Every time July comes around, I am moved by the verses of July – verses that linger, like a reminder of profound gratitude. I know and love "The Whip of Those Days" by Dinh Pham Thai, written on the theme of "Paying Tribute to Wounded Soldiers and Martyrs." "Once upon a time, you were mischievous, you played / Leaving home all day long / The whip fell on your thin body / Hurting your mother's hands, making your grandmother's eyes sting / Now where are you, far away? / A handful of bones, without a home, forever wandering / The Trường Sơn mountain range, a verdant expanse / Black soil, red soil, what kind of soil, where you are buried? / My legs tremble, I grope for the worn stick / Afraid to touch the whip that still lingers somewhere..."
Illustration: NGOC DUY
The poem contains no cries, as if "the tears have been held back," yet for some reason, every time I reread it, tears silently fall from my eyes. Perhaps the emotions of a mother whose son died in the war touched a deep place in my heart. I see the images of my aunt and my grandmother in it.
My uncle was laid to rest in Quang Tri when he was just over twenty years old. For decades, my family searched through the cemeteries of this sun-drenched, windswept countryside, but without a single trace of him. My grandmother couldn't wait any longer and passed away, carrying with her a deep and agonizing longing. My father continued his silent search, grieving for my grandmother, whose hair had turned gray with age, still tormented by the unknown whereabouts of her son; and for my uncle, who dedicated his youth to the country but never received a visit from his family.
Then, one afternoon, about fifteen years ago, just before Tet (Lunar New Year), I received a call from my father. His voice was trembling, yet tinged with joy: “My child, a friend of mine said they read in the People's Army Newspaper that your uncle's name is among the unnamed graves in the second plot on the right side of the Gio Linh District Martyrs' Cemetery. These graves seem to have been recently relocated here. In this area, there is only one grave with a name. It's the grave of martyr Le Dinh Du (Ho Thua) – a reporter for the People's Army Newspaper. He died on January 21, 1968.” I choked up. Tears silently streamed down my face.
Then, one rainy afternoon, my father followed my uncle to the cemetery, saying, "I'm leaving now. You're in Quang Tri, remember to visit your uncle to warm his heart!" My eyes welled up with tears. My heart ached with the sadness of parting. From then on, every July, I would carry offerings and a bouquet of white chrysanthemums alone to the cemetery. I would light incense sticks at each row of gravestones while softly reciting lines of melancholy poetry.
Old age is often filled with worries; the elderly tend to cling to the bittersweet memories of life to watch the days pass. The mother's stream of memories is laden with sadness. And perhaps her greatest torment is the "whips of the whip." The poet is truly subtle in using the word "fall" instead of other familiar verbs.
"Falling" is a polite expression, helping to lessen the reader's sadness. "Where are you, my child?" "What land will bury you?" are actually questions—rhetorical questions like tears of longing and remembrance. The unusual thing here is the absence of a question mark at the end of the sentence.
My mother asked herself this question. Time stretched endlessly, space vast; where could she find her son? I pictured my grandmother, her hair turning gray, sitting by the doorstep each afternoon, gazing into the vast, uncertain space, waiting for news of her son who never returned... My grandmother carried that agonizing sorrow with her to the land of white clouds one winter afternoon...
Years have passed, and now my mother's eyesight is failing, her legs weak, but the remorse lingers. She seems to be in a state of unconsciousness, constantly feeling "wrong" towards me, yet no longer having the opportunity to offer words of comfort. This gnawing feeling persists every day.
The "whip" of the past remains vividly etched in my mother's mind. The flames of war have long since died down, the wounds of war have healed with time, but deep within the souls of mothers and families whose loved ones have gone and never returned, there still remains the pain of the war. Many times in July, many times standing amidst rows of tombstones, I have silently recited the poem. This afternoon, another such afternoon. The paulownia trees rustle in the sun and wind, season after season.
The sound of the cuckoo calling out to you echoed from the horizon. The smoke of incense rose in the hazy twilight. Rows of tombstones stood silently side by side, like soldiers marching to battle. I quietly placed fragrant incense sticks on each grave in the second section, right-hand corner, where only one grave bore a name.
Gio Linh this season is bathed in the intense heat of the sun. The incense of gratitude still lingers, its fragrance filling the air with songs of thanksgiving.
Thien Lam
Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/chieu-nghia-trang-duom-nong-nang-lua-187390.htm
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