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My village was located in the Mekong Delta， the most fertile land of South Vietnam， providing more than eighty percent of the rice for the nation. Sixty miles south of Saigon， the area was called the “barn of South Vietnam.” Like most Vietnamese villages， my village was fringed with green bamboo hedges. Its back leaned on the left bank of the Mekong River， and its face looked out on the vast rice fields running side by side to the horizon.
Inside the village， the red-tiled roofs emerged from the grey-thatched ones， the flower fences， the fruit trees， and the vegetable yards separating the houses. The villagers were simple and assiduous farmers， their lives tied to the yellow rice fields， the green bamboo hedges， the cows and cattle. They worried about the irregular weather; they rejoiced with the successful crops. Festivals took place all year long. The villagers prayed before and thanked God after each crop. Life in my village was as peaceful as the tranquil flowing of the Mekong River.
Every day， when the birds started singing to the sun， the whole village awakened. Group after group of farmers and buffalos left for the fields. In the orange sunshine， the silhouettes of my father and Can， our buffalo， disappeared behind the bamboo hedges at the end of the village. My mother also left for the rural market in the nearby village. My brother and I went to school.
At noon， I used to stand at the main gate and look out at the road， waiting for my mother. I could recognize the small， thin， familiar shape from a far distance. My mother never forgot to bring me something， either a small rice cake or a pack of candies each day. She wiped her wet face and fanned herself by the non la， the well-known Vietnamese hat， while I ate the cake. The sweetness of the cake seemed packed with all mother love to me.
In the evening， when the sun set westward， the grey smoke floating from the thatched roofs mixed with the snow-white clouds in the sky. The flutes， attached to the kites high in the air， sounded a beautiful melody accompanied by the singing of the flocks of birds returning to their warm nests. On the road， the farmers and the buffalos came back from the fields. The laughing of people， the noise of the animals—all those sounds in the air brought relaxation to the village.
At dusk， my brother and I joined the children in the village playing at the dam near the river. We were competing in raising kites. Our kite used to be the most beautiful， the highest kite with the sweetest sound. For making the kites， I had to spend all of my savings to buy colored papers and two spools of thread in the small town nearby. My brother had to spend many days to build the kite frame from the selected bamboo tree， and stick the colored papers on it. Finally， we attached the small bamboo flute my father made to the kite to create the sound. Now the kite with its parallelogram shape and motley tails was ready to fly in the blue sky. When my brother raised the kite at its highest， I took the string on my brother’s hand to control the kite. Inspired by the admiring eyes of the village children， my pride and happiness flew as high as the kite in the blue sky. Then， one day， the cane of war stirred up the peaceful life in my village. More and more people left the village to find another， safer place. I， myself， had just known the word “war” in spelling until an event happened： the death of Can， our beloved buffalo.
I still remember Can coming to my family. Like most Vietnamese farmers， my father had a dream of owning a buffalo. When Can’s mother， the buffalo of our neighbor， got pregnant， each day after he finished working， my father had to work for our neighbor to trade his labor for the infant buffalo. At that time， my mother raised a group of chickens， and I used to have an egg for breakfast before going to school. One morning， my mother put all the chickens in cages， loaded them in our neighbor’s buffalo cart， and headed to the market. That noon， I received more candies than ever， but I also had no more eggs after that.
After Can was born， my father brought him home and I was jealous of him. Everybody in my family took good care of Can and forgot me. My milk had to be shared with Can. My father hung mosquito nets to protect Can every night; my mother warmed him with my patched clothes. Even my brother， my closest friend， was interested in Can instead. I tried in vain to regain the attention of my loved ones， and failing， hated the buffalo.
Gradually， my childish hatred faded away and I was happy to play with the buffalo. Can carried my brother and me， traveling from field to field to seek the green grass fields. Can enjoyed the finest green grass while my brother and I enjoyed the baked sweet potatoes remaining after the harvest; then my brother and I let Can lazily bathe in the muddy pools while we swam in the river.
When Can grew up， two and a half years later， he became a co-worker with my father in our small field. During the leisure time between the crops， Can towed the cart loaded with fruit baskets and us to the fairs at the nearby city. He was a member of my family; he shared the hard labor with my father in cultivating the crops， and the pleasure with my brother and me in the sunshine fields. In my mind， I had thought that nothing could separate me from the buffalo， the green bamboo hedges， the yellow rice fields， and the light blue Mekong River.
