Beyond the Fear of Death

By Dy Dinh Le and Christopher Le

This memoir tells an extraordinarily powerful story that perfectly captures the emotions and struggles arising from the real-life escape of Dy Dinh Le and his family from Vietnam after the fall of Saigon. As a former South Vietnamese Air Force pilot, Dy Dinh Le spent four years living as an outcast under the communist regime, leading to two arrests under suspicion of avoiding incarceration in the Soviet-style gulags where hundreds of thousands of ex-military personnel and officials from the former Republic of Vietnam were imprisoned. The victorious communist regime kept many, including his father, elder brother, and uncle-in-law, in such concentration camps throughout the jungles in the south and north. After the execution of his uncle-in-law and the abandonment of his body in the Hoàng Liên Sơn mountainous area, Dy Dinh Le’s mother and wife feared for his life and begged him to flee the country. After realizing the imminent danger he faced, he vanished one day, returning one night out of thin air to take his wife, 3-year-old son, and 22 other relatives to board a wooden fishing boat to flee Vietnam. As fate would have it, and beyond the fear of death, he stayed behind at the last moment to allow another relative to leave. This painful sacrifice of his chance for freedom and the opportunity to travel with his wife and son left him fighting against all odds to chart his escape guided only by the good of humanity—the individuals who became true guardian angels paving the path away from the communist’s wrath and toward true freedom! Beyond the Fear of Death is an extraordinarily miraculous story of a South Vietnamese hero who survived his treacherous journey to freedom and, four decades later, honorably served the U.S. government for over 37 years, ultimately being recognized with an American flag—flown above the U.S. Capitol in his name—and a distinct acknowledgment from the 44th President of the United States of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Platgevity, LLC
• Release date: Nov 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987734759

Book preview

Contents

A Memoir

Foreword

Dedication

Epigraph

FROM THE EXECUTED SOLDIER’S SON

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE LAND OF DEATH

HELL ON EARTH

THE LAST WORDS

A FATEFUL TRIBULATION

THE RED SOCIETY

BOILING HOT WATERWAY

THE LASTING TRUTH

THE ABYSS

AN UNKNOWN ISLAND

GOD’S WILL

A FATEFUL DISEASE

THE PROMISED LAND

THE FAREWELL

REBUILDING OUR FAMILY

THE DREAM WORLD

PUBLISHER’S WORDS

MY LIFE’S ANGELS

THE AUTHOR: DY DINH LE

THE EXECUTED SOLDIER’S SON: CHRISTOPHER LE

Footnotes

Afterword

A Memoir

Title of the memoir "Beyond the Fear of Death" by Dy Dinh Le.

Copyright © 2023 by DY DINH LE

All rights reserved.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced or used by any means (e.g., electronic, photocopying, mechanical) without any prior written permission from the author or copyright owner, except for book reviews and brief quotations.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2023906018

ISBN: 979-8-9877347-3-5 (Paperback/softcover)

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Photo Credits: Author's mugshot (front cover) taken by UNHCR in 1979 at the Galang Refugee Camp in Indonesia. Google map from Imagery@2023 TerraMetrics, Map data @2023 Google; Author’s official pictures from the U.S. Army; Galang Barracks 9, Galang Resettlement Processing Center,  and Galang Refugee Camp Office from Gaylord Barr; and the U.S. Capitol (back cover background) from Louis Velazquez/Unsplash.

Author completed the first manuscript, Beyond the Fear of Death, in the spring of 2020, when humanity seemed to perish in the hands of Death at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.

DISCLAIMER

Beyond the Fear of Death is neither a history book nor a military memoir; it doesn’t provide a comprehensive account of the Vietnam War. The author used certain political and wartime events to transcribe his life’s journey and thoughts chronologically. The book is based upon actual events, with dialogues created from memory and changes to many names, locations, and identifying features to protect the privacy of those depicted.

Printed and digitized in the United States of America.

Foreword

T

his memoir tells an extraordinarily powerful story that perfectly captures the emotions and struggles arising from the real-life escape of Dy Dinh Le and his family from Vietnam after the fall of Saigon.

