I still remembered the Accepting Ceremony. The anticipation, the nervous buzzing in the air. The acceptance rate is a-hundred-percent, but we could not help but pride ourselves as mature.

I remembered standing and singing the anthem, looking up at Uncle Ho with a great, great smug on my face.

I remembered when my name was called, my hasty jogs up to the raised platform, remember bowing a bit when the Coordinator handed me the scarf.

I remembered the weight of the scarf that I had tied properly on the first try, sitting across my collarbone, tucked neatly underneath the collar. I remembered the meaning of the colour red, remembered the young bamboo shoot that supposed to represent us, a new generation.

I remembered the stories, the legends, of our very own heroes, coming from no-name towns and die in blazing fire, stopping the enemies from taking over Vietnam.

I remembered the Coordinator ends the Ceremony with a simple statement that forever echoing in my head, whenever I revisit these memories, You're our new hope, ones that will build Vietnam strong and powerful. You're carrying the blood of our brave brothers, carrying on their fighting spirits and desire for a better Vietnam. Don't let the dead down, don't let the sacrifices go in vain.

And, equally vividly, I remembered the betrayal sting that numb my feeling when I realized our nation is a bloody bloodthirsty race.

I remembered the number of time I re-read the critique on Vietnamese anthem, letting the foreign words sink into my head. Stepping on our enemies' head and corpses, wading through the sea of blood.

I remembered looking at the old, old, lost photographs, where Vietnamese soldiers buried an entire Vietnamese village alive, running a tank over a patch of packed-corpses hole.

I remembered survival memoirs where Vietnamese tortured each other for what-so-called "education". I remembered Vietnamese stomping on each other's head, clawing at the Americans' pants, begging those white men to bring them out of their home.

I remembered listening to mothers and sisters, whose sons and brothers were forced to fight and sacrifice themselves, whose sons and brothers were forced to hold the AK between their mothers and sisters' eyes and shot.

I remembered, remembered, remembered, remembered my pride and my naivety and patriotism to my country. I remembered everything crumbles down in my hands.

I remembered being ashamed of being a Vietnamese. I remembered being ashamed of the language, of my race, of my existence, of my country.

I remembered holding the red scarf on my hands, feeling innocent blood drips between my fingers.

I remembered looking at the gentle Coordinator with a different eye.

I remembered the chill pricks down my spine whenever she saluted me with the familiar words.

I remembered thinking, Are you hoping for us to continue your massacre?