One night， I was awakened by the thunder of all kinds of guns. My whole family sought shelter under the wooden bed. Shuddering in my mother’s arms， I was so panicked that I could not utter a word. The thunder was closer and closer， and an explosion shined brightly in our house. Above the thunder， the cry of our poor Can made my father forget the danger. My father ran toward the stable and tried by all the means to save Can， but he made no difference. The sound of the buffalo in agony made my mother burst into tears. To end Can’s suffering， my father many times raised high the hammer， but many times he lowered it down. The red eyes of Can， tears running down unceasingly， made my father hesitate. Finally， with all his effort， my father hit the hammer at Can’s neck. The buffalo fell down and my father fell down too. At the corners of my father’s eyes glittered the teardrops. This was the first time in my life that I had seen my father cry. He cried for our poor Can， and also for the collapse of his dream—the very ordinary dream of a Vietnamese farmer. Instantly， I realized that my golden childhood was over.
我的村庄位于南越最肥沃的土地湄公河三角洲，这块土地为国家提供百分之八十以上的大米。这里位于西贡南部六十英里处，被称为“南越谷仓”。像越南大部分村庄一样，我的村庄四周扎了一圈绿色的竹篱。它背靠湄公河左岸，面向一望无际、一排排延伸至地平线的稻田。
村里，红瓦屋顶从灰色茅草屋顶之间露出来，花篱、果树和菜园把一座座房子分隔开来。村里人都是朴素勤劳的农民。他们的生活与金黄的稻田、绿色的竹篱和牛群联系在一起。他们会因天气无常而担忧，也会因收成好而欣喜。节庆一年到头都有。村民在每次收割前都要祈祷，收割后感谢上苍。在我的村子里，生活就像静静流淌的湄公河一样安宁。
每天，当鸟儿开始向阳歌唱，整个村庄便会从酣睡中醒来。一群群村民牵着水牛朝田间走去。在橘色的阳光下，父亲和我家水牛勤的剪影消失在村子尽头的竹篱后面。母亲也向邻村的集市走去。我和哥哥则去上学。
中午时分，我常常站在大门口，眺望大路，等待着母亲。我能从远处辨认出我熟悉的那个瘦小身影。每天，母亲从不忘给我带回来一些东西，要么是一小块米糕，要么是一袋糖果。在我吃糕点的时候，她就擦擦脸上的汗，用有名的越南斗笠给自己扇风。在我看来，甜甜的糕点里似乎裹着母亲对我全部的爱。
傍晚，当太阳西沉的时候，灰蒙蒙的炊烟从茅草屋顶上飘起，与天空中雪白的云朵混合。风笛高挂在风筝上，伴着一群群归向暖巢的鸟儿的鸣唱，奏出一曲美妙的旋律。大路上，农民们牵着水牛从田地里归来。人们的欢笑声、动物的叫声——声响在空中荡漾，给村庄带来轻松的氛围。
黄昏时分，我和哥哥同村里的孩子们一起在河边的大坝上玩耍。我们正在比赛放风筝。我和哥哥的风筝最漂亮，飞得最高，发出的声音最甜美。我不得不花掉自己所有的积蓄，到附近的小镇买扎风筝的彩纸和两轴线。哥哥得花好多天用精心挑选的竹子做风筝骨架，然后把彩纸贴在上面。最后，我们把父亲做的小竹笛系到风筝上，风筝就可以发声了。这会儿，这只平行四边形的风筝带着彩色尾巴，准备在蓝天上飞翔了。当哥哥把风筝放到最高，我便握住哥哥手上的线来控制风筝。在村里孩子们羡慕的目光下，我受到鼓舞，骄傲和快乐飞得像藍天上的风筝一样高。
后来，有一天，战争之杖搅乱了村里平静的生活。越来越多的人离开村子去寻找另一个更安全的地方。以前，对于“战争”一词，我自己只是知道如何拼写而已，直到发生一桩事件——我们心爱的水牛勤死了。
我依然记得勤来我们家的情景。像大多数越南农民一样，父亲梦想有一头水牛。当邻居家的水牛——勤的母亲——怀上牛崽，父亲每天干完活儿后就得为邻居干活儿，以此换取水牛崽。那时，母亲养了一群鸡，通常上学之前，我早餐都有一个鸡蛋吃。一天早上，母亲把所有的母鸡装在几个笼子里，放在邻居家的水牛车上，去了集市。那天中午，我得到了比以往更多的糖果，但在那之后我再也吃不到鸡蛋了。
勤出生后，父亲把它牵回了家，我就嫉妒起了它。家里的每个人都对它体贴入微，把我给忘了。我的牛奶也得跟勤分享。每天夜晚，父亲挂起蚊帐来保护它;母亲则拿我带有补丁的衣服为它取暖。就连哥哥——我最亲密的朋友——都对它产生了兴趣。我试图重新获得自己所爱的人的关心，但白费功夫，我就恨起了小水牛。
渐渐地，我孩子气的仇恨消失了，我乐意跟小水牛一起玩。勤驮着我和哥哥，越过一块块田地，去寻找绿草地。我和哥哥把地里剩下的红薯烤着吃，勤享用着最好的青草;然后我们到河里游泳，让勤懒洋洋地在泥池中洗澡。
两年半后，勤长大了，成了父亲的帮手，在我们的小块田地里干活儿。农闲期间，勤拉着我们到邻近城镇赶集，大车上还装着果篮。它是我们家中的一员;农耕时，它和父亲一起干重活儿，跟我和哥哥一起在阳光下的田野里享受快乐时光。在我的脑海里，我原以为没有什么能把我跟水牛、绿色的竹篱、金黄的稻田和淡蓝色的湄公河分开。
一天夜里，我被各种隆隆的枪炮声惊醒。我们全家人都躲在木床下。我在母亲的怀里瑟瑟发抖，惊恐得一个字也说不出来。爆炸的轰响越来越近，炸到了我们的房子，把房子照亮。可怜的勤的叫声淹没了爆炸声。父亲顾不上自己的安危，朝牛棚跑去，想尽一切办法抢救勤，但都无济于事。水牛的惨叫声使母亲突然放声大哭。
为了结束勤的痛苦，父亲多次高高地举起锤子，但又多次放下来。勤的眼睛发红，泪水不断地流，这使父亲犹豫不决。最后，他使出了全身力气，一锤砸在勤的脖子上。水牛倒下了，父亲也倒下了。父亲的眼角闪着泪光。我长这么大，还是第一次看见父亲哭。他为我们可怜的勤而哭，也为他的梦想破灭而哭，那正是一个越南农民普普通通的梦想。我立刻意识到，我的金色童年结束了。
