During the rainy season, the river's water swirls and becomes murky. The water hyacinths also disperse, carried away by the swift current, no longer gathering in clusters to lie peacefully and bloom. In this season, the children only dare to watch the water flow endlessly towards the sea.
My younger sister from the Mekong Delta, with her sweet, clear voice like the early morning sun, sat engrossed in recounting memories that seemed to have just flown by on the river before us. A small river, like so many others stretching across the country, connected to the rice-growing agricultural tradition. Childhood memories of swimming, washing clothes, catching crickets, flying kites, herding buffalo across the river in the late afternoon sun… So many stories etched into her life by that small river. She was born by that river, and even after becoming a mother, she remained connected to her small village by the river. Her face lit up as she recalled her childhood memories, but her eyes seemed to hold a hint of regret, for everything was no longer the same, even the river beside her home. That regret seemed to pour into me, clouding the silvery moonlight of the night.
How many children have been born by these rivers? And how many have absorbed the flavors of fish, shrimp, clams, and mussels from the alluvial waters, shaping their character? Surely many. The essence of the river is unmistakable if you ever sit attentively and listen to them talk. Eventually, they'll inevitably recount "old stories," recent experiences that seem centuries old. The river flows on, and the adults wither with the years. The old stories remain as memories. Children born in these riverine regions are as generous and open-minded as the rivers themselves, brimming with alluvial soil after each flood season.
Someone once compared the life of a river to that of a human being. Both begin at their source, forming a course, then traverse high mountains and deep valleys, flowing down to the plains, and finally merging into the sea. On this arduous journey, a river sometimes meanders and winds its way through rapids and waterfalls, and at other times flows peacefully and calmly across fields. Where there are rapids and waterfalls, the river creates beautiful scenery; where there are flat plains, it provides fish and shrimp, depositing alluvial soil to create fertile fields and sustain generations. History has recorded some of the most brilliant civilizations of humankind in the basins of these vast rivers. Aren't these the most beautiful proofs of the life of a river? A river's life is always a continuous flow, bringing cool, refreshing water to plants and crops. A river that stops flowing is a dead river, devoid of any intrinsic value, and will eventually erase its own name. Perhaps that is why rivers diligently flow day and night, sometimes quietly, sometimes fiercely, sometimes gently, sometimes violently, creating a never-ending cycle of movement.
The rainy season returns every year. For generations, people have clung to the river, sharing its joys and sorrows. The rhythmic clacking of the nets cast by fishermen still echoes in the twilight hours of shrimp and fish at dawn. The rivers, like the loving heart of a mother, endure the storms and floods, depositing fertile silt along their banks. From these banks, rice, corn, potatoes, and cassava grow lush and green, filling lives with hope. From these banks, the blossoming flowers bloom like the gentle morning sun. From these banks, kites carry the sound of flutes soaring through the green canopy, carried by the soft breeze of the evening.
I sat on this side of the Po Co River, gazing intently at the dugout canoe slowly making its way along the opposite bank as twilight fell. On the other side of the river was our neighbor's country. The river was the border between the two nations. I saw the fisherman in the dugout canoe, just like all the other people I had met who made their living on the river. The same quick, efficient movements of casting and retrieving the nets, the same rhythmic tapping of the oars against the side of the canoe. This side of the river was my country, the other side was another country. But surely the river was unaware of its role as a "boundary." It flowed endlessly through rapids and waterfalls, across fields, through the years, carefully depositing silt to build up the banks, and giving birth to fish and shrimp, as fragrant and nurturing as a mother's heart.
Stories of fragmented, dilapidated rivers. The river where I was born. The cool, gentle river of May that soothed me through its treacherous, winding bends. The river that twisted and turned against nature, yearning to finally merge with the sea. The river of my childhood, poured into me on a moonlit night filled with regret… How can I remember all the named and unnamed rivers I’ve encountered on my many journeys? Perhaps, what remains in me are the diligent flows day and night, sometimes quiet, sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle, sometimes violent. It is a constant cycle, creating the lives of rivers that flow on forever.
Article by: Dao An Duyen
Illustration photo: Trung Ha – Nguyen's Bookstore
