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Light seeped through the verdant branches and ancient aerial roots that swayed to the summer breeze along the Mekong river, casting a satin-like mist that danced upon its gentle waters. Along the banks sprung tall reeds, arching over the mirror-like river surface to admire their own reflection, like Narcissus by the lake. And they would do so too, had they not been distracted by the array of pinks and violets that flourished aloft their viridescent, leafy seats. With the litheness and grace of the daintiest of faes, these blossoms take root in muddy riverbeds, and unfurl their pristine petals to reveal a heart of the purest gold. Every year upon spring’s arrival, the lotus burgeons. Slowly, silently, secluded from all its fellow blooms, yet inferior to none.
It was always during this season that Vietnam would take her only days off of the year, invite a few carefully selected Nations on friendly terms, and skip the hustle and bustle of her capital to this tranquil, isolated part of the riverbank. There, they would leisurely lie among the verdure, basking in the aesthetic scenery, enjoying one another’s company, and reminiscing. Any topic could be worth a day’s talk, be it recent international events, fragments of the past, or complaints of their bosses’ ridiculousness. No matter what came up, however, the Nations would always turn to admire the simple, mild beauty of the lotuses that glimmered beneath the setting sun, adorned by the ever-flowing river, when twilight shines its first star on the horizon.
Today was no exception.
It was a pity most of her invites this year went unanswered, with each Nation mired in their own work and preoccupations over economies and recoveries and such. The first half of the year had certainly been a rough ride, and few found their houses well enough to give themselves a break. Vietnam understood, of course, going through the same struggles at the moment. She hadn’t exactly wanted this mini vacation either, but her boss had insisted that she took at least one day off, finding his Nation’s physical condition integral for the acceleration of the country’s recovery. Nevertheless, she was a little disappointed that Cambodia and Laos had been unable to join her on the trip, even though they were just a border away. Thailand was the only one who replied affirmatively, but even so he couldn’t arrive until late afternoon. They had then agreed to meet up at the riverbank, where the lotuses grew. They might not be able to hang out as much as they would’ve liked to, but the tradition of lotus-gazing would then still go on.
So it’s just her now, pensively wandering by the water’s edge.
The lotus, with its blushing crown and upright stem, had always held a special place in Vietnam’s heart. She did not remember how or why it had been so, only that the flower, in one way or another, seemed to have bonded with her in an unwary state, perhaps even before she herself had materialised. Her earliest memories, before encountering any of her kind or her people, had been spent along these shores where the wild grass towered, where branches old and young entangled and gave her shelter. For days, months, maybe even years and decades, she had followed the trail of the bubbling river, with its dwellers pink and violet and white, into unexplored meadows of abundant greens. Then, all was still along the idyllic Mekong shores. It was a time when nothing had a name, nothing imposed upon them, nowhere tread. Just her, and the burgeoning lotuses lodged upon their leaves on the running water. Just innocence, and serenity.
Perhaps it was then that they found their connection, Vietnam thought as she mindlessly ambled downstream. It was not the first time she had mused about being, in fact, born amidst the lotus. Buried deep within her mind was the faint scene of herself waking, silently, to a mild fragrance, only to discover herself being carried by the bed of modest rouge buds down the river. Or perhaps it was merely a dream.
“It’s a pity you do not live up to the name you chose for yourself.”
She couldn’t remember which one of the numerous battles it had been that day, but his words, ever so condescending, would be scorched into her mind for centuries to come. She was not quite Vietnam yet, but with patience and toil her people have made a name for themselves, attracting the ravenous eyes of her neighbour Nations that sought to take her thriving fields as their own. Most of the encounter had become blurred with the passage of time, especially the whens and wheres and a couple of whats. What she was sure of, however, was that she had been accompanying her women and men, led by the Sisters Trung [1], in defense of her land, her being. Ever since his unification some hundred years ago, China had been extending his influence over her people with coaxes, invasions, suppression, until it had been enough.
“I do not play with words. Say what you mean to say, or say nothing at all,” Both adolescent Nations had been weary from the day’s slaughter by then, yet they remained vigilantly hostile towards each other. Blood-soaked and ireful, Vietnam had been holding her spear against the arrogant boy, as she spat with utmost clarity.
He smiled. A cunning grin disguised by a mien of courtesy and gentility. A pretentious smile that raised each hair on Vietnam’s arm in disgust towards its feigned superiority and refinement. Chilling, and abhorrent.
