Remembering the folk songs

(Baonghean) - There is something, indistinct, that remains present here, despite the many years of ups and downs and changes that span almost a lifetime. It seems like an old, sweet, and gentle flavor. It seems like a cultural trait, something that will steadfastly endure through time. People say that civilization may be fleeting, but culture is enduring. Something that has taken deep root in life cannot easily fade away in a day or two. On the contrary, it will last with humanity because it is deeply imprinted in their consciousness, thoughts, habits, and souls.

The Vinh Tan Folk Song Club (Vinh City) performs the "vi phuong cay" folk song. Photo: Truong Sinh

I had that feeling when I returned to the land where I was born and raised. Before, it was a desolate, impoverished countryside, but even in its poverty, it was incredibly poetic and lovely. The people in my hometown loved to sing. I vividly remember the folk songs sung by the women on the river and in the mulberry fields while working. The melodies were smooth and gentle, yet tinged with sadness. Something about them lingered in my soul, haunting and compelling. Once, when I went on a long trip with my father, I cried constantly because I missed my sister's singing. "Tell the old moon to not set, tell the rooster to not crow." And then: "One night is five watches / Sleep well, don't turn over, for the silkworm's heart is troubled / Like someone to remember and cherish in my heart"... Those melodies kept repeating in my young mind. And the image of my sister too; she wasn't beautiful, but she had a strange charm. Her voice was soft and gentle, like the sound of rain falling late at night. She sang while working, in the fields, on the mulberry plantation, or washing clothes by the pond... Her singing became an indispensable part of my sweet childhood memories.

After that trip with my father, my mother found out I cried and said that from now on I was forbidden from going anywhere else. But my father seemed to understand, saying, "Let her be! There were times when even the beatings hurt, and she didn't cry. This time, her crying shows that she misses him..."

I, a young boy just learning the first few letters of the alphabet, already knew how to cherish the sounds of folk songs and traditional music.

And for many years afterward, I always fondly remembered that land, those melodies. That strangely beautiful land, where even the most humble villagers could sing, could become artists. They didn't throw themselves into work as devoted laborers, but rather found joy in their work, playing with their buffaloes, plows, sickles, and nets... They sang for themselves, for each other, on the vast stage of their lives, where they were both actors and audience. The mornings in the dew-covered mulberry fields, the afternoons in the fields bathed in the twilight, the moonlit nights in the weaving villages... Many times I burst into tears because I intensely missed that old flavor. I wished I could dissolve like the moonlight, like a dewdrop, to simply sink into a night of the past, where weariness, anxiety, anger, and calculations were all cast aside, allowing people to soar with their songs. I wished I could dissolve like the waves on the Lam River, to drift gently along with the boatmen's melodies.

My sister, whose folk singing was as beautiful as falling rain, had an unfortunate life. But I believe those were her brightest days, and folk singing was her greatest happiness. I often picture her on a bygone afternoon, picking mulberry leaves in the fields, singing. Her hair swirled in the wind, her voice carried through the air, drifting into every blade of grass and leaf. She had never been so beautiful, never so blissfully happy, and would never be, throughout her long life. Returning to this land today, I still feel as if I see it all. I see the stage being lifted, the Lam River caressing the age-old melodies, the familiar rice paddies and mulberry fields inviting me in. I see her in her brown robe, picking mulberry leaves, her folk singing echoing, soft as the sound of rain falling on a late night...

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