Modern Folk Songs
Part 2 : Suffering

What medal does not have its reverse side ? The glory of a national struggle goes hand in hand with the suffering of people in war. With youth songs, martial songs and folk songs of the Resistance, I sang about the glory of war. From my trip to the Bình-Trị-Thiên region in 1948 onwards, I used folk songs to express the suffering of the people.

During a trip to the provinces of Quảng Bình, Quảng Trị, Thừa Thiên, I saw more clearly the true face of war. I observed life's grandeurs and servitudes (or miseries). I wrote songs full of pathos, such as BAO GIỜ ANH LẤY ÐƯỢC ÐỒN TÂY (When Will You Take the French Outpost). The original text was:
When will you take the French outpost, o soldiers...

Later, when I came to live in Saigon, in order to have the song circulated I had to change the verses:
QUÊ NGHÈO
MY POOR VILLAGE
or
BAO GIỜ ANH LẤY ÐƯỢC ÐỒN TÂY
WHEN WILL YOU TAKE THE FRENCH OUTPOST
(Quảng Bình 1948)
...With its long sandy fields
And tattered bamboo groves.
In the parched fields old men in rags
Hoe the soil near hungry children
Men drag the plough instead of buffaloes.
At dawn when the terrace gardens are still half hidden in the mist
People can be glimpsed on the slopes
Scooping water and sweating
When the dying sun sets on the sparse potato rows
Faintly echoes the sad laughter of a mother
Content with her pot of rice padded with maize
When will they have a rich rice harvest
So that the young girl is not saddened when the cold wind comes
When will the rice harvest fill the courtyard
So that the young man can be near his love

Here and there smoke rises from my village
The shabby thatched roofs seem to long for somebody
Are they wondering who caused this poverty and this ruin?
In the quiet of the night there is not a single young man
Just the sigh of a poor woman
Comforting her distressed child.
Since the war spread over the country
My old poverty struck village
Saw only more hunger and pain
I dream of the day when everyone is happy
And by the walks of life
Well dressed people play in the sun.
When will the girl come back to the mulberry fields
So that the young man can build a bridge and come to her?
When will broken loves be mended
So that she can welcome back her soldier on the wharf?

I continued to write about the sufferings of war. From Quảng Bình, I went to Gio Linh village in Quảng Trị. I met a woman whose son, a militiaman, had been captured and beheaded by the ennemy in the market. Nobody dared to take down the head for burial. The mother came for her son's head, took it down and took it home, all without a word. I told the story using a folk song and concluded it by saying that after having sacrificed her only son to the Resistance, she would gain hundreds of adopted sons from the ranks of Resistance army. The song was about suffering, but suffering combined with heroism.
BÀ MẸ GIO LINH
THE MOTHER OF GIO LINH
(Huyện Gio Linh-1948)
Old mother broke the soil and planted potatoes
So her son could fight night and day
No matter that her clothes were worn
And the ricebowl often half empty
Hò ơi ơi ới hò ! Hò ơi ơi ới hò !
This house the ennemy burned down
We must avenge this wrong
She cheered up when her son killed French soldiers
And worked even harder at her plot
Hò ơi ơi ới hò ! Hò ơi ơi ới hò !
Away he went cheerfully with his gun
His old mother loved the country no less
When in the night the sound of guns echoed far away
She prayed for her son to live life to the full

Old mother was watering her vegetables
When she heard the neighbours' cries
The ennemy had got her son
They had beheaded him in the market
Hò ơi ơi ới hò ! Hò ơi ơi ới hò !
Silently she held down her sobs
And came to collect his head.
Lonely was the path back to the hamlet
A pagoda bell tolled
Hò ơi ơi ới hò ! Hò ơi ơi ới hò !
Holding up his head, she fought down her tears
White hair fluttering, she looked at him
I love you, your bloodied lips the color of the flag
Your smile so innocent when you looked at me

A kettle of water she boiled, waiting for somebody
In the night guns rang out
Startling the orphaned child
Hò ơi ơi ới hò ! Hò ơi ơi ới hò !
The Resistance army were coming to visit
Joyfully leapt the flames
Old mother brought up the boiled potatoes
Warm rose the steam
Hò ơi ơi ới hò ! Hò ơi ơi ới hò !
Looking at her adopted sons gathered under the roof
She thought of her son
Finish this drink, my sons!
Come back again in a day or two!

Leaving Quảng Trị, I came to Thừa Thiên. After a spell in the war zone, my work took me to the plains where I lived with people in the occupied zone. This was Ðại Lược of which the folk rhyme sang:
Tình về Ðại Lược
Duyên ngược Kim Long
Tới đây là chỗ rẽ của lòng
Gặp nhau còn biết trên sông bến nào...
. . . . . .
My heart went to Ðại Lược
But my fate took me to Kim Long
Here our paths diverge
In what port shall we meet again?

