The kapok flowers burn in my heart…

The rice plant at the entrance to the village. Photo: Le Minh.

The kapok tree at the edge of Giò hamlet is gnarled and gnarled, its roots bulging and splitting into many branches that pierce the ground like a giant hand gripping the soil of my homeland. When I asked the adults when the tree had been there, the answer was always, "We've seen it since we were kids." And I, ever since I was old enough to run around the village lanes, have seen that kapok tree.

The tree trunk is covered with rough, moldy, and mossy patches, occasionally dotted with bumps the size of a schoolboy's fist.

The four seasons revolve, and with the arrival of spring, the "old age" of the tree disappears. From the bare branches, a few first buds begin to sprout, then thousands of tender buds, like thousands of green candles, burst forth, sparkling and shimmering in the sunlight, welcoming flocks of bulbuls, starlings, and blackbirds... flying in in droves. On a day at the end of March, bathed in golden sunlight, one can see the bright red blossoms of the kapok tree, like giant torches burning against the blue sky.

The lively atmosphere around the small shop, still shaded by the rice plants, made the leafy canopy rustle, and even the flowers seemed to smile. Especially during the flowering season, the boys would play marbles and hopscotch, while the girls played catch on the dirt floor where the red bricks had come loose.

Tired of playing, they all lay sprawled out, resting their heads on the patch of green grass at the base of the tree, watching the petals fall and swirl in the wind. Even as they fell, the thick petals remained a vibrant red, as if brimming with water, and felt heavy in their hands because of the thick, light green calyx.

We gathered a lot of flowers and strung them together, taking turns carrying the lead while the others followed, running around the base of the tree, our cheeks flushed, sweat dripping until sunset, the children's figures blending into the hazy purple twilight, before we dispersed.

No child could climb this rice tree because its trunk was too thick to be embraced and it soared high into the clouds. Only adults could conquer its height and find a fork in the tree, placing a thick plank tied with buffalo rope across it to create a "loudspeaker station." Sometimes the village chief, sometimes the head of the guerrilla militia, sometimes the person in charge of the adult literacy class... would take the tin loudspeaker and begin with a resounding voice echoing across the hills: "Loudspeaker... loudspeaker... loudspeaker...", then broadcast information about the village's livelihood, such as the harvest season, increased labor exchange, or weather forecasts for the planting season, whether it would rain or be dry.

From this rice paddy, countless news bulletins were broadcast calling on young people to enlist in the army; the guerrilla militia leader announced numerous updates about the team's training sessions; and reminded every household about security and order, preventing the theft of chickens and pigs.

My eldest brother tied ropes around his ankles to use as "climbing aids," climbed up, and sat neatly on a plank at the fork in the road to broadcast the literacy campaign, urging everyone who was illiterate to go to school to learn to read and write fluently. Sometimes, the learning location would change from Mr. Ky's house to Mrs. Mo's house; the lessons would last from noon to evening... I followed him to the literacy campaign, so I only studied a little before jumping straight into the first grade at the village school.

And the feeling of homeland grew stronger with each passing year, along with the color of the red flowers. The countryside was so beautiful, so peaceful, but in this poor village, seeing the kapok flowers stirred up anxieties about hunger during the lean season – the third and eighth months of the lunar calendar. The rice from the previous harvest was almost gone by the end of January, my mother said. The scariest thing was the jarring, spine-chilling "scratching" sound of the tin milk can scraping against the sides of the rice pot when scooping out the rice for cooking. When there was no rice, there were sweet potatoes and cassava, but eating sweet potatoes and cassava all the time made everyone's stomachs ache, and everyone craved rice.

With six siblings in the family, the constant worry about food and clothing weighed heavily on our parents' shoulders. Thinking about the kapok flower, I kept questioning why this flower shares the name of the main staple food of the Vietnamese people. Why does it bloom during the lean season? It would be so heartbreaking if it bloomed in a different season…

But perhaps the name "rice" also holds a deeper meaning. When the rice flowers wither and fall, the rice fruit takes shape, grows, and remains on the tree until it ripens and bursts open, revealing fluffy white cotton-like blossoms, resembling a pot of fragrant, pure white rice. This symbolizes the farmer's dream of a prosperous life, hence the tree's name "rice"?

However, each region has a different name for the flower, associated with its own legend; in the northern mountainous region, it is called "mộc miên," while in the Central Highlands, it is called "pơ-lang."

In February 1979, at the beginning of the border war in the North, I accompanied the soldiers to write articles in Cao Loc district, Lang Son province. Seeing the tattered kapok blossoms in the border region, mixed with the smell of gunpowder smoke, filled my heart with sorrow. But a few months later, returning, I raised my hand to my forehead and gazed at the thousands upon thousands of white kapok blossoms flying across the border sky, feeling a sense of excitement. Seeing the ethnic people taking the blossoms home to make blankets and mattresses, I was reminded of the old days when my friends and I gathered kapok blossoms and added reeds to make pillows, ensuring a good night's sleep and nurturing our dreams of traveling and fulfilling our aspirations as young men.

When I arrived in Broái village in Đắk Lắk province, surrounded by vast fields of kapok trees, I listened to the village elders tell the legend of the kapok flower, which reminded me of the rare, solitary kapok tree in my own village. Meeting the children singing "I am a kapok flower," weaving the flowers into crowns, I remembered how I used to lie on the grass all day, waiting for the kapok flowers to fall, and then we'd gather them all together to make a bunch. I also remembered the playful song sung by the older children: "You are like a kapok flower on the tree / My body is like the wild grass by the roadside / Praying to God for both wind and dew / The kapok flowers fall, and then blend into the wild grass."

The kapok tree, also known as the cotton tree or the paulownia, has found its way into poetry. "Who planted the cotton tree on the border? / Or does the tree seek out the frontier to grow? / Its blood-red flowers bloom for a thousand years, chillingly beautiful / The tree stands tall, lush green, a border marker."

The tree has become a symbol for the border guards. The abundance of the pơ-lang tree has become a symbol of the Central Highlands, so when clearing forests for farming, villagers are determined to preserve the pơ-lang tree. Standing tall and solitary, enduring the sun and rain at the edge of my village, every March it bursts into a vibrant red like a torch against the blue sky, becoming a "guide" illuminating the way for me and for those far from home, preventing us from losing our way back... Regardless of its name, the flower carries unchanging values.

Returning to my hometown this spring, I found myself lost in the emptiness of the landscape, feeling a sense of emptiness and loneliness because the tree had "passed away." The old must return to the eternal realm. But the tree had become a "heritage tree" in my heart, igniting countless nostalgic memories of my childhood…

Now that the old kapok tree stands next to the village cultural center, an idea suddenly struck me. I shared it with my nephew, who enjoys bonsai: "Why don't you plant a kapok tree as a bonsai, shaping it into a 'five blessings' or 'three blessings' style, and donate it to the cultural center? The gnarled appearance of the tree will help revive the old kapok tree in Gio hamlet, allowing today's youth to easily visualize the old kapok tree and ease the regret of those of us who lost it."

Source