War looks like my grandmother’s hands cracking bones at dawn, same as they did when the city was Saigon and the bombs were falling. It looks like my son scrolling past drone strikes while eating nuggets, thinking war is something only Americans do. War is the silence when the fishermen don’t come back from the East Sea, and the government says nothing, and the news says less. It’s the way my knife hits the board when I chop brisket—rhythm never changes, not during shortages, not during raids, not when the rent jumps again. War isn’t flags or parades; it’s surviving the peace with your soup still hot and your truth still yours. I serve broth, not speeches, but don’t mistake my pot for weakness.