Inside the village， the red-tiled roofs emerged from the grey-thatched ones， the flower fences， the fruit trees， and the vegetable yards separating the houses. The villagers were simple and assiduous farmers， their lives tied to the yellow rice fields， the green bamboo hedges， the cows and cattle. They worried about the irregular weather; they rejoiced with the successful crops. Festivals took place all year long. The villagers prayed before and thanked God after each crop. Life in my village was as peaceful as the tranquil flowing of the Mekong River.
Every day， when the birds started singing to the sun， the whole village awakened. Group after group of farmers and buffalos left for the fields. In the orange sunshine， the silhouettes of my father and Can， our buffalo， disappeared behind the bamboo hedges at the end of the village. My mother also left for the rural market in the nearby village. My brother and I went to school.
At noon， I used to stand at the main gate and look out at the road， waiting for my mother. I could recognize the small， thin， familiar shape from a far distance. My mother never forgot to bring me something， either a small rice cake or a pack of candies each day. She wiped her wet face and fanned herself by the non la， the well-known Vietnamese hat， while I ate the cake. The sweetness of the cake seemed packed with all mother love to me.
In the evening， when the sun set westward， the grey smoke floating from the thatched roofs mixed with the snow-white clouds in the sky. The flutes， attached to the kites high in the air， sounded a beautiful melody accompanied by the singing of the flocks of birds returning to their warm nests. On the road， the farmers and the buffalos came back from the fields. The laughing of people， the noise of the animals—all those sounds in the air brought relaxation to the village.
At dusk， my brother and I joined the children in the village playing at the dam near the river. We were competing in raising kites. Our kite used to be the most beautiful， the highest kite with the sweetest sound. For making the kites， I had to spend all of my savings to buy colored papers and two spools of thread in the small town nearby. My brother had to spend many days to build the kite frame from the selected bamboo tree， and stick the colored papers on it. Finally， we attached the small bamboo flute my father made to the kite to create the sound. Now the kite with its parallelogram shape and motley tails was ready to fly in the blue sky. When my brother raised the kite at its highest， I took the string on my brother’s hand to control the kite. Inspired by the admiring eyes of the village children， my pride and happiness flew as high as the kite in the blue sky. Then， one day， the cane of war stirred up the peaceful life in my village. More and more people left the village to find another， safer place. I， myself， had just known the word “war” in spelling until an event happened： the death of Can， our beloved buffalo.