As a former South Vietnamese Air Force pilot, Dy Dinh Le spent four years living as an outcast under the communist regime, leading to two arrests under suspicion of avoiding incarceration in the Soviet-style gulags where hundreds of thousands of ex-military personnel and officials from the former Republic of Vietnam were imprisoned. The victorious communist regime kept many, including his father, elder brother, and uncle-in-law, in such concentration camps throughout the jungles in the south and north. After the execution of his uncle-in-law and the abandonment of his body in the Hoàng Liên Sơn mountainous area, Dy Dinh Le’s mother and wife feared for his life and begged him to flee the country. After realizing the imminent danger he faced, he vanished one day, returning one night out of thin air to take his wife, 3-year-old son, and 22 other relatives to board a wooden fishing boat to flee Vietnam. As fate would have it, and beyond the fear of death, he stayed behind at the last moment to allow another relative to leave. This painful sacrifice of his chance for freedom and the opportunity to travel with his wife and son left him fighting against all odds to chart his escape guided only by the good of humanity—the individuals who became true guardian angels paving the path away from the communist’s wrath and toward true freedom!

Beyond the Fear of Death is an extraordinarily miraculous story of a South Vietnamese hero who survived his treacherous journey to freedom and, four decades later, honorably served the U.S. government for over 37 years, ultimately being recognized with an American flag—flown above the U.S. Capitol in his name—and a distinct acknowledgment from the 44th President of the United States of America.

Dedication

For my wife and our children, grandchildren,

and future generations…

This book is written in memory of the brave freedom fighters, including my older brother and unwavering uncle-in-law, whom the communist victors executed, throwing his body into the wilderness of the Hoàng Liên Sơn mountains.

And, especially for my younger brother, Dũng, who mended my tattered heart and provided me with living evidence and justification for the righteousness of my actions and steadfast determination to materialize Mother’s wish.

Epigraph

Let us begin by committing ourselves to the truth to see it like it is, and tell it like it is, to find the truth, to speak the truth, and to live the truth.

RICHARD M. NIXON

THE 37TH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

... Ending a conflict is not so simple, not just calling it off and coming home. Because the price for that kind of peace could be a thousand years of darkness for generation’s Viet Nam borned.

RONALD REAGAN

THE 40TH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

In an event related to war, when repeated, there are millions of people who are happy as well as sad.

VÕ VĂN KIỆT

THE 4TH PRIME MINISTER OF THE SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

FROM THE EXECUTED SOLDIER’S SON

I

still remember. After we lost South Vietnam, he rode a light blue bicycle, patiently traveling to various places to teach English. Once radiant with life energy, the man had a promising future as a military pilot for the Republic of Vietnam[a], but I watched it disappear before my eyes.

He had been in the U.S. for flight training, returning to Sài Gòn, the Capital of Free Vietnam, after graduation in December 1974—unfearful of any real danger to his life.

He was tall and strong, with the athletic physique of a bodybuilder, and full of determination. After the country had fallen, the soul of the man seemed all but gone; his will to live vanished as well. He aimlessly wandered amid the stream of life to evade the tongs of the communist security agents closing in on him, ignoring the need to nourish his body and mind. He is my older cousin, Lê Đình Dỹ (Dy Dinh Le), author of Beyond the Fear of Death—and son of my blood uncle whom I used to call Bác Cả.[b]

The author’s nickname, which he is called at home, Việt Hùng, is deeply meaningful. Every Vietnamese citizen, truly in their heart, is proud of the small but heroic motherland; Việt Hùng means heroic Vietnam in Vietnamese. Since the Hùng Vương dynasty, history has emboldened the sentiment of an unwavering and heroic Vietnam. According to Bác Cả, the author’s name, Lê Đình Dỹ, was given by his grandfather from my mother’s side—also grandfather on his father’s side.

According to the Hán or scholar’s scripts, similar to Chinese ideographs, Dỹ is from dĩ lễ đãi chi, which means use righteous principles to treat people, and dĩ thiểu thắng đa, which means use a few to win the majority. So, when he was born, his grandfather named him Dỹ, perhaps hoping he would have such traits.

