We do parades every year.

We would line up under the palpable April sunlight, sweaty and hot and exhausted, donned in our crinkle, old, dark navy PE uniform, smelling like the city—thick motorcycle fumes and filthy Sai Gon river.

Under the red flag and yellow star, we march. Under the dawning, blackening sky, we stand at attention.

Under the shadow of the Indian-almond, we turn, raise the flag poles, split into columns, sing the anthem and unfasten our scarves, repeating a ceremony.

Under the critical eyes, we cross our heart and consciously sync to our classmates. Eyes steely, face grim, hands and feet flutter as one. Inhale as they inhale, exhale as they exhale. Footfalls heavy on the concrete platform like war drumroll.

We're uniform, flawless and coordinate. Like a single, giant, breathing creature, and each other us is a tiny little cell. We are made of the same DNA, stemming from the same ambrois, thinking the same train of thought, sharing the same traits and clawing for the same thing. We march to the same beat and we sing to the same ruptured moral.

Those who fumble with their hands and stutter the anthem lyrics will be scowl and curse. And all of us will have to stay for longer after school hours, sometimes long until the street lights blink brighter than stars, long until the tired singing and steps are the only sound that disrupt the silence of midnight.

We practice these drills, year after year, month after month, day after day. Each day, each month, each year, we become more conform and sync. Without glancing, we remember the-person-in-front-of-us's nape even better than our own face. Without talking, we know the-person-behind-our-back's foot will touch the ground the same time as ours. Without thinking, we utter the words of courageous soldiers without comprehending what's filtering from our mouth.

We're one, lifeless and empty. When the sunlight hits our glassy eyes, the orbs turn into blank disks, reflecting the barren state in our head. We're robots obeying the same switch, putting together by the same manual. Human is a privilege that we don't get to have. We didn't have a choice, either. It's being another tool for the common cause or to die.

We're perfect conformists. We're cheap machines, mass-produced by a system that exploited by the outsiders and the insiders.

Under the nuzzles of guns of our fellow robots, we dig and dig and dig our own little graves. To the footsteps of our ancestors, we stand at attention, in front of our self-digged graves, grenades strapped to our chest, heavier and denser than chain armour.

On top of skulls-and-corpses earth, still wet with oil and blood, we turn, raise the flag poles, sing the anthem and unfasten our scarves, repeating a sacred ceremony.

When the bombing commences, when our saviors come, we detonated.

And we blow apart.

Pieces of metals pierce through the flesh, through the blood, through each other.

Nothing's left of us. Nothing. Not even rust or dust.And we blow apart. Nothing's left of us. Nothing. Not even rust or dust.