Remembering the teachers from Nghe An province.

Nghe An province is now very close to my hometown of Ninh Binh. So close that it only takes a few hours by car from Ninh Binh to Thanh Hoa. So close that the road from my house to Quynh Luu, the hometown of my former math teacher, Mr. Bich, is about the same distance as from my house to Hanoi. Yet, back when I was in high school more than 40 years ago, mentioning Nghe An felt like a distant, remote place. The names of Vinh city, Nam Dan district (Uncle Ho's hometown), Quynh Luu, Dien Chau... all seemed far away, let alone the remote districts of Tuong Duong, Ky Son, and Que Phong in western Nghe An.

I first met people from Nghe An province when a group of students from Vinh University of Education came to the school for their practical training. It's been easily half a century since then. Back then, we 8th-grade students carried the first loads of earth to lay the foundation for our classrooms in the Tien Nong - Yen Mac area. The newly established school lacked everything. A wild, overgrown field. An ancient oak tree with lush green leaves. The classrooms were made of thatch, bamboo, and leaves. Each student contributed 30 thatch sheets for the roof; the wood for the pillars, rafters, and beams seemed to have been provided by the district. We teachers and students dug and expanded the foundation, creating a pond; this pond grew larger and larger as students in subsequent classes continued to dig and expand the foundation. All the students came from farming families – fathers plowed, mothers planted rice, brothers fished, sisters caught crabs; though they were called the children of strong laborers, they were all thin, weak, frail, and pale-faced. The whole village was starving. The whole commune was starving. At that time, the whole North was also starving. While carrying soil to level the classroom floor, some children were so hungry that their faces turned pale and they fainted, with the soil spilling all over their legs and stomachs.

A classroom during wartime. (Illustrative image: Archival material)

One Monday morning, during the flag-raising ceremony, I was late for school. I was late because it was the first day of the lunar year, the weather was chilly, and I spent my time admiring the scenery, the rivers and mountains. My mind wandered, gazing at the late-blooming peach blossoms in my garden, their delicate pink petals just beginning to open. I saw the New Year's pole in someone's yard, still swaying in the wind, its talisman still dangling, the earthenware bells hanging at the top, still tinkling with the sound of warding off evil spirits. The district market was deserted and desolate, its stalls and tables bare. Just before Tet, at the market gate, under the red-leaved banyan tree, people were selling Dong Ho paintings printed on gilded paper; there was the old man selling clay figurines dozing off, the ice cream vendor occasionally honking her horn... Inside the market, there were rows of sticky rice, mung beans, wood ear mushrooms, shiitake mushrooms, and even banana leaves and bamboo tubes for making banh chung (traditional Vietnamese rice cakes)... But now, in the cold of the first day of the lunar year, the people in my village had gone to the fields to work, the market hadn't arrived yet, and it was so quiet and deserted. In my heart, as a young student, I felt a sense of longing and wistfulness for the Tet holiday that had just passed.

Startled, realizing I was late for the flag-raising ceremony, I ran to class only to find the schoolyard packed with students sitting neatly in rows. I hurriedly slipped into the back row. Calming myself down, I looked up and saw that to the right of the flagpole were several rows of familiar teachers, while to the left were over thirty young, unfamiliar faces. And a tall, unfamiliar young man was singing, in a Nghe An accent:“Whose voice is that, singing in our homeland, so rhythmic and clear? That's the sound of the militia training to defend the village, defending the Soviet sky of Nghe An. Oh, the waters of the Lam River flow from the mountains, through Anh Son, Thanh Chuong, and Nam Dan. We still hear, we still hear the echoes of the old songs. Oh, when will the waters of the Lam River ever dry up? Just like the revolutionary spirit of our people, even amidst storms and heavy rain, Soviet Nghe An remains Nghe An...”He sang a cappella. His voice was soaring. Very passionate. We young students sat below, mouths agape, listening. Later, I learned that it was the song "The Folk Song of Nghe An" by composer Tan Huyen.

Students from Vinh University of Education make their own tools to participate in production with the local people. Photo: Vinh University of Education.

The young man singing with his Nghe An accent was one of more than 30 male and female students from Vinh University of Education who came to my Yen Mo High School for practical training. After that flag-raising ceremony, we started calling the student interns... teachers. They were young and vibrant, like a fresh breeze blowing into our simple, poor, and humble district school. They replaced the old teachers, taking on the role of class homeroom teachers and observing their lessons. At first, we sat in the classroom, in rows of seats, listening to the old teachers lecture; then the new teachers started teaching. We students became more diligent in attending classes and arrived on time because of the lively, exciting, and fresh atmosphere in the classroom.