During the Việt Minh[c] period, North Vietnam’s people experienced a variety of endless suffering and faced many adversities. But no matter how difficult the circumstances are, we must overcome and conquer. One must not mourn their life’s challenges and surrender to the dark fate. Pine trees planted in harsh rocky conditions are always stronger than those grown in regions full of rich soil. Being afraid to confront obstacles to find resolutions but willing to surrender to Death only makes matters worse and resolves nothing. Surrendering is voluntarily inserting our hands into the iron shackles; it represents weakness and powerlessness. By not surrendering to the dark fate, one invites the opportunity to open the door to discover the light at the end of the tunnel.

So, when my cousin was born, he received the name Dỹ. And indeed, strangely, his life has been attached to many adversities, leading him to many dark dreams. He had become that pine tree grown in harsh conditions on the barren, rocky land where wild wolves still wander with Death, carrying a scythe on his shoulder. My cousin’s second name used at home is Lê Việt Hùng. My elder uncle, Bác Cả, told me the following story. When the author was still inside his mother’s womb, Việt Minh labeled and accused Bác Cả as an evil landlord. Subsequently, they confiscated his land and put him in jail where he awaited a trial with potentially deadly consequences.

The method of indictment systematically used by the leaders of North Vietnam during that time, together with the cruelty of the executioners who mostly belonged to the social class of poor peasants, led to many fatal mistakes. As a result, they killed many country-loving landlords who had significantly helped Việt Minh during their rise against the French colonization. These cruel indictments eventually created serious tensions in the north, substantially reducing the support of the northern people.

My elder uncle was a victim of such stupid and savage leaders! When he was in jail, my elder aunt, the author’s mother, whom I called Mợ, was grief-stricken and extremely worried. Fortunately, my uncle didn’t remain long in jail, successfully escaping and hiding in Vĩnh Yên, a small village in the north where the author was subsequently born. Upon hearing the news, my cousin’s mother gave him a second name, Việt Hùng, in remembrance of my elder uncle’s heroic escape from prison during that time. So, I called my elder cousin Anh Hùng.

When I began writing about Anh[d] Hùng, the memory of past years vividly returned.

On the evening of April 29, 1975, my parents and six brothers and sisters, together with three of my elder uncle’s children, including Anh Hùng, went to the U.S. Embassy to flee Vietnam. I recall hearing explosions and blasts from bombs and artillery shells in many places in Sài Gòn that were so close that they shook nearby buildings.

At the U.S. Embassy, it was absolute chaos! People were pushing each other to move forward for a chance at escape. By the early morning, when the last helicopter left from the top of the building, we were not on it. Instead, we had to go home to find a different escape route. But, by then, it was too late! No paths remained to run away from the communist tribulation.

On the fateful morning of April 30, 1975, the streets of Sài Gòn appeared to be choking on their last breaths with sad partitions. Tears intermingled with screaming and crying amidst the disorderly scenes on the streets. People ran in different directions as if running for their lives.

The many tearful separations and intense sadness of those days remained, cemented deep in the hearts of the people of Sài Gòn and boldly imprinted in their memories with the dense rows of hibiscus scattered here and there. All that existed before disappeared as raindrops broke free of the clouds, mixing with salty tears flowing from the edges of crying eyes. 

How could one forget the day when the rumbling feet of the revolutionary troops marched down the poetic, dreamlike streets of Sài Gòn? It was finished, gone! I was still very young, at only 14 years of age. But the distinct memories of that turbulence remained, planting fears that took hold in my inner soul, born in the early days, and strengthened as days, months, and years passed.

Since that black day, Father, my elder uncle, Anh Hùng, and millions of other Vietnamese people no longer experienced safe, peaceful sleep. Instead, Father, my uncle, and hundreds of thousands of others—induced by the victors—were sent to what we later recognize as communist concentration camps.

Anh Hùng—who intentionally claimed to be a former air force mechanic—was only forced to attend a three-day re-education program locally. After that, night after night, he quietly sat at home, absorbing the vast openness of the Earth and sky, feeling growing desperation and suffering. The ups and downs he had experienced throughout the years, already come and gone, still ate at his inner soul, filling it with unhappiness and inducing him to embrace a miserable fate. An elite pilot—just returned home from the U.S. with an idealistic, noble way of life and a pledge to protect his motherland and go where no one can find the fallen body—was forced to drop his weapon and fold up his wings to allow the turbulences and storms to come without a fight. It happened unexpectedly and without warning.