I still remember Can coming to my family. Like most Vietnamese farmers， my father had a dream of owning a buffalo. When Can’s mother， the buffalo of our neighbor， got pregnant， each day after he finished working， my father had to work for our neighbor to trade his labor for the infant buffalo. At that time， my mother raised a group of chickens， and I used to have an egg for breakfast before going to school. One morning， my mother put all the chickens in cages， loaded them in our neighbor’s buffalo cart， and headed to the market. That noon， I received more candies than ever， but I also had no more eggs after that.
After Can was born， my father brought him home and I was jealous of him. Everybody in my family took good care of Can and forgot me. My milk had to be shared with Can. My father hung mosquito nets to protect Can every night; my mother warmed him with my patched clothes. Even my brother， my closest friend， was interested in Can instead. I tried in vain to regain the attention of my loved ones， and failing， hated the buffalo.
Gradually， my childish hatred faded away and I was happy to play with the buffalo. Can carried my brother and me， traveling from field to field to seek the green grass fields. Can enjoyed the finest green grass while my brother and I enjoyed the baked sweet potatoes remaining after the harvest; then my brother and I let Can lazily bathe in the muddy pools while we swam in the river.
When Can grew up， two and a half years later， he became a co-worker with my father in our small field. During the leisure time between the crops， Can towed the cart loaded with fruit baskets and us to the fairs at the nearby city. He was a member of my family; he shared the hard labor with my father in cultivating the crops， and the pleasure with my brother and me in the sunshine fields. In my mind， I had thought that nothing could separate me from the buffalo， the green bamboo hedges， the yellow rice fields， and the light blue Mekong River.
One night， I was awakened by the thunder of all kinds of guns. My whole family sought shelter under the wooden bed. Shuddering in my mother’s arms， I was so panicked that I could not utter a word. The thunder was closer and closer， and an explosion shined brightly in our house. Above the thunder， the cry of our poor Can made my father forget the danger. My father ran toward the stable and tried by all the means to save Can， but he made no difference. The sound of the buffalo in agony made my mother