An encounter in Vietnam: Two birthdays, one sentiment

"A zebra dove," the monk told me in English when I held up a feather. "Some call it 'peaceful dove' -- a name that expresses irony, yes?"

technofile
Al Fasoldt's reviews and commentaries, continuously available online since 1983

T e c h n o f i l e
An encounter in Vietnam: Two birthdays, one sentiment

I believe Christmas is a time to set aside my thoughts on technology to consider what really matters in life. Here are my reflections on an encounter I had far from home 38 years ago.

    On a day in late May in 1967, a Buddhist monk guided me through the holy city of Hue -- pronounced "hway" -- at the top of South Vietnam. Both sides in the war had tried to leave the ancient fortress in the middle of the city untouched, but at the gates of Hue I saw the scars of the present conflict -- pockmarks in the walls from artillery-shell fragments and feathers glued to branches by their owners' dried blood when concussion shells exploded and ripped apart some of the songbirds of Hue.
   "A zebra dove," the monk told me in English when I held up a feather. "Some call it 'peaceful dove' -- a name that expresses irony, yes?"
   When he talked, the monk always looked my way to see if I was understanding him -- not just listening. He wanted to know that I was understanding.
   We turned away from a lane that would have taken us toward the forbidden Purple City -- the Vietnamese called it Tu Cam Thanh -- and headed back toward the city's only western-style hotel, a white whale of a building that had water buffalo steak on the menu and little green spiders on the walls.
   As far as I could tell, there were only four other foreigners staying at the hotel -- two United Nations observers who spent their days in an upper-floor window looking through ungainly binoculars at the nearby demilitarized zone and two Italian journalists waiting for a helicopter ride back to central Vietnam.
   It was the week of Buddha's birthday. Paper lanterns lit the way as we walked from stone to stone down a path taken by countless visitors over hundreds of years.
   "You can think of them as our Christmas carols," the monk said. "When you hear carols in your country, you know that Christmas is coming. When we see lanterns set upon walls and hanging from trees, we know Buddha's birthday is coming."
   He paused, waiting for a sign that I was understanding him. I nodded.
   "We have this much in common: Each year we celebrate the birthday of our founder and you celebrate the birthday of the Christ. It is a holy day, but full of happiness, too. We wish each other joy and peace. That is what you do, also. Am I not correct?"
   "Have you heard our carol, 'Joy to the World?'" I asked him.
   "Can you sing it?"
   I would have said no if I'd let my embarrassment take over. But I started singing, as quietly as I could.
   "Joy to the world, the Lord has come. . . ."
   By the time I got to the chorus, I realized I wasn't the only one making a joyful sound.
   "Let heaven and nature sing," the monk at my side was singing softly.
   The two of us finished the chorus and I stopped. He smiled and seemed to wink and then began the second verse on his own.
   "You DO know this song," I said
   "I went to school in London."
   We finished the carol and tried "Silent Night" -- he knew that, too, of course. I tried to remember the words to "Little Drummer Boy" but managed only "A newborn King to see, pa ra pa pa pum."
   "That's an old Czechoslovak carol," the monk said. "It's called 'The Carol Of The Drum.' I heard it at Oxford in the '50s."
   We walked on, humming this delightful old and new carol. When I turned to enter the hotel, he held out both his hands.
   "I wish you joy, happiness and peace for Buddha's birthday," he said.
   "But I am not Buddhist," I told him. "Let me wish those same sentiments to you."
   "When you receive good wishes, you should accept them gladly," he admonished me, showing a faint smile. "When your neighbor leaves on a trip, you wish him a safe journey. When we celebrate our founder's birthday, we wish everyone joy, happiness and peace."
   He waited until he knew I was understanding him.
   "For the journey," he added.
   I wished him a Merry Christmas, many months ahead of time. I knew from the way his eyes sparkled that he understood.

"A zebra dove," the monk told me in English when I held up a feather. "Some call it 'peaceful dove' -- a name that expresses irony, yes?"

T e c h n o f i l e An encounter in Vietnam: Two birthdays, one sentiment

T e c h n o f i l e
An encounter in Vietnam: Two birthdays, one sentiment