The joy of independence

(AI)

It's late, Mom, let's go to sleep!

Song's voice echoed from the thatched-roof house, clearly audible, but his mother didn't reply, remaining silent as if she hadn't heard. She sat there, as if waiting for something. In the dim light, the late-night lamp cast its glow on the river, insects chirped, mosquitoes began buzzing in her ears, and she raised her thin, bony hand, gazing at the vast, endless expanse. Then she smiled to herself. The river's surface shimmered, the lights flickering in the distance. The rumbling sound of the engine approached. It seemed that Uncle Toan was out casting his nets again tonight. Knowing that Song's mother would be sitting there, he slowed down, steering carefully so the engine wouldn't hit her feet—a familiar gesture whenever he passed this stretch of river. Each time, he would toss her a bag of fruit or a piece of food, telling her to take it back for Song, fearing he might be hungry.

Song and his mother had been living in thatched hut for six or seven years, ever since Song was a tiny baby. Then, somehow, they ended up here. Every day, his mother would wade into the river, catching fish and shrimp to sell at the market for a little money to buy rice. On days when they caught fish, Song had a full stomach; on days when they didn't, they would sleep listlessly in their house, bobbing on the water's surface, their stomachs rumbling. Many times he wanted to ask his mother about his origins, but seeing the smoke-filled look in her eyes, as if someone had locked endless sorrows inside her, Song didn't dare utter a word. Occasionally, bored at the river, he would ask his mother's permission to go ashore and play with the other children from the riverside neighborhood. Some were his age, others younger, huddled together on the veranda of a banyan tree whose branches had fallen to the bank. They would shout themselves hoarse, teasing each other, their voices echoing along the river.

These days, the village of Bè is more bustling, with people coming and going busily. Sông saw some neighbors buying yellow and red paint to paint the national flag on their roofs. Apparently, this year marks the 80th anniversary of the National Day of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, the day the country escaped slavery and enjoyed freedom and independence thanks to the resilience, courage, and strategic brilliance of our army and people, under the brilliant leadership of President Ho Chi Minh. Sông often heard this news on the old radio her mother kept by her bedside; every evening after dinner, Sông would sit and tune in so that she and her mother could listen to the news.

For years up here, we didn't even have a small television. The few days we were allowed to go out to sell fish, and Sông saw the road leading to the village adorned with flags and flowers. I heard that this year the people are celebrating Independence Day on a grand scale! She saw the electricians diligently finishing the power lines connecting to the distant residential area. Young people in their green uniforms were preparing songs at the village's historical site. Farmers were working enthusiastically in the fields; everything seemed more lively and bustling. Sông wanted to immerse herself in that festive atmosphere, as if she too were a part of this momentous event.

Outside of helping her mother sell fish, she would sneak into singing practice sessions to listen to the heroic melodies of the nation played by the older students on portable speakers. She would bring along a few friends from the riverside, standing huddled at the foot of the village's victory monument to wait and watch the cultural performances.

That night, while he was asleep, he saw his mother bustling around by the back door, whispering something to someone. He opened his eyes slightly, trying to eavesdrop, but couldn't hear anything. After a while, he saw his mother come in, reach for a hat on the rack, quickly put it on, then go ashore and into the village. She probably thought Song was fast asleep, so she didn't say anything to him. He was secretly delighted, and as soon as his mother left the door, he jumped up, nimbly slipped to the back, and whistled to call his friends. Today, he had a new task: to help paint the national flag on the corrugated iron roof to celebrate Independence Day. The day before yesterday, Uncle Khanh – the head of the neighborhood – said he had gathered some mischievous kids to teach them how to paint the flag. The important day for the country was approaching, and he and the other guys in the village needed to do something meaningful to celebrate.

Over the past few days, the village loudspeakers have carried the proud melodies of the national concert. From childhood to adulthood, Song had never seen a large music festival or heard words like "National Concert." She longed for the day she could sit in a car or join the crowd, shouting "Vietnam!" Then, she would surely tremble with joy, proudly holding the national flag in her hands. She wanted to tell her mother that she had volunteered to paint flags for the "National Reunification Day" celebration. But every time she saw her mother's weary gaze in the dim light, she felt a sense of fear. Not that she feared her mother's punishment or scolding, but that her mother would prolong that lingering sadness throughout the days they spent together. How could her mother not be happy on the anniversary of independence and freedom? So, it secretly spent the rest of the summer, waiting until the faded corrugated iron sheets in the village of Bè were covered with the red and yellow colors of the national flag, then it would go home to show it to its mother so they could both share the joy.