When Anh Hùng heard of the SURRENDER order, out of extreme frustration and desperation, he tried to commit suicide by slamming his head repeatedly against the brick wall in the bathroom. He didn’t want to suffer through what he knew was to come, particularly the horrific retribution that would undoubtedly befall his family and the miserable people of Vietnam. Anh Hùng wanted to die with Sài Gòn, the remaining piece of our motherland, but life had other plans, and instead, he lived.

He survived after his family pulled him from the grasp of Death’s blood-sticky hands during the last hours and minutes of Sài Gòn, as it, too, struggled to take in choking breaths.

So, it was cemented in fate. He must live to find a righteous path to help others and serve a greater purpose. He must live to become a phenomenon, a symbol of the pine tree for the Vietnamese people still living in the region of the barren, rocky land, a world full of dark dreams.

So, he survived.

And day after day, he rode his old bicycle to different places to teach bộ đội[e] physicians and pharmacists stationed at various communist military bases in Sài Gòn. And in the afternoons, he came to teach us English and visit our mother, the widow of the unwavering yellow soldier whom the victors executed in one of the communist gulags.

Every day that passed, when I saw his face—sometimes with a few reluctant smiles, slightly tinged with bitterness, and his eyes, deep and full of unresolved thoughts—I knew he was trying to conquer the disgraceful suffering within the region of the barren, rocky land.

The time to create heroes had not yet come. Instead, there was only suffering. Phạm Ngũ Lão, a to-be-general from the Trần Dynasty in Vietnam, sat in the middle of the road knitting baskets. His mind was deeply preoccupied with tactical strategies, obscuring his eyes from seeing the incoming mandarin and his military escorts.

The soldiers clearing the road yelled at him to move, but Phạm remained sitting, knitting baskets. It wasn’t until one escort pierced his thigh with a sharp spear that he acknowledged their presence.

Still, the pain didn’t seem to affect the basket knitter. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The excruciating mental suffering, which he had grown accustomed to, surpassed the physical pain from the piercing spear, and he felt little pain!

Four years after tasting an inhumane ideology, Anh Hùng suddenly abandoned Hồ Chí Minh City. He left his family, all of us, and even his wife and son behind in Sài Gòn, a city that had already been dead on the surface, without a word of farewell. It bewildered us for months. We were still too young to recognize the tactical strategies he had been hatching since the victors came into our beloved Sài Gòn—and since the day his family rescued him from the hands of Death in his parents’ bathroom where he wanted to end his life.

One night, unexpectedly, Anh Hùng returned—still with deep, thoughtful eyes and reluctant smiles toned down with a slight but noticeable bitterness. However, upon his return, he exhibited a somewhat thin and deteriorated appearance. That night, he took us to a strange place under a cover of dim lights and silence. We followed him into the very late night on June 16, 1979. There, when we reached our destination, with deep, thoughtful eyes and two bony arms and hands, he freed us from the yoke of the communists—just like millions of Vietnamese fleeing during that time. As though fate had fixed our future, after having lost our country, everyone faced the same predicament and uncertainty.

In 1977, the communist victors executed my father in one of their gulags and coldly threw his bloody body into the wilderness of the Hoàng Liên Sơn mountainous area. In doing so, they deprived my family of everything we needed to survive. Mother worked day and night to feed her six young children, raising us as best she could amid her difficult and bitter life. Hardship overtook us, placing a heavy load of responsibilities on her shoulders that would enable us to survive in a society facing extreme poverty in what was a primitive civilization during that time. Our family life was in shambles, and food was scarce. After fighting to meet our needs daily, mother’s mind and body had become increasingly tattered. My elder uncle’s family faced a similar fate. The seemingly endless suffering consumed their minds and bodies, weakening them as time passed.

Recalling that period still clenches my heart and inner soul tightly to this day, giving rise to mental pain and sorrow mixed with the lost happiness of my adolescent past. Mother sacrificed her life—through sweat and tears—and spent everything she had to gain sufficient knowledge and education for her children. She wanted us to have careers or to learn a trade to survive rather than sharing her miserable back-breaking fate of carrying the heavy load of the struggles of daily life for all of us.

