Green, the color of the homeland

(Baonghean) - I was born in a remote, hilly region. My childhood was closely tied to that barren countryside, along with familiar images: the banyan tree, the riverbank, the village communal house, and the endless green bamboo groves. When I was in 10th grade, my whole family moved to my maternal grandparents' village in the coastal area, leaving behind so many childhood memories… In my memory, the image of the majestic, sturdy green bamboo groves surrounding the village; the creaking bamboo hammocks on summer afternoons; the flocks of white egrets flying home at sunset – all remain deeply etched in my mind… Every time I recall them, I feel a pang of emotion…

Village bamboo hedge. Photo: Internet

My village was surrounded by bamboo groves. The green stalks shot straight up into the sky, towering high. Many kinds of birds came to nest there, but we children only dared to stand below, cupping our hands and looking up with longing eyes, listening to the chirping of the young birds. Once, Khoai "dared" to sneak into a bird's nest. He nimbly weaved between the bamboo stalks, climbing up to the fifth joint, but had to give up; the intertwined bamboo branches scratched his back… Those were the days we skipped our afternoon naps, following our friends to gather bamboo sheaths. The sheaths were as big as hand fans, a rich yellow color. A single walk around the village would fill a large sack. My mother would bring them home, straighten them, meticulously tear them into small strands, and then weave hats. The hats woven from bamboo sheaths weren't as beautiful as those made from coconut leaves, but they were strong and durable. Adding a strap made of dried young palm leaves, my sisters and I had hats to cover our heads when going to school or tending the buffaloes…

During the bamboo leaf-falling season, curved bamboo boats can be seen everywhere, swirling in the wind. The leaves fall in a torrent, a continuous downpour. The bamboo sheds its outer layer, shivering in the cold of winter. That's when my mother gathers the bamboo leaves. Wearing her worn brown coat, one hand holding a blunt broom, the other dragging a tattered sack, she weaves through the bamboo thickets, collecting leaves to bring home. These are the main fuel sources for the villagers during the rainy season. The bundles of bamboo leaves are used to boil water, cook rice, soup, and pig feed. The smoke is thick and stings the eyes. In my free time, I would join my mother in the kitchen, sometimes helping to brush the leaves into the fire, sometimes using the embers to kill the ants, and sometimes using a burning stick to draw random things on the ground...

My father was skilled at making everything from bamboo. Around April or May each year, when the storms began to arrive, he would cut down the bamboo trees along the edge of the pond that were about to fall. Then he would soak them in the pond until the first fish season of winter. On cold days, I would sit and watch him cut the bamboo into sections as if he were cutting a giant eel he had just pulled from the pond. From just a few pieces of bamboo, under his skillful hands, he transformed them into so many things: baskets, sieves, winnowing trays, six-pronged rakes… My father also made himself a very beautiful pipe, lighting his tobacco with tinder he split from dry bamboo. As for me, he wove me flower baskets and pretty little containers to display my goods; and my older brother was given a cage for fighting roosters, a fish trap, and a basket for crabs…

What I remember most are those summer afternoons lying on a cot with my grandmother, nestled beneath the rustling, creaking bamboo grove. A cool breeze blew in from the distant fields. The rustling of the bamboo stalks was like a gentle lullaby, lulling me to sleep. Those were the evenings bathed in red hues, flocks of white egrets flying back to their nests, their chirping echoing. And the days of rain, wind, and storms, the bamboo stalks bending in the wind, leaning on each other, weathering the elements...

When I'm far away, every time I return to my hometown, seeing the bamboo groves around my village fills me with a sense of longing and excitement. From afar, I can already see the green carpets reaching towards the sky, majestic, imposing, sturdy, and yet so familiar.

But now, every time I return to my hometown, I feel a sense of emptiness. The bamboo groves that have protected and sheltered my village for generations are now only memories. Now, when I go back to the village, I don't see any bamboo anymore, only rows of tall buildings springing up close together. My village has changed so much; life is now more comfortable with modern conveniences. The green bamboo hedges of the past have been replaced by dividing walls. The bamboo bed and the creaking sound of the bamboo swaying in the wind are now just figments of my memory...

Thanh Tuong