My homeroom teacher was a female literature student. She had a bright, charming face, pearly white teeth, and expressive eyes; she was warm and approachable, like an older sister. During breaks, the teachers often organized supplementary recreational activities. During the 15-minute break between lessons on Tran Hung Dao's "Proclamation to the Soldiers," she said: "Earlier, you heard me talk a lot about war and invaders... Now, Tet (Lunar New Year) is over, and spring has arrived. Which of you knows a poem about spring or Tet? Please read it aloud to me and your classmates to change the atmosphere." A few hands hesitated, raised, then lowered again. Perhaps no one knew any, or they knew but were too shy, typical of country students. She encouraged them, telling them to be brave and confident so they could take control of their lives later in life. Then she offered to read the poem "Tet Market" by the poet Doan Van Cu.“...People from the villages excitedly head to the Tet market/ They happily carry their goods across the green grass/ Little boys in red shirts run around/ A few old men lean on their canes and walk slowly/ A girl in a bright red bodice silently smiles/ A little boy nestles his head against his mother's bodice/ Two villagers carrying pigs run ahead/ A funny-looking yellow cow chases after them...”.Her Nghe An accent resonated, sometimes soaring, sometimes sinking. It was truly expressive. I was quite good at Literature, knowing many stories and poems by heart, and often recited poetry in class during arts and culture sessions. But when I read the poem "Tet Market," it was all smooth and emotionless; yet she read it with such emotion, poignancy, and wistfulness. As she read, images of the little boy running around, the girl in the red bodice, the old woman by the ancient temple, time washing her hair, the Confucian scholar, the golden cow, the rooster with the dark comb, the edge of the thatched hillside, the old buffalo pretending to sleep... all appeared, warm and strangely familiar...

After a month of internship, the group of students from Vinh University of Education departed. Like a flock of chirping birds, they arrived and then left. We walked to But Market to see them off, where a car took the teachers to Ganh Station to board the train back to Vinh. The classroom was somber that day. Everyone was quiet, their hearts filled with a sense of longing and nostalgia for something that had just passed by so quickly, something they couldn't grasp.

At the beginning of the peaceful ninth grade school year, the US announced the expansion of the war to North Vietnam. We donned straw hats and walked long distances to school. A thousand worries filled our minds: worrying about the buffaloes not eating the cooperative's rice, worrying about scooping up extra crabs and fish to make up for the meager meals of rice mixed with potatoes and cassava, worrying about studying hard to avoid being scolded by our teachers. But the most terrifying nightmare was crossing the Bút Bridge, fearing American bombs would fall. In the half-submerged, half-above-ground bomb shelters, dimly lit, we still diligently studied. Back then, many teachers were very young, unmarried, living in a row of communal houses, rooms side-by-side. In front of each teacher's room, they planted water spinach, a few clumps of coriander, dill, mint, etc.; they cooked their own meals. Many students, over twenty years old and quite grown up, would occasionally drop by the teachers' rooms to secretly help with cooking. I still remember Mr. Bich, my math teacher and homeroom teacher. He was from Quynh Luu (Nghe An province), with slightly pockmarked but very charming and masculine face. He wrote in a firm, free-flowing calligraphic style. He was amiable and approachable; the female students were very fond of him.

Besides teaching literacy, the teacher also taught his students how to weave straw hats. (Illustrative image: Archival material)

Ms. Ý, the chemistry teacher, was from Nghe An province. She was petite, pretty, with fair skin like a peeled egg, always smiling, and kind. Mr. Châu, the Chinese teacher, also from Nghe An, was tall with a square face. Mr. Châu had been at the school for a while when Mr. Ý and Ms. Ý fell in love. I still remember it vividly: at the end of the morning chemistry class, she hesitated, hinting at something, then said, "In three days, I'm getting married. My husband is also one of your teachers. I invite you all to my wedding; you'll find out who my husband is then." She smiled shyly, her face flushed. The whole class erupted like a beehive. "Mr. Châu!"; "We know!"; "Mr. Châu!"; "Ms. Ý - Mr. Châu!"; "Mr. Châu - Ms. Ý!" She thrust the invitations into the class monitor's hand, asking them to pass them on to the students, then smiled and hurried out.