Since the fateful night of June 16, 1979, when I fled, abandoning my beloved country, I went into exile. In the darkness of late night, I went to a strange place near the end of S-shaped Vietnam. Then, together with my elder uncle’s children, we climbed onto a boat of only 19 meters to free ourselves from the yoke of the communists. Nervousness, wariness, and terror blanketed our innocent and immature minds as we left behind a place that held everything we knew and loved.

It was around 1:00 a.m. when we boarded on June 17, 1979. Shortly after that, exhausted from the events, unconsciously, I fell asleep. By the time I awoke, the sun had risen, gradually lifting the muddy veil of darkness. I saw a thin, long, dark strip of land, and the boat navigator told me it was the land we had departed—my motherland. It was a portion of the only home I had ever known that we just had passed for the first and last time. So, by following the dark distant sky and land, me, my seven blood cousins, Anh Hùng, and his own family, including his wife and 3-year-old son, were taken out of Vietnam, heading to the high seas. Bác Cả, Anh Hùng’s father, after his release from the communist gulag because of old age and sickness, had fled Vietnam a few weeks earlier. We had received no news about whether he had made it alive.

Painfully, we had to leave behind many loved ones, including Anh Hùng’s mother and two sisters, our elder aunt, and my mother and five remaining brothers and sisters. After we had left, all they could do was struggle with the excruciating mental pain of missing their loved ones, quietly withdrawing within their inner cells, particularly during afternoons of heavy rains, and dreaming that one day they might reunite with us. All those remaining pieces of memory, like the dark dreams, were just dreams from our lives. The weight of such dreams and memories is heavy—with no way to lighten the load and no ocean deep enough to hide the many tears shed by the Vietnamese people. It couldn’t possibly be deep enough! 

While the boat moved through the depths, parting waves and heading into a vast sky and salty high seas, I glanced around to look for my loved ones but, shockingly, could not see Anh Hùng. His next younger brother, Anh Dũng, was missing as well. Upon the realization, I could only sit and take in the unbearable piercing feeling in my inner soul! On the boat, I found my elder cousin sitting with his wife, children, and in-laws. I also saw the other five cousins of mine.

Sadly, I caught an image of Chị[f] Mai holding her 3-year-old son on her lap, sitting alone in a dark corner of the boat’s lower cabin, without Anh Hùng!

I was in shock. Where were Anh Hùng and Dũng? Why would my beloved cousins disappear without a trace when Anh Hùng himself had masterminded our escape? Why did Anh Hùng leave us back in the paranoiac Hồ Chí Minh City one night—without a word of farewell—only to return to take us to the place of our departure and then disappear again last night without a word? I felt an excruciating cramping pain lingering nonstop in my inner soul, but it was no match for the terrifying and profound sadness tearing Chị Mai’s heart into pieces. She held her innocent, fatherless infant in her arms. Her still eyes penetrated deeply into the darkness from the corner of the boat’s lower cabin, as though desperately trying to envision her husband’s image. It must have been an unbearable grief.

Yet, she said nothing, probably to hide her internal frustration—which I now know—about why Anh Hùng abandoned his original plan to get on board together with his wife, son, and other loved ones that night. In her soulless eyes, she must have had so many unanswered questions. She was probably wondering how her husband could escape from the hell on earth in the country she had just left behind. Whether she and her son might live or die and how. Was there anything to eat or drink, clothes to wear, and who would protect mother and son during the long journey across the vast high seas? Thousands of questions dissolved, unanswered, into the emptiness of the dark, mystic ocean waves.

There was neither a crystal ball to reveal the woman’s fate nor a clear escape route for a mother dashing into the high seas—taunted by the possibility of death—with her son but without Anh Hùng, her husband!

Each one of us present on that boat truly felt, shared, and shouldered some of the piercing pain and sorrow from the sister-in-law who had no husband or father to her child during the extremely hard and meandering journey. Nobody knew where the stormy winds and rising and falling waves of the vast open seas would take us—and that was frightening.