“Well, you have named yourself Lien, after a lotus. A flower that should emerge from the swamps but remain pure, virtuous, pristine. A beauty to be observed from afar, but never to be roughly treated,” she growled, as his eyes trailed up and down her form. “Yet, look at you! Look at the barbaric peoples you are fighting against me for! Your hair should grow long and be properly adorned with the finest headdresses, and with the finest robes and dresses you shall be respected as the lotus you aspire to be. But in your soldier’s uniform and all this dirt and grime about you? With your rough calloused hands bringing every man that crosses your path to their death? Oh, you and your beastly women, thinking yourself budding flowers... I can only laugh!”
She remembered her breath heaving as her blood began to boil, her desire for vengeance against the invader and his people nearing its brim. Who was he to say such things, when he himself had forced her into this state? More so, who was he to dictate how she and her people should act? Who was he to pass judgement, when he was no saint himself?
Yet, she had to stay composed, lest her fury carry her away. This was war, and she could not relent. She could not fall prey to his provocations, his assumptions.
“I can say the same to you, Yao. You do shine like celestial bodies, being so full of greed that you stench of gold and grease. Oh, doesn’t the name mean ‘glory’ as well? Glorious of you to slaughter my men and force their wives and daughters into taking up arms! And to think your people were a chivalrous one!”
It was China’s turn to be irked, and to raise his weapon. However, as he was about to do so, his men called his name, ready to settle for the night. He spat a couple discourteous phrases at Vietnam, or so she recalled, before turning to leave in a rage. As his figure diminished into the distance, she lay down her spear, and looked around.
As it appeared, the Nations in their struggle had unwarily approached a stream. Noticing the body of water, Vietnam decided it would be wise to rid her own body of the blood and soil, and did so. Unwavering hazel eyes and a gentle, tanned complexion emerged from the crystalline stream, surrounded by moonbeams that waltzed on its serene surface.
A lotus flower, she thought at the sight: petals pristine in spite of dirt and grime, her stem staunch amid tempest and war, wherever the tides of history might carry her.
It was her third day in Paris. That she was certain of. He had personally invited her there for the Exposition Universelle [2] that was to commence in a week or so, a grand carnival of sorts to celebrate civilisation and progress, and just in time too for the century’s commemoration of liberty, equality and fraternity. She had accepted, but could not bring herself to share in the atmosphere of festivity. Beneath the civil façades of this continent was nothing but the choking smoke of smelted iron, and pungent irony.
“It is splendid indeed. The modernity in its design surely deserves more appreciation,” she had told her host during their dinner the night before, when he asked her about the looming tower of steel to be used as the exhibition’s entrance. France had hummed in agreement, before lamenting that some of his people did not think so, and noting that it was a pity few people possessed the wisdom and clarity of judgement she embodied.
Vietnam hid her smirk behind a napkin, fascinated by the other Nation’s gullibility. She couldn't agree more with his countrymen after all. That tower was grand, but obscenely hideous.
Unlike most of her fellow Nations, she had not met him in war. To think it was merely decades ago that he had been her guest in her newly unified court, when they expounded their knowledge and history to each other on almost equal footing. To think she had thought of him highly enough to share with him that secluded spot of tranquility by the Mekong banks, where the lotus bloomed, before his men breached a line that toppled everything. To think she had almost fell for his charms, until she fell to his cannon.
It was on the morning of her third day’s visit to his capital when it happened, as they strolled through the Parisian streets, and then along the Seine. To say they had gathered a few curious glances would be an understatement. It was uncommon to encounter foreign faces in those days, even more so one in equally “exotic” dress, alongside a most typical Frenchman nonetheless. Vietnam had never bothered to trade her áo dài for anything else, regardless where she travelled. After all, it was the clothing she was most comfortable in, and she had always dressed for no one but herself. It was evident that France did not mind either, at least not as much as his other European counterparts would have, but as the morning stroll went on it became increasingly clear that the strange attention was getting to him.
“I was thinking—”
“Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”
France paused in his tracks, a soft chuckle escaped escaping his lips. His thoughtful gaze then turned towards the flowing water, as Vietnam cocked her head in the same direction. The Seine had its own beauty, she must admit, with its pellucid waters and aesthetic surroundings. Yet, as much as she enjoyed its view, artificiality could not compare to nature’s gifts. She wondered if there had been a time when this riverbank had also been covered with wild flora, where its Nation had roamed and lay within as one with its fertile earth; if there would come a day that modernisation would strip her of her sanctuary and pluck the lotuses out of its bed, when she could only admire her soil as a spectator, but no longer part of it.
