An appreciation for the odds of living
As I learn more about the history of Vietnam and my parents, I've become more aware that the odds of me being here, alive at this moment, are so tiny.
What were the odds of my grandparents surviving the famine in northern Vietnam, the French Indochina War, and the journey to Saigon when the French War ended? Once in Saigon, they weren't safe yet and would not be for many years.
My grandparents lived in north Vietnam before migrating to the south. They were refugees and endured the atrocities of war from all political sides. I've read of civilians starving, villages burning, and people being taken prisoner, tortured, and killed. The Viet Minh terrorized civilians if they weren't part of the revolution and the French did the same for their own reasons. My grandparents had to survive all that.
Once in Saigon, they might have had a few years of calm before war and civil unrest started again. Bombs in the city, violent protests, double taxation, starvation, fear, and civil wars led to a bigger war. Living in an environment that constantly tested your street smarts and survival skills. All this daily. And yet they persevered.
My dad grew up in the same environment. After Saigon fell, he lived in hiding for years throughout Vietnam, taking refuge with friends and in the jungles, never staying in one place for long. He navigated a refugee boat from Vietnam to Malaysia risking pirates, starvation, and storms.
My mom also grew up in the thick of a war zone. They were poor and collected other people's scraps for food. They saw soldiers abusing citizens and stealing from them, hurting anyone they thought was against them. They had to be careful of the ARVN and the Viet Cong. My parents grew up in war zones and endured hardships that I can't imagine. They weren't safe until they made it to the United States. They were refugees, just like their parents were. And yet they persevered.
When they finally found safety, they moved on and rebuilt their lives. They just wanted to feel safe with a roof over their heads and food to eat. They wanted to be able to sleep soundly. To not worry about death, imprisonment, or abuse every single day. They wanted safety for themselves and their families. These are things we take for granted now and I try to remind myself of when I feel like complaining about my first-world problems. I'm here with a roof over my head and I never starve. Even growing up poor in the US, we always had a roof over our heads with running water and electricity. We always had something to eat even if it was just canned meats and top ramen. We didn't feel like our lives were in danger every single day. Our first-world hardships are nothing compared to growing up in war zones.
This is one of the perspectives that helps me have an immense appreciation for life. I remind myself that the odds of me being here are so tiny. We're all alive or dead just by chance, and that is pretty amazing.