Letter to my father Ngô Hào after the visit (*)

Tuy Hòa, 10 August 2014

My dear Dad,

Finally, after a long month of waiting, came the day we were allowed to visit you. You know, Mum is always waiting for the next coming visit; she counts each day, and she feels so much stress, fear, and hope. She wishes that with each visit, she can see your health improving from the previous visit, or at least, remain the same. Unfortunately, after each visit, she worries more, because your health is getting worse.

As usual, we prepared some food and things a few days before the visit. Mum made a meat stew, bitter melon stuffed with meat, and other things. They were simple foods, which held Mum’s love for you.

You know, Dad - Mum always carefully chooses what to cook, as she knows, only for a single day each month, the visiting day, you can have a good meal. We were so nervous that we hardly slept the night before.

The following day, I carried Mum on our old loyal Honda, to go to the prison camp to see you.

Dad, in lunar calendar, today is the 15th day of the Seventh month, the Buddhist Vu Lan Ceremony Day for everyone to show respect and love to their parents. You, as a good son of the country, are still in prison suffering torture, because you have refused to live cowardly, because you have showed that you care for and love your country. I wonder when we, my brother and I, will next be able to serve you a cup of tea after a meal in our poor, cosy cottage? That dream is such a simple one, but such a hard one to realize. Imaging this, I cannot hold back my tears.

It’s the summer monsoon, and the wind blew so hard it threatened to throw the motorbike off-balance, wanting to fling Mum and I onto the road.

Mum and I rode for two hours to the camp. It was nearly 2pm when we arrived. Mum was nervous and could not sit still, looking around for you. But they ordered her to sit in the visiting room, and not to stand near the window to look through.

At around 3:30pm, the police escorted you out.

Dad, you are weaker then you were at the previous visit. This time, your oedema is getting more serious.

You told us that in prison you could only eat rice with water spinach. I know you are not picky about food. At home, you were so easy, eating whatever there was, good food or not. But in prison, even when you've tried, you could not swallow the food; I can imagine how bad they are. As you have nothing to eat with rice, you have to use salt. And another mere problem: there is not enough clean drinking water, which has gravely affected your oedema. Eating prison meals which consist of only water spinach and salt, there is no wonder you are getting so sick, so weak. Do they really try to prevent you from returning home to your family and friends? Thinking about it, my heart is tightened with sorrow and fear. Do they really take revenge at any cost, punishing those with different opinions, people who are brave and fearless like you and your friends?

Dad, I don’t understand why they are making me write a report for each visit. Why is such a report so important to them? Is it not enough for them to have a few police, sitting nearby, watching, and jotting down all our conversation? I feel like our family was really criminal in their eyes. They don’t give us even a minute to be alone. We cannot say a word to encourage each other; we cannot show our love to each other. That’s too sad!

Dad, from the last time Mum saw you, she cried all the time. Her illness is so terrible at the moment. My brother and I only wished we could share your misery and your illnesses. Every time we visit you, we feel more worried. I love you so much. I am afraid that you have no energy to fight against your illness, or you have no strength to fight the dangerous designs of the prison.

But, Dad, human beings have to keep their faith; they do not lose their hope as long as they are alive. I believe you will win, because you are righteous.

I hope you will be able to read this letter in your cell.

I love you, Dad

Your son

Ngô Minh Tâm

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