est plus une couleure mais une grâce ; où un pays n'est plus un lieu, mais une berceuse." (where the deep red of a fall maple leaf is no longer a
colour but a blessing; where a country is no longer a place but a lullaby. — I
can’t do justice to the French but you get the idea!) A book filled with
hope that I highly recommend.