On the wall at the foot of my bed hangs a picture of a gateway through which lies the residue of life never fully realized. At this site, eight years prior to my birth, the United States of America purposefully melted hundreds of thousands of people, with a fire hotter than the sun. Next to this haunting image of Hiroshima hangs a picture of a female Buddhist cleric, peacefully sitting amid gasoline-fueled flames, whose outstretched arms seem to be inviting me to accept her love and forgiveness for my country’s choice to war against and to decimate her native Vietnam.
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