These past few days, my mother has been feeling a mix of excitement and worry. She heard that in her old hometown, many remains of fallen soldiers from the two wars against French colonialism and American imperialism have been found. She vaguely thinks of her father, the man who went to fight and was never seen again in another land; she never had the chance to sit down and call him "Dad!" When the country was unified, and the nation was reunited, she expressed her desire to go in search of her relatives, but Sông's maternal grandmother prevented her. The two of them argued amidst the torrential August rain. Her grandmother finally confessed that my mother was an illegitimate child. During the years of fierce bombing, when her grandmother was a young volunteer digging roads for the soldiers, fearing the bombs and bullets would devastate her youth, she had earnestly begged for a child to keep her company.

It was an autumn night in the Central Highlands battlefield, when our army's "deception" campaign was quietly underway, and the fierce battlefield was shrouded in tension for many nights. No one thought that during that time, a life would begin to be sown in the womb of a young volunteer. Everything was hurried, quick, and rushed; it seemed that amidst the fervent atmosphere of the fierce war, people still feared the lonely return home, without the sound of children. And Sông's mother was born after the great victory of Spring.

Every time she cautiously approached the garden, her lips trembling as she whispered words about her father far away, she would receive an averted gaze from her grandmother. Those fragmented childhood memories always troubled her. Until the day Song herself was born, without a male figure to support the family. The night tore apart the resentments of a woman nearing forty. In that pitch-black night, she carried Song and fled the village, escaping the scornful stares that had been passed down from her maternal grandparents, to her own, and now to Song. She didn't want her child, born from her own flesh and blood, to suffer the slander of others. In that dark night, with tears streaming down her face, she guided Song across the riverbank, along the village path, trudging along to this riverside area. The name "Song" (river) was given to her from that moment on.

Mom will probably be home a little late today, so I'll cook dinner and braised fish myself, and she can eat later!

Sông nodded and nodded excitedly when he saw his mother carrying her conical hat towards the village cultural center. For the past two or three days, his mother had been going in that direction, only returning home late at night. He didn't know what she did out there, but as soon as she left the house, Sông would jump ashore to find Uncle Khánh. The children gathered together, busily completing the final preparations for the festival. Every time he came home, he had to jump into the river, scrub himself clean, wipe off all the paint clinging to his face and hair, and ask the other children in Bè neighborhood to check if he was still dirty before he dared go home.

These past few days, mother and son have been eating dinner late. Every evening on their house, bobbing on the waves, they quietly put the braised goby fish into their bowls and ate gently. Neither spoke a word, each seemingly in a joyful mood, immersed in the atmosphere of the nation's Independence Day celebration. Unfortunately, mother kept it a secret from Song that she had gone to the cultural center with the women to sew national flags and attach red and yellow star emblems to distribute to the people on the river. Song, perhaps afraid of upsetting his mother by spending all day loitering outside, and wanting to surprise her with the "Independence Day" campaign, waited until the actual day to tell her. It seemed his mother was always the last to arrive – he thought, because for the past few days, red and yellow star flags had been flying all over the houses on the river, yet his mother hadn't noticed. Or perhaps she was lost in thought, contemplating something far away.

Hey, Song? Why are you covered in paint? What are you doing here?

- Mom, what are you doing here? I... I'm here to paint the national flag to celebrate the 80th anniversary of National Day, Mom.

Song and her mother exchanged surprised glances when they met again at the village's cultural center. Today, everyone had agreed to gather flags, performance equipment, and some banners and slogans to welcome National Day. The wrestling matches on the rooftop were finally over, and Uncle Khanh led the kids to the cultural center to show them the achievements of the "little devils" over the past half-month. While he was there, he bought them some snacks from the market; after all the hard work, the kids were really craving a snack of fried chicken and french fries, things they hadn't had in a long time.

Mom looked at Song and understood everything. It turned out that lately Mom knew Song had been secretly going somewhere with some kids from the Be neighborhood. She thought they were just going out to play, but it turned out they were actually doing something useful, making flags and working diligently.

Following Song's pointing hand, Mom saw the houses bobbing on the river, now a different color. The national flag was printed on the simple tin roofs, yet it shone with boundless pride and joy. Everyone shared the same elation, welcoming the country's momentous holiday. Song held Mom's hand tightly; it seemed like a long time since she had seen Mom smile…

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