Sunny and rainy in a village field

1.Memories of a field

My village is a purely agricultural village, a lowland area. In the countryside, nothing can be grown except rice. There are two crops a year, the winter-spring crop and the summer-autumn crop. My grandmother was originally a girl from Hanoi, but she left to come to this land to be a daughter-in-law. She got used to planting seedlings in the fields full of wriggling green leeches, making friends with the long bucket, the round bucket, the sickle, the hoe, getting used to counting time by the green rice season, the ripe rice season, the season of drying and stacking straw. My grandmother immersed herself in the fields, like many people in the countryside who were born, grew up, worked, and loved each other in the village fields. There were people who spent their whole lives in the fields and were not used to anything other than the rotation of rice plants.

We grew up peacefully in the brown flap of her shirt that smelled of mud and betel leaves. We got used to her undulating silhouette on the deep green April rice fields where the rice had just begun to smell, got used to her bent back as she planted the remaining young rice seedlings trembling in the frosty afternoon. We also got used to her way of predicting the weather, predicting whether the harvest would be good or bad through the sound of birds calling for water, through the flight of dragonflies, or looking up at the dark or slightly overcast sky at New Year's Eve. She taught us about the moment when we could catch a lot of shrimp and fish in the newly harvested fields in the dry season, taught us how to find snails that eat dew in the dry season, how to build mounds of straw close together like a small roof...

We were so familiar that sometimes I didn’t think she was born in another countryside. The day I sent my grandmother off to the village, I stood for a long time by the small ditch where she used to bare her feet after wading through the fields to clean off the mud, and stood for a long time by the vermicelli tree at the end of the village, which was also the beginning of the fields, where my grandmother used to take off her hat to rest her feet after finishing her work. I saw her small figure carved into the countryside with eternal strokes. She, like many others who were born, stayed, or many others who came here, cultivated this land, sweated on every piece of soil, every plowed path, walked on the banks, the fields, hands weeding, hoeing, digging ditches, bailing water. This generation of people, following another generation. Sweat poured down to make the land greener. And then they chose to be calm, closing their eyes and lying on the fields whispering with the waves of rice.

There were narrow afternoons in the heart of the city, I missed my fields so much. The fields were covered with silver soil, fluttering with the seeds of the harvest, diligently nurturing dreams, hopes, believing in the alluvium that tomorrow would “still sprout and grow” even after the flood and storm had just passed… And then, I was busy searching for…

2.Four generations of sun and rain on the sedge field

Just a few kilometers from the center of Vinh city, running along the Lam river dike road, you will see the vast sedge of Hung Hoa. On the sedge field in July, I met an old man from Phong Thuan hamlet diligently harvesting and splitting sedge. Looking at his muscular body, bare-chested under the afternoon sun, no one would think that old man Le Xuan Thuy is 70 years old, and is also a war invalid. He said: “My family has been growing sedge since our ancestors. As soon as we opened our eyes, we saw sedge plants and smelled the sedge. At the age of 6, we already knew how to pull sedge. At the age of 10, we went to the fields with our parents to harvest. The girls were not used to it, seeing sharp sedge roots, stabbing their bare feet was painful, but we were used to walking on sedge roots, on this bumpy field. Walking on flat ground, sometimes our feet felt strange and unsteady.”

His slow, seemingly rough words, however, surprised me. Not only because they were simple, but also because they were full of depth and love. He told me about the old sedge crops, the golden age of Hung Hoa sedge, about the time of cooperation, the laughter and chatter filled the vast fields of nearly 70 hectares of sedge. Then he talked about his family, which now has 6 sao of sedge, harvesting 2 crops a year instead of 3 crops like before, and "the reason is that the sedge has all degenerated". He sighed, not hiding his sadness, that none of his 4 children now follow the sedge profession, "2 left the countryside to go to the South to make a living, 2 are construction workers". So the sedge profession of 4 generations will be difficult to maintain. "I am happy for them, because making sedge seems hard, but I regret the traditional profession of our ancestors". But he still hopes, "Maybe Hung Hoa people will find a sustainable way for sedge. Who knows, maybe one day sedge farmers will be able to enjoy prosperity thanks to their land."

He also talked about the year he went to war, the last rice ball he ate was on this very field, perhaps sitting on these very sedge roots, which the sedge plants had cut and grown up until now. He fought for 81 days and nights in the hot Quang Tri battlefield, in his dream of bombs and bullets he still saw the vast sedge fields of his homeland. Then the day he returned, he gave up his guns and bullets, took off his soldier's uniform to put on a farmer's shirt, and he worked hard on this field again. "At my age, it's rare for someone to still go out and collect sedge. About five years younger than me, there's Mr. Du in that field over there, he also returned from the battlefield in the South, also a wounded soldier, in a more difficult situation, weaker health, and still clinging to the sedge plants to live."