“Would you like to try on a dress? Not those over-the-top tea gowns and polonaises, of course. They’re probably not your style, and they’d be too restrictive. Perhaps those for riding? They can be quite comfortable too, and very practical,” he suggested, after a long period of silence and staring into the river.
Vietnam shook her head, reminding him of her dressing philosophy, and that she was completely fine just the way she was.
“The thing is,” she added nonchalantly, “one doesn’t travel, or go to fairs, for what they are already used to. The beauty of a garden is in its diversity, where no bloom trumps another. There’s roses for him, rue for her, lilies for you, lotuses for me... What appeal does that leave in assimilation? When all that’s left in the world are red roses, no matter how fragrant their scent is or how pleasing they look, they’d be worth as much as a stalk of grass.
“I don’t know about you, Pháp [3], but I prefer rivers like this, to vast oceans. I cannot sense an ocean, but when I’m by a river of mine, I know it is mine. No matter how borders shift, I would know my rivers, and the knowledge is enough.”
France’s suggestion was never brought up again throughout her stay, and from the Exposition’s opening to her leave Vietnam had not once traded her áo dài for anything. The only change was in her hair, which she had previously worn plain. In fact, a few days following their conversation, a hairpin found its way behind her right ear.
A miniscule lotus, no larger than a digit, carved out of a metallic plate, coloured by a thin layer of rouge-like paint. Its eight petals unfurled to reveal aureate gems encrusted in the middle, simple with grace. It had arrived in a velvet box, with a lengthy letter (that left its recipient unsure whether to laugh or rage) signed by a man of good faith, in good faith.
And to think she had almost loved him.
“It’s high time you left, young man. This is not your war.”
She had had the adolescent Nation at gunpoint, having captured him unawares in the midst of her lush terrain providing ample cover for guerrilla warfare. Part of her wanted to pity him and the even younger troops he was commanding, fighting a war they were not meant to fight. She knew he could never win, even as his men keep coming to perish, for he was fighting for an ideal, whereas she was fighting for her life.
At first she refrained from endorsing either side of the battlefield, herself torn by the opposing human factions. Both blocs had attempted to sway her through their respective Nations, but neither quite succeeded. Vietnam loathed to fight against her own people and against her better judgement, especially since witnessing how America and Russia’s proxy wars have broken blood siblings apart, and even torn individual Nations. On the other hand, the prolonged war was taken a toll on her, and she feared she might lose her sanity should it go on any further. Her people were divided and desperate, and their cries reverberated in her head day and night, their conflicting beliefs tearing her acumen asunder. You would trust time to mellow things out, but time had only fueled the men’s aggression, as they stormed and bombed and get blown by the mines entombed beneath the ground, each to their own tombs. In time people began to flee, yet many of the displaced found their own deaths on their quest for survival. Vietnam had tried to broker deals with other Nations to provide her people with a place to set foot on, but despite the other countries’ official statements of solidarity only few opened borders for her, and reluctantly so. As time went on the voices in Vietnam’s head only grew, the burden of war weighing her down to the brink of collapse. At last she had decided to enter the battle herself, in spite of everything. She had not experienced epiphanies that revealed which ideology should reign, as some Nations would later say. No. She just wanted ceasefire, for all the destruction and suffering to end, both on her side of the battle, and his.
The young Nation towered over her, on his face a hardened expression unbefitting of his physical age. America’s lips was like a line pulled taut, but behind his glasses Vietnam could almost hear the pangs of emotion surging in him. Determination, suspicion, resentment, perplexion…
… Doubt.
“What is their appeal?” He was strangely quiet, almost whispering, though his eyes shone bright with ire. “Can’t you see they’re just using you to spread their tyranny? Can’t you see what atrocious things are gonna happen afterwards when they use you as a stepping stone to, I dunno, terrorise everyone? It’s like, don’t you want peace? And freedom?”
Vietnam’s brows furrowed in disbelief, her aim unmoved.
“Achieving peace through bloodshed. Overthrowing a dictator with a dictator. Condemning proxy war while instigating proxy war. What exactly are you fighting for?”
She remembered a deafening period of silence befalling them then. The human screams and heavy bombardment went on in the background, but surrounding the Nations was nothing but a void devoid of external sounds. Now that she had time to recollect and consider, it was quite evident neither of them knew or understood what they had been thinking and saying at that moment. One seldom has the clarity of mind to rationally process history as it happened.