The rich Chinese boat owner was also shockingly surprised to learn that Teacher Dỹ—who gave English lessons to his children while hiding in Bạc Liêu trying to find a way for all of us to escape—was not on his boat.

According to their plan, Anh Hùng was to act as the interpreter and spokesperson for the fleeing boat. That day, our boat ran into a large, unidentified vessel. Since he could not find Anh Hùng to communicate with the foreigners, the unnamed vessel had sailed away without saving us.

The Chinese boat owner, his face red with anger, jumped up and down, furiously asking why teacher Dỹ stayed behind and pondering how he didn’t even know about it!

One day, miraculously, we found an island and landed ashore! After two months of traveling from place to place—including several days floating on the salty high seas and wandering in malaria-infested jungles of isolated islands such as Balai and Sedanau of Indonesia—the yellow Vietnamese refugees fleeing the communist tribulation looked like the local villagers with dark skin.

Chị Mai was still weeping tears to match the soaking rains! She must have been suffering with many lingering questions about why her husband disappeared that night. Or she might have known but didn’t want to tell.

I, too, was still trying to absorb an indescribable sorrow, thinking I might never again see the deep, thoughtful eyes and bitter smile of a yellow pilot who folded his wings but did not surrender.

It wasn’t until near the end of September 1979, with the help and arrangement of the local police, we reached the Galang Vietnamese Refugee camp, where the sky was full of miracles. Indeed! After every heavy rain and dark sky, there would come sunshine!

Anh Hùng and Dũng, who had disappeared that night, suddenly reappeared as if they had merely stepped out to another dimension temporarily, returning years later with no scientific basis or rationale. Sometimes we wondered if it was all an illusion, and they weren’t there.

After everything, who could still disbelieve miracles and blessings? Who could deny the existence of the hands of angels, although invisible, in the region of the barren, rocky land, an atheist country? We were shocked but pleasantly surprised and felt an overwhelmingly extraordinary jubilance, something that had been missing for so many years, upon seeing both Anh Hùng and Dũng unexpectedly on that peaceful Galang island!

During that tragic night of broken hearts, when he rushed all of us, including his wife and son, onto the fleeing boat, he thought he might not see his loved ones again. While we were not even aware of it, quietly, he bit his tongue and stayed behind! I thought we would have been completely apart—perhaps for several thousand years! But, during those dark nights, while we were diving into the angry waves of the South China Sea, the invisible protective hands of angels hovering above the dead soul opened a narrow trail under sacred rays of light, shining a path for him to follow.

Finally, through an extraordinary miracle, he took Anh Dũng and his elder brother’s remaining in-laws with him to sail into the darkness, beginning his own dangerous journey in search of the loved ones he had pushed out into the ocean two days earlier. Fate and angel hands—fighting against Death’s scythe that overshadowed his path—quickly delivered Anh Hùng and Dũng to the Galang Vietnamese Refugee camp, where they would pick us up at the harbor on that miraculous day.

Indeed, he had done the unimaginable, hiding his broken heart to rush us, including his wife and son, onto a boat to run away from the communists. Anh Hùng stayed behind at the last moment to protect his loved ones, hopefully leading to their peaceful departure and unbroken kinships. And then, still with his iron heart, eyes full of tears and arms wide open, he came out to the Galang harbor to welcome us to a strange country full of love, acceptance, and humanity. I now believe. There is no doubt in my mind that angel hands, invisible, had guided us through the dark years. We cried as we had never cried before when our eyes fell upon Anh Hùng and Dũng again. The most beautiful moment, however, was seeing Chị Mai’s tears falling, full of love, longing, and hope—which no words could describe—when reuniting with her husband.

Still, the most magnificent scene was seeing Huy safe within the warm protective embrace of his father, who was once thought lost. 

The refugee camp on Galang island was a part of the Riau archipelago, near Singapore, which the United Nations Higher Commissioner for Refugees had established. They equipped the camp with the facilities, including a management office and the Indonesian Red Cross. Refugees received some supplies for their daily lives, and we felt safe and stable as we waited for the day we would resettle in another country. Four months later, in January 1980, my cousins and I departed the Galang Vietnamese Refugee Camp for resettlement. Unfortunately, Canada kept Anh Hùng and his family behind because of a suspected tuberculosis diagnosis. By then, we received the good news that my elder uncle, Anh Hùng’s father, had successfully fled Vietnam before we left and was unharmed, living in the United States.