From Ðại Lược, at night, I often went to Vỹ Dạ village to meet with artists coming from the Imperial city of Huế. At this time I wrote:
VỀ MIỀN TRUNG
BACK TO THE MIDLANDS (Central Vietnam)
(Ðại Lược-1948)
Back to the Midlands I come
Where coconut palms and pine forests stand by the ocean
And boats travel up and down the long river
Poor homeland, where people often go hungry
O rice plants, old river, ancient town
Back to the Midlands I come
To stay with the people
As the flames of war rage in the villages.
In the night a grieving wind blows on the deserted river
The moon trembled as a voice sings
Hò hô hò ! Hò hố hô !
Here people walk on cold ashes
Thinking of lost sisters and mothers
Tears welling as memories brought back
Women with broken bodies and babies with smashed heads
Hò hố ! Hò hô !
Hà hớ hơ...
In the distant war zone
Many live in wait
And they sing:
We yearn for our beloved village, so far away

Back to the Midlands
They wait for the flames of the mountain
To come and light up the city
Then hand in hand we'll walk back to the village
Without complaint or sadness
Back to the Midlands
We shall walk singing of our success
And a fire will again warm our kitchen in the night
Villages will again echo with the sound of people
And the moon will tremble as a voice sings
Hò hô hò ! Hò hố hô !
To the ricefield and to my love I come
Past sufferings are gone as my guitar sings
Happiness has come to the poor people
On the river the boatmen's song echoes
Hò hố ! Hò hô !
Hà hớ hơ ...
A song rises in the village
As she harvests rice in the field
Singing: Hà há hơ ...
Ricefield and rivers are full of music and laughter

Duting my mission to Bình-Trị-Thiên provinces, I also wrote MƯỜI HAI LỜI RU (Twelve Verse Lullaby) which was also about a true story: During a search mission, French troops took twelve wonen and their babies to the river and ordered then to throw the infants into the water. Naturally the mothers did not obey, and all of them were shot. Since then, on this river people could still hear the faint voices of the twelve women singing to their babies...

In the first edition (1985) of my collection NGÀN LỜI CA (A Thousand Verses), I only gave a few lines of this song because I had forgotten the verses. Recently, I made contact with an old friend, Phạm Quỳ, who lives in Vinh (Nghệ An), and received the complete verses which he and his wife still remembered:

MƯỜI HAI LỜI RU
TWELVE VERSE LULLABY
(Quảng Trị - 1948)
From the beloved Midlands comes a lullaby
In this homeland where outrages were committed
From the river comes a twelve verse lullaby
Its sound cuts straight into our heart.
My baby, you were deep in an innocent sleep
When they came and took us to the river
Twelve mothers they ordered
To throw their babies in the water
The flow carried away the twelve
And their babies
Since then the water has echoed with a sacred oath
That no matter what happens, as long as the country lasts
The people's resolve will not waver
Twelve verses echo on the river
Many tears have fallen on these waters
A twelve verse lullaby echoes on the river
A sound that goes straight into our heart.

LAST SONGS WITH THE RESISTANCE

Although I was witnessing the sufferings of the resistance war, I did not forget to sing the heroism and joy of the people whose enthusiasm in the fight for freedom was still strong. Another folk song I wrote was GÁNH LÚA (Carrying The Rice), in honor of the people's labor movement. This lyrical song came as I was watching three thousand volunteer laborers carrying rice past my placẹ..

GÁNH LÚA
CARRYING THE RICE
(Thanh hóa-1949)
Endless waves run through the vast rice fields
As dawn rises in the east
In the distance come the indistinct shadows
Of people walking in step with heavy loads
Hazy, hazy are the shadows
Of villagers carrying rice
Then in the new sun rose the voices
Of people going to the market.
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!

The rice sways and swings on the carrying poles
Past the beautiful rice fields
A white haired old lady carries a heavy load
Her betel-colored lips as bright as the new grass
The rice sways and swings on her carrying poles
Old she may be, quick and strong she remains
She will dry the rice, I will carry it
Our toil will help feed the nation.
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!

Last night a dreamlike moon shone over the countryside
Young man, listen to me
There was a young woman shelling the rice
Who had tender thoughts for you
And felt sorry for the man in the storm
Under the dreamlike moon she kept awake all night
Calling your name
Then day came, and she carried the new golden rice
With redoubled effort to help feed the nation.
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!
Heigh-ho! Let's carry the rice home!

While composing the verses for Phạm Ðình Chương's RA ÐI KHI TRỜI VỪA SÁNG (STARTING OUT AT DAYBREAK), I wrote:

VĂN NGHỆ SĨ RA TIỀN TUYẾN
ARTISTS GOING TO THE FRONT
later retitled
ÐƯỜNG RA BIÊN ẢI
ROAD TO THE FRONTIER
(Thanh Hoá-1948)
To the frontier! To the frontier!
Tenderly the maidens see the men off
To their heroic adventures
To the frontier! To the frontier!
When dusk's shadow falls on the forest
The river we cross buries many memories
Under the young moon the riders press on
Leaves fall by the wintry trail
In the sky the stars wait for the night to pass
And the sun to come and light up our soul.
The travellers leave behind all their romances
The frontier is a sacred flame that calls
O sacred fatherland
O songs and solemn oaths
We pledge to face any hardship
And give ourself to the frontier
So many times already have men gone
To pay their debt to the nation
Were we not to come back
Someone shall surely remember
And light incense to our spirits
On the evening of Remembrance day
When peace comes at last
It will be due to the soldiers' sacrifices
The hymn of victory
Will carry the memory of the fighting men.

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