burst into tears. To end Can’s suffering， my father many times raised high the hammer， but many times he lowered it down. The red eyes of Can， tears running down unceasingly， made my father hesitate. Finally， with all his effort， my father hit the hammer at Can’s neck. The buffalo fell down and my father fell down too. At the corners of my father’s eyes glittered the teardrops. This was the first time in my life that I had seen my father cry. He cried for our poor Can， and also for the collapse of his dream—the very ordinary dream of a Vietnamese farmer. Instantly， I realized that my golden childhood was over.
我的村庄位于南越最肥沃的土地湄公河三角洲，这块土地为国家提供百分之八十以上的大米。这里位于西贡南部六十英里处，被称为“南越谷仓”。像越南大部分村庄一样，我的村庄四周扎了一圈绿色的竹篱。它背靠湄公河左岸，面向一望无际、一排排延伸至地平线的稻田。
村里，红瓦屋顶从灰色茅草屋顶之间露出来，花篱、果树和菜园把一座座房子分隔开来。村里人都是朴素勤劳的农民。他们的生活与金黄的稻田、绿色的竹篱和牛群联系在一起。他们会因天气无常而担忧，也会因收成好而欣喜。节庆一年到头都有。村民在每次收割前都要祈祷，收割后感谢上苍。在我的村子里，生活就像静静流淌的湄公河一样安宁。
每天，当鸟儿开始向阳歌唱，整个村庄便会从酣睡中醒来。一群群村民牵着水牛朝田间走去。在橘色的阳光下，父亲和我家水牛勤的剪影消失在村子尽头的竹篱后面。母亲也向邻村的集市走去。我和哥哥则去上学。
中午时分，我常常站在大门口，眺望大路，等待着母亲。我能从远处辨认出我熟悉的那个瘦小身影。每天，母亲从不忘给我带回来一些东西，要么是一小块米糕，要么是一袋糖果。在我吃糕点的时候，她就擦擦脸上的汗，用有名的越南斗笠给自己扇风。在我看来，甜甜的糕点里似乎裹着母亲对我全部的爱。
傍晚，当太阳西沉的时候，灰蒙蒙的炊烟从茅草屋顶上飘起，与天空中雪白的云朵混合。风笛高挂在风筝上，伴着一群群归向暖巢的鸟儿的鸣唱，奏出一曲美妙的旋律。大路上，农民们牵着水牛从田地里归来。人们的欢笑声、动物的叫声——声响在空中荡漾，给村庄带来轻松的氛围。
黄昏时分，我和哥哥同村里的孩子们一起在河边的大坝上玩耍。我们正在比赛放风筝。我和哥哥的风筝最漂亮，飞得最高，发出的声音最甜美。我不得不花掉自己所有的积蓄，到附近的小镇买扎风筝的彩纸和两轴线。哥哥得花好多天用精心挑选的竹子做风筝骨架，然后把彩纸贴在上面。最后，我们把父亲做的小竹笛系到风筝上，风筝就可以发声了。这会儿，这只平行四边形的风筝带着彩色尾巴，准备在蓝天上飞翔了。当哥哥把风筝放到最高，我便握住哥哥手上的线来控制风筝。在村里孩子们羡慕的目光下，我受到鼓舞，骄傲和快乐飞得像藍天上的风筝一样高。
后来，有一天，战争之杖搅乱了村里平静的生活。越来越多的人离开村子去寻找另一个更安全的地方。以前，对于“战争”一词，我自己只是知道如何拼写而已，直到发生一桩事件——我们心爱的水牛勤死了。
我依然记得勤来我们家的情景。像大多数越南农民一样，父亲梦想有一头水牛。当邻居家的水牛——勤的母亲——怀上牛崽，父亲每天干完活儿后就得为邻居干活儿，以此换取水牛崽。那时，母亲养了一群鸡，通常上学之前，我早餐都有一个鸡蛋吃。一天早上，母亲把所有的母鸡装在几个笼子里，放在邻居家的水牛车上，去了集市。那天中午，我得到了比以往更多的糖果，但在那之后我再也吃不到鸡蛋了。
勤出生后，父亲把它牵回了家，我就嫉妒起了它。家里的每个人都对它体贴入微，把我给忘了。我的牛奶也得跟勤分享。每天夜晚，父亲挂起蚊帐来保护它;母亲则拿我带有补丁的衣服为它取暖。就连哥哥——我最亲密的朋友——都对它产生了兴趣。我试图重新获得自己所爱的人的关心，但白费功夫，我就恨起了小水牛。
渐渐地，我孩子气的仇恨消失了，我乐意跟小水牛一起玩。勤驮着我和哥哥，越过一块块田地，去寻找绿草地。我和哥哥把地里剩下的红薯烤着吃，勤享用着最好的青草;然后我们到河里游泳，让勤懒洋洋地在泥池中洗澡。
两年半后，勤长大了，成了父亲的帮手，在我们的小块田地里干活儿。农闲期间，勤拉着我们到邻近城镇赶集，大车上还装着果篮。它是我们家中的一员;农耕时，它和父亲一起干重活儿，跟我和哥哥一起在阳光下的田野里享受快乐时光。在我的脑海里，我原以为没有什么能把我跟水牛、绿色的竹篱、金黄的稻田和淡蓝色的湄公河分开。
一天夜里，我被各种隆隆的枪炮声惊醒。我们全家人都躲在木床下。我在母亲的怀里瑟瑟发抖，惊恐得一个字也说不出来。爆炸的轰响越来越近，炸到了我们的房子，把房子照亮。可怜的勤的叫声淹没了爆炸声。父亲顾不上自己的安危，朝牛棚跑去，想尽一切办法抢救勤，但都无济于事。水牛的惨叫声使母亲突然放声大哭。
为了结束勤的痛苦，父亲多次高高地举起锤子，但又多次放下来。勤的眼睛发红，泪水不断地流，这使父亲犹豫不决。最后，他使出了全身力气，一锤砸在勤的脖子上。水牛倒下了，父亲也倒下了。父亲的眼角闪着泪光。我长这么大，还是第一次看见父亲哭。他为我们可怜的勤而哭，也为他的梦想破灭而哭，那正是一个越南农民普普通通的梦想。我立刻意识到，我的金色童年结束了。