About 12 years later, my loved ones, including my mother and five siblings, and Anh Hùng’s mother and his younger sister, finally reunited with us. Shortly after that, my elder aunt also migrated to the U.S. and lives with us all. Our pain and suffering had to pass for life to move forward. It was indeed a blessing for all of us to be together again. After the past 40 years of struggling to find patience, endurance, and determination to learn and nourish our dreams, most of my elder uncle’s children have achieved high societal positions. They are living in the U.S., peacefully and happily, far away from the dark world of years past. During that time, the former pilot has become a workaholic, focusing day and night on scientific research. In his own words, he longed to forget the patches of the painful dark sky and do something to hopefully save people and help society.

In 2015, ABC WMAR-2 News showed an interview with a Vietnamese-American scientist who had conceptualized and invented a method for civil and military aircraft to self-repair when damaged. The invention enabled the repair of flying aircraft in real-time, potentially saving flight crews, military troops, or air travelers when transported in midair.

There, he sat, in front of the moving camera lenses, still with his deep, thoughtful eyes, speaking calmly and softly voice in his foster country’s language, exhibiting reluctant half-smiles—which seemed an attempt to hide the dark dreams and the remnants of damage from the life and journey he had passed in the region of the barren, rocky land, a terrifying world from years past.

As for me, I currently work for the U.S. government, providing social services, but I find additional blessings and happiness through music. I took my first step into composing music when I wrote the first sheet of lyrics to Isn’t That Really Sad? 41 years ago. These lyrics were born when I was drifting into exile, carrying the mark of refugees at the Galang Vietnamese Refugee Camp as a warning for the fate a life could have. Many songs I have subsequently composed are traveling with Vietnamese music performance shows, including Thúy Nga Paris by Night, and, fortunately, welcomed warmly by the Vietnamese communities inside the U.S. and abroad.

I seriously think; life brings with it many sorrows. We sometimes worry about nonsense, fostering a baseless, latent sadness—without an escape route. Inevitably, living means facing potential struggles, but one needs to conquer them to pass through to the next stage of their life. Living also means seeking the beauty of the inner heart and soul—and the love and fate experienced during life. Each sorrow has beauty in its form. Recognizing its special glory and features and sharing them with strangers can help people live a more beautiful life. Hiding behind the tears are smiles, and at the end of complete and total sadness comes pure happiness.

Love allows the birth of music lyrics. Sorrow and happiness create a fetus, which embraces thoughts full of ups and downs, suffering, and joy of humans. Without ill fate or laughs, a piece of music notes would not have meant to be born.

Like the dark dreams of the past 40 years that Anh Hùng recorded, transcribing the suffering millions of Vietnamese people had also experienced. Those dreams never faded away in his subconsciousness. He wrote to freeze the moments of overwhelming feelings endured during human life and viewed them through two different lenses—sadness and happiness.

After all those years, Anh Hùng recognized in his heart that he was fighting against the dark forces when he was suffering injustices. We should know that we can still discover happiness where there appears to be none and where it is struggling to grow. Perpetual happiness is the emotional state life has tamed through extreme and unbearable suffering. Instead of looking at life through rose-colored glasses, waiting for offerings and rewards, we must be ready to absorb the muddy dirt, like a clod of clay molded into an ugly shape, as he wrote, which may be thrown upon us to paint an outcast and spiteful impression.

That way, as a result, we will not feel disappointed. Remember, Those who do not know how to smile when facing adversities will never know how to open dream doors.

The half-smile of the yellow freedom fighter—still covered with a veil of lingering bitterness from experiencing hell on earth in years past and perpetually imprinted with the military marching lyrics: Go where no one can find the fallen body—has opened, for his loved ones and the next generations of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, a vast bright sky full of long-lasting freedom for them to take. In doing so, Anh Hùng discovered the happiness he sought in this life while enabling him to fight against the dark forces along his path.

As far as the name of Dỹ goes, sometimes one’s life only fills itself with dark dreams; that may be the pre-destined life of