The bridge and nostalgia

(Baonghean) - I've always thought that Vinh is so lucky to have the Lam River. Just thinking about rivers flowing through cities evokes so many dreams. How many cities in the world, thanks to a river flowing through them, a bridge reflecting its image, are mentioned, are remembered?

Vinh is particularly special not only because of the Lam River and the Ben Thuy Bridge, but also because this very point marks the boundary between two regions, two regions often referred to collectively as Nghe An. Through centuries of change and shifts, the way regions are divided and named may differ, but these two lands, these two souls, remain closely intertwined. Beyond the Ben Thuy Bridge, the Lam River is called the La River, but they simply flow into the sea. The bridge and the river, in a way, are merely fragile boundaries that temporarily divide neighboring lands geographically.

I don't know how many times I've crossed the Ben Thuy Bridge, silently watching the waves with it night after night, resting my chin on the railing, my hand touching the iron bars, listening to its rumbling amidst the rumble of passing cars. And down on the river, I always see the tiny, yet infinitely warm, light of a fisherman's fire amidst the murmuring waves. That light seems so distant from the bright electric lights illuminating the Ben Thuy Bridge.

A certain fishing family, seemingly oblivious to the noisy, bustling life and dazzling lights just a few poles away, calmly lit their oil lamps, ate their evening meal, the wife serving her husband something, and I felt as if they were smiling in their small, about two-square-meter boat… Once, I said to the young man who walked beside me in my distant youth: “I’m the same, I just need a small boat!” I received a warm and understanding look in return. That look seemed to say to me: “You’ll see, life isn’t that simple. But how whimsical and lovely that thought is!”

But that was when I had grown up…

I also have the river and the bridge from my childhood. My childhood was so innocent and carefree that I always thought I would never leave it. The day my grandmother passed away, I ran like a sleepwalker towards the bridge, dropping the silver coin she gave me into the river, letting the gentle water caress that memento along with the burning sadness in my heart. Once, rushing from Nghi Xuan to Vinh on my bicycle, I crossed the bridge just as a thunderstorm broke out. My straw hat, with its loose strap, flew into the water, and I cried all night.

There were also days when we high school students got so engrossed in playing on the bridge that we returned home late at night, and the next day we'd excitedly "show off" how our mothers scolded us and our grandmothers were angry. One story we often recounted to amuse each other was about the love life of one of our classmates' older sisters.

Ms. Ha was a young woman, not exceptionally beautiful but charming, who lived near Vinh market and was in love with a young man from Can Loc. Once, they pledged their love by locking their hands together with a chain and then throwing the key into the river from the Ben Thuy bridge. We heard the story and laughed heartily, and whenever we went to the bridge together, we would jokingly say, "I bet you can't find Ms. Ha's key!"

Sunset over Ben Thuy Bridge.

The Ben Thuy bridgehead was often our meeting point on weekends or afternoons off from school, where we'd stroll along the Lam River bank, picking wildflowers or watching the fishermen cast their nets. Perhaps my friends didn't notice, but I still vividly remember the pungent, earthy smell of the Lam River on those summer afternoons. I believe that every land, every river, has its own unique scent, and the earthy, pungent smell of the Lam River gives me the feeling of being one with the land and sky of Nghe An, of truly being a part of this beloved region.

As we grew older, the river separating the two provinces seemed less wide than before, the banks appeared closer, and crossing between them became commonplace. Everything became so familiar that we stopped thinking about it.

For much of our lives, we tend to do things without realizing that everything is in flux, that each relationship, each period of time, has its own value, following one another like bridges. There are bridges of joy, bridges of sadness, bridges of childhood, bridges of adulthood, bridges of aspiration, love, suffering, or happiness…

I, too, lived without realizing that every wave beneath the bridge stirred a hidden sorrow if we listened to it. I didn't know that the straw hat I dropped into the river years ago during a storm, which angered my mother, wasn't lost because I took something to protect her from the sun and rain, but because it was a memento connected to my grandmother's final days. I also didn't know, until much later, that the charming girl named Ha had a life of misfortune after parting ways with the young man from Can Loc...

It wasn't until much later that I heard the story of the ferryman at Ben Thuy in the 1960s and 70s – the poet Nguyen Dang Che, a son of Yen Thanh. These wartime stories, though unfamiliar to our generation, deeply moved me and my friends.

Throughout this country, ferries and boats carrying passengers across rivers will gradually be replaced by new bridges. But these bridges, their invisible presence in history, are the most profound reminders of the past, and on those barges of Ben Thuy all those years ago, the blood, sweat, and tears of brave soldiers like Nguyen Dang Che were reflected in the river, forever remaining as long as the Lam Giang River flows and the Hong Linh Mountain is imprinted against the sky.

Former Ben Thuy Ferry Manager with distant memories.

It's been over 10 years since I left Vinh. I've also left the beloved S-shaped land that I longed to return to in my dreams, like a bewildered child searching for its mother's breasts. The beautiful bridges like Stari Most, Chapel, Rialto, and Ponte Vecchio that I've crossed can never fill the void in my mind, the constant absence of Ben Thuy and the Lam Giang River during my years of exile. Surely, the Ben Thuy Bridge is much different now, built and renovated to be more solid and impressive.

And surely, many generations still grow up in Vinh, in Nghi Xuan, innocent and radiant in their school days, only to one day feel a pang of nostalgia remembering a corner of the river, a bridge. Life goes on in its own way, but what is important is that each of us must always connect those bridges to our roots, the past, and love.

If I could go back to Vinh right now, I would light incense and plant some yellow chrysanthemums on my grandmother's grave. I would gently open the rusty iron gate, run into the kitchen, hug my mother from behind, and cry, asking her to forgive me, for my exile and for all my childhood follies. Then I would walk to Ben Thuy Bridge, lean against the railing, and whisper a song about the Lam River to find a timeless oar…

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