And if her memory had not failed her, it was also then that a little something caught Vietnam’s eye, in the middle of a confrontation, in the middle of a battlefield.
Before her and behind him, not too far away, was a river flowing red. She knew this river, as she had known every other part of her land, and it should not have been a strange sight as soil and minerals have often given its waters a reddish hue. Yet, something was amiss. Rivers should be flowing in her vein, but at the sight Vietnam felt as though the blood in her own veins was flowing in there, with every lost man, and woman, and child. It was unnatural. Still, the stained water would flow downstream towards a larger branch into the delta, and then into the vast oceans. When that happens, what does a bloodied stream matter? It’s just another one of many lost to the water, and lost to time.
Somewhere down the line they have decided war was noble, but now more than ever it seemed to be a disgrace.
Her gaze had inadvertently shifted downwards while deep in those thoughts, and at once she paled upon coming to, and broke the silence again.
“Mỹ! [4] Your foot!”
America stepped back in alert, bracing himself for a sudden attack. Yet, nothing happened, prompting him to look at Vietnam in bewilderment, and question what she was up to.
She had not replied. Instead, she set her rifle down and knelt on the muddy ground, her glare softening. Where America was standing lay a broken crown of pink and white petals, its golden core squashed into a pulp. Vietnam recognised the once-budding flower, and with utmost gentleness and disregard to the ongoing warfare picked up its remains, to the scrutiny of the younger Nation.
“You really ought to go,” she recalled telling him. “Why should we continue? There’s no reason to stay.”
She had not waited for him to leave prior to making her way towards the reddened river. She had sat, dipped her handful of crushed petals into its waters, and sent them out to sea. There she would sit, as machines roared and her people mourned, into the night, until the first signs of morning.
“Sorry, Viet,” a mellow voice rung from the distance. “Sorry for coming so late. Work was a tad more complicated than expected.”
Vietnam turned around to greet the approaching Thai Nation, motioning for him to take a place beside her among the sward. It hadn’t been long since their last ASEAN meeting in Indonesia’s place, but it still felt like it had been ages since they last really spent time together. It was one thing meeting as Nations, another thing meeting as themselves.
“It’s alright, really. Thank you for coming,” she murmured, as he knelt on the grass and began unloading the contents of his backpack, including several khao tom[5] which he stuffed into her hands. “Oh, thank you… You shouldn’t have.”
“Figured you’d be staring at the river so intently you’d have forgotten to eat proper,” Thailand laughed, one hand combing his gravity-defying hair, dark eyes twinkling behind his half-rimmed glasses. Vietnam sheepishly nodded, hiding her blush with a bite into the homemade snack, all the while making a mental note to return the favour some other day.
It was almost twilight, and the last rays of sun were pouring through the ancient branches and twigs onto the Mekong river, dancing upon its flowing waters in golden marble-like spectres. In the river the lotuses flourished upon their tall verdant stems, their pink, white and violet petals unfurling to reveal scented cores with an aureate gleam about them. Before long a heather cloud rolled into the sky above, blending the reds and yellows of sunset into a breathtaking watercolour scene. The summer breeze continued to blow with a gentleness that swayed the reeds along the shore, so that they almost waltzed to its euphonious nocturne. Soon it will be night, but the lithely lotus will remain in bloom beneath the moon’s placid beams, and the Nations will stay in watch over the river, in company of each other.
“We, and our people really, always associate us with flowers. You and the ratchaphruek [6], the lotus and I… No matter what species of flower we end up being, it’s a pretty fitting analogy, isn’t it?”
“How so?”
“There’s something eternal, almost immortal, about us. Yet, at the same time, we’re fragile. For millennia humans have to toil and cultivate their land and civilisation for us to exist, grow and thrive, like how months of work have to be done before a glimpse of a bud appears. Even then, not all buds get to bloom, and even those that bloom wither–”
“I’m going to stop you right there. The world is recovering, Viet. We got to be more optimistic.”
“Relax, I’m not speculating about death. Not immediately, anyway. I wanted to say, a flower is frail in that it tears and withers easily, but it is as easily that it can take root again, and the new blossom always grows fuller and taller. I’ve seen generation after generation of lotuses germinate and bloom in this section of the river, and I must say that this, right before us, is the most splendid batch yet.”
And there they would sit, conversing in the midst of the picturesque scenery, into the tranquil night, until the break of dawn.