Mr. Thuc, also from Nghe An province, taught Physics. He had a very bright smile and fair skin. Mr. Thuc was also the teacher of my fourth and fifth sisters. He married Ms. Hai, a teacher from when she taught me in junior high school. On their wedding day, my sister rode her bicycle to take me there. The wedding was held in the evening in the assembly hall. In my young mind, I pictured strange images: The main backdrop had the Chinese characters for "double happiness" and the letters T and H intertwined. On the right was the slogan "Happy new marriage, striving for excellence in teaching and learning." On the left was the slogan: "Sweet happiness, for our beloved students." On the tables were bowls of roses picked from the school garden, mixed with wildflowers. A plate of candy and a pack of Tam Dao cigarettes. Green tea poured from a teapot. The bride wore a white blouse and black silk trousers. The groom wore trousers, a white shirt, and a tie. A simple, unpretentious, yet warm and happy wedding of teachers from a district school.

War. Invasion. The relentless bombing eventually subsided. On January 27, 1973, the Paris Agreement ended the war and restored peace in Vietnam. The bombing in the North ceased, and my students and I returned to our old school to finish the second semester... The North was silent, but the war in the South was far from over. In late 1973 and early 1974, many seats in our 10B class remained empty. Mr. Van, the principal, organized several farewell ceremonies for students enlisting in the army. We said goodbye to our friends going to war without thinking about their return; we encouraged each other, promising to return to school after the country was unified to finish our unfinished lessons.

A practical lesson with simple tools. (Illustrative image: 자료)

We often stood playing or riding our bikes around the oak tree, feeling a pang of sadness as the day of farewell marked the end of our high school life. I diligently used a penknife to carve into the oak's trunk: Farewell to school days, May 31st... The tree oozed sap as if weeping. In that moment of wistful sadness, our homeroom teacher, Mr. Bich, happened to pass by and noticed; he gently patted my shoulder and said, "I share your sadness at leaving school. But think about it, if everyone carved hundreds, even thousands, of numbers and letters into the oak tree like you did, the tree would be in so much pain." I felt guilty, guilty for leaving school on the very last day. Now, my carvings are gone, and the gnarled trunk sweats profusely.

After many years away from home, preoccupied with making a living, we finally returned to our old school. The school was here, but where were our old teachers and friends? After much searching and effort, we finally managed to invite back the teachers who had taught us in the past. Mr. Bich, who taught Math, Ms. Y, who taught Chemistry, and Mr. Chau, who taught Chinese, all came back from the distant Nghe An province. Time flies by so quickly. It seems like only yesterday our hair was still black, and so was the teachers', but now it's streaked with gray. Mr. Bich still recognized me. He remembered the time I enlisted in the army in January when he came to my house to say goodbye. He went back to his hometown for Tet (Lunar New Year) and received news that I was joining the army. He took the train from Cau Giat Station to Ganh Station in my hometown, then cycled against the winter wind back to the school early just to see his student on the day of my enlistment, as if not seeing him would mean saying goodbye forever. He pressed a dried, wilted sticky rice cake, wrapped before Tet, into my hand, but it was still fragrant and soft. Tears welled up in my eyes because of the kindness of my teacher from Nghe An. He said, "Go there and come back with a ten, then come back to school and recite poetry for me and your friends." Now, meeting him again, he's happy to see that we've all grown up.

Ms. Ý still has the same bright smile as she did decades ago. The retired teachers moved to Vinh to live. She still often listens to bedtime stories and evening cultural programs on the Voice of Vietnam radio station. She said: "I called Mr. Văn and asked if there was a student named Sương Nguyệt Minh from our school who wrote about the school, the teachers, and her old friends. Listening to the radio broadcast felt so real, like it was right before my eyes." She said: "Every time I hear her essays about her hometown and old school on the radio, I get emotional. I remember during Tet, before returning home in time for New Year's Eve, the teachers would have an early farewell dinner. I went to Bút market to shop for Tet, buying freshly ground glutinous rice flour and molasses to make sticky rice cakes. The sticky rice cakes from her hometown in Nghe An are similar to the molasses cakes from my hometown." She promised that when she comes to Vinh, she will make sticky rice cakes for the students to eat.

Indeed, I cannot understand why teachers from the distant Nghe An province, who dedicated their entire lives to teaching in Ninh Binh, my hometown, only returned to live out the rest of their lives after retirement? Oh, my beloved teachers from Nghe An!