Following Mr. Thuy's instructions, I met Mr. Du. Mr. Du was born in 1954, a 2/4 disabled veteran. His son is the 5th generation and is also working on sedge in this field. Life is still difficult, so he, despite his weakness, still has to go to the field. "But during the sedge season, I miss it even when I don't go out. I met my grandmother in this field. We fell in love with each other because of our diligence and hard work, and we became a couple. It can be said that, except for the time we spent in the army, my whole life and my wife's life have taken place in the field."

I also met here Ms. Hieu, Ms. Duyen... bustling with laughter, drenched in sweat on the sunny fields. That is the job of sedge, it needs the sun. There are so many difficulties in the sedge job, along with the worry of its decline, but at this moment, the sound of the splitting machine, the sound of the knife cutting into each green sedge leaf, the sound of footsteps stepping on each grassy soil, and the sound of locusts jumping after being disturbed by human feet made me feel like everything was in a happy melody...

The Phong Thuan farmers go to the fields at 4am, come home at noon, and go out again in the afternoon until 7 or 8pm. Over the years, they have become accustomed to the musty smell of the soil evaporating when the sun rises, the smell of dew drops melting in the dawn, the smell of wild grass and sedge when they are as tall as the field. And the smell of the crops, the smell that brings gentle joy and an indescribable affection that only after spending many years in the fields can the owners truly feel.

3.Burnt corn season in Khanh Son

In contrast to the vast green of Hung Hoa sedge, the Khanh Son (Nam Dan) fields are covered in a rustling brown-yellow color. A small woman nimbly carried sacks of corn onto scales along the small road leading to Van Ru ferry, wiping her sweat as she spoke to us. Her name is Tuyet, 60 years old, a resident of Khanh Son 2, who crossed the Van Ru ferry to Khanh Son 1 fields to harvest and dry corn for hire. "This year, only the grass is green, the corn is burnt." She spoke with so much sadness, then pointed to the "corn owner." "Owner" Pham Viet Xuan, 51 years old, has been using the alluvial land to grow a few acres of corn for many years, but every year he is worried. "Sandy soil is already difficult to grow, and this year the drought is too much, the corn cannot produce all the ears." Mr. Xuan also said, "If we do it, we will definitely lose money. We have to hire people to pick the corn in the field, peel it, dry it right on this small road, bag it, and weigh it. Most of the corn fields this year had to be abandoned because the corn did not produce any kernels, and the harvest was very small."

In the vast fields, the sun has made the corn plants dry and brittle. Occasionally, there is the shadow of a person picking up scraps in the fields that have not been harvested. Mrs. Tuyet said that all her life she has worked in the fields, from housework to finding work to make ends meet. Farming, for her, is a profession that is passed down from generation to generation, so she knows every nook and cranny of the field. She is a single mother raising a daughter, “selling her face to the earth, her back to the sky”, and every year she relies on “God’s grace”. However, she and Mr. Xuan, after years of watching the drought and floods, still believe that “today the water is poor, tomorrow the rice is golden” and remind each other: “don’t leave the fields fallow”…

Like all farmers across the fields of Vietnam, the people of Khanh Son have a deep love for their land. They do not know how to express that love in words, but I know, it is right here, in their hearts, in their eyes filled with joy when asked about farming, in their gentle and radiant smiles even when they are working the hardest. That love is imbued in every drop of sweat that falls on the fields, and the seasons that have passed for so long have all had the salty taste of sweat and tears. That love comes naturally like the winds that already exist freely in the sky. Deep down, it is the natural attachment between farmers and their work, the work that their ancestors and parents have done for thousands of years, both as a way to sustain life and as a game that they devote their whole lives to, voluntarily and almost naturally.

4.Epilogue

As an artist loves his stage, the farmer loves his field because for most of his life it is his sky. Sweat pours down so that the green branches grow, shimmering in the sun.

I have always believed in a sentiment that is deeply rooted in the Vietnamese mind, which is the love for the fields. No matter who you are, a child born in the countryside or in a bustling city, whether you are a person who has been accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the city since childhood or someone who works hard all year round. A love that is not as simple as loving a place where you were born or have been attached to for a long time. But perhaps it is an innate love, a love that existed even before humans were born, it is both very real and spiritual. Because in the S-shaped homeland, people cannot count all the fields. For thousands of years, people have lived and breathed in their atmosphere. And not only to make a living, when they die, they also lie down in the fields, under green graves. From generation to generation, the fields are truly the flesh and blood of humans for that reason. It is the place they want to return to to lie down forever when they are old. It is the place that expatriates want to turn back to just to stand hesitantly in a red sunset. It is the place where, in a time of sadness or failure in life, people want to look at to ease their hearts. It is the place where, every Tet holiday or Thanh Minh festival, or ancestor's death anniversary, people make an appointment to return to light incense on the graves and whisper to the eternal world their love and longing...

And so, the field is not only the place where farmers work. It is sometimes their whole sky. It is their mother. It is the past, present and future of human beings. Perhaps that is why I love so much the poems about farmers written by Nghe An poet Nguyen Sy Dai, and always use it to remind myself:

Farmers live quietly like the earth

Maybe wilderness, maybe crops

Please do not lose, do not have false faith

Nine-tenths of the country - farmers