Across the Mekong River by Elaine Russell Read Free Book Online

two men. Lao villages and flooded rice patties dotted the valley. Beyond were the houses and Buddhist temple of Xieng Khouang town. We built our Hmong villages on the steep hillsides. Working our fields and tending our animals. Only our land mattered.
    Right after Pao and I married, war onc e again spilled into our lives. The fighting began to the east on the Vietnam border and slowly stretched one town into another. The young soldier Vang Pao traveled through the villages, calling on the Hmong to stop the communists before they took away our freedom. Pao was reluctant to join, hoping for a peaceful end. But after the Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese troops occupied the Plain of Jars, Pao and the other men in our family said enough. They joined the Special Forces. After the rice harvest in the twelfth month, my husband left to train in Thailand. I was only seventeen.
    At first life went on as before. I shared a house with my mother-in-law and Pao’s youngest sister Sri, not yet married. So it did not feel as empty. With our cousins, aunts, and old Uncle Mang, we hiked to the fields to plant and weed and harvest the crops. Evenings we chatted and laughed as we cooked dinner and sewed by the fire. I took comfort in the routines, the satisfaction of turning the soil and nurturing tiny sprouts into strong healthy plants. Long hours of labor left my muscles sore with a satisfying tiredness. The rhythm of the seasons tempered my loneliness and worries about Pao.
    Every second Friday, Sri and I hiked two and a half hours to Xieng Khouang. We traded our vegetables and embroidered cloth at the market for salt, silk thread, or metal tools. I kept a wary eye on the Pathet Lao and Vietnamese soldiers. They acted friendly, but I was not fooled by their false smiles and easy words. They puffed out promises of freeing our people from the corrupt Lao government. I had to smile and pretend to agree. Inside I hated them, knowing one of their bullets might take my husband’s life.
    There were happy days when Pao r eturned home for short visits. He could not tell me what he did, but I knew he was fighting in the jungle. Not so far away. One season passed into the next for two more New Years. At last we were blessed with our first child, Fong.
    By the end of the next year I seldom went to town . It was too dangerous. Bloated, green American planes roared overhead, scattering bombs along the Plain of Jars. The explosions echoed through the valley and up the hills like thunder. Huge clouds filled the sky with smoke and the smell of burning metal. I worried for the Lao villagers in the valley caught in the path of the bombs.
    Communist troops expanded into the mountains like wild mustard plants spreading through a field steali ng nourishment from the crops. We heard stories that the soldiers were searching for families of the Special Forces.
    One morning in October, Pathet Lao sold iers marched into our village as I was feeding the pigs and chickens. Two were Lao. One was Hmong. From Sam Nuea he said. He was short and wide with large ears that stuck out and a broad flat nose. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me with a mixture of hatred and hunger. I wondered what had brought us to this, Hmong fighting Hmong. Surely he must have seen my fear as I picked up Fong and held him close. The man ran his finger back and forth over the trigger of his rifle as he spoke. What hot weather now. How old is your baby? How are your fields? Where is your husband today? My legs quivered. But my tiny mother-in-law came to my side, standing very straight, giving me strength. For the first time in my life I lied: He went to another village to buy a cow . He should be back tomorrow. The other women gave excuses for their husbands and sons. The Lao soldiers walked into our houses and poked among our things. I could hardly breathe. At last they turned to leave. The Hmong soldier stared at me, barely smiling. We are winning the struggle, sister. Only those who join the