Foreword :
It still puzzles me how a girl gifted in the foreign language (as proved by her 3 advances to the national language contest) finally found herself in the unfamiliar and vast realm of arts.
It still puzzles me how she quit her lucrative, fashionable and reassuring job to start from scratch as an Arts student.
And it still puzzles me how she left behind the safety of thinkings and gave in to the unpredictable sway of feelings.
How life put me on the arts course
The way I feel
I read a lot as a kid, familiarizing myself with quotes and philosophies. I was, however, unfamiliar with loving kindness or affectionate words. Mom was too busy being jealous of Dad’s other wife. She could do nothing about it though. Dad was one of those old-style strict fathers. His strict rules and terrible beatings, among other things, squeezed his daughters into their closets. We could do nothing but suppress our feelings and shape a distorted outlook on life. I was his last offspring, whom he craved to be a son. A boyish name had been chosen before my birth. He was so disappointed with the fact that I was just another daughter that he didn’t bother to change the name.(I can’t delete the sad thought that I could have been deprived the chance of coming into existence had the sex scanner been around at that time). I remember well those days, everything. They are still vivid in my mind, like a slo-mo film that even time couldn’t erase. I was lucky though to be sent to kindergarten at the age of three. Hard to believe, but only then and there did I know something like a friendship. My sister Bay recalls I was often digging ground with a knife at the age of five. “What are you digging for?” asked she. “I’m looking for hell, replied I. Funny how my mind was inclined to tragedies before I could even think.
When I grew up as a kid, my sisters were already adults. My daily chores were to go collecting wood and trapping fish. While I waited upon the traps, I made friends with different curious shapes that I made from clay. I guess I picked up that habit of talking to myself from those days. My favourite game was to build a small hut and create an imaginary happy family. How lonely I was! Lost in a large, empty house, I was often thinking up stories to tell myself. I needed to speak to myself so I wouldn’t feel alone. I needed to create imaginary friends so I wouldn’t sink in solitude. I craved love, to the extent of being jealous with those fortunate well-kept pets. I was often wondering why they were loving enough to caress animals but neglected me, their human fellow.
I don’t remember ever asking any of my six sisters if they ever felt happy in their lives. But I remember well that tragic day when I saw my eldest sister collapse at the news that her 2-year-old son had been kidnapped by her husband’s family. I could only watch her cry from a distance and with trembling fear. Since it was not normal crying at all. It was more like a mad laughter, mixed with loathsome tears that shed in streams. No, it was not the normal weeping of a 17-year-old girl who felt sorry for herself. I had been playing happy family, but I was at a loss for words to console my sister. Neither did I talk to anyone about what I witnessed and thought. I never put to them grown-ups this puzzling question, the reason why my seventh oldest sister, my eighth oldest sister and I couldn’t eat together while living under the same roof. Mom, Dad and my second oldest divided the burden of supporting us three. I accepted it as normal, as well as the scene of Dad living with another woman besides Mom, alternating children among them…
I sometimes look at myself in those rare pictures taken in my childhood and find a quiet girl, very sad eyes but hardly ever any smile. It was a girl who was puzzled by many questions and had to find the answers herself. It was a girl who was haunted by the sufferings of the people she lived with. She had no one to talk to, so she created herself two pal friends. Her classmates were jealous of her because she often received letters from two friends with nice handwritings, not knowing she wrote them herself… So lively were my created friends that I myself at times believed they were real. I drew a loving, caring swear brother. His looks were warm and kind-hearted, only imaginarily…
I grew up fostering a dream… that I would one day be a writer, listening to and writing about people’s sufferings and tragedies… I would search as deep as I could into sufferings and find out what tragedy in a human life is most tragic…
I grew up like a wild plant, rough and thorny as if to conceal the weak heart of a child who was always desperate for love. I was often on the verge of a rebel. I craved freedom. Or rather, I wished I could run away from my helpless family… My only practical escape though was to study. Towards the ninth grade, I won myself a bronze in the provincial Russian contest, which gratified me with, better than anything, the bliss of friendship. (I had failed to associate with my peers before. I stayed in the classroom during breaks… When school was over they asked me to join them for a small party but I shook my head… I was rarely richer than two hundred Vietnam dongs, which could only cover my bike parking fee). I joyfully moved to the provincial education bureau for higher training in one month and lived my happiest days. I didn’t have to be home before dawn. Moreover, my day was filled with the laughters. I was able to talk to and share things with friends, I made my presence felt… I stopped looking for sufferings and leaned towards joy… My first ever picture with a smile was taken during this period. I was happy because I found love and warmth among human beings.
Approach
Nowadays, kids in my hometown may have better chances to get to know arts. But in my time, I barely had any. At the sixth grade I was lucky to have a drawing class every week. And that was all. I was able to score a 9 or even 10 in the subject, but I wasn’t drawn to it. They grown-ups wanted me to foccus on Russian, the subject I was best at. I had no idea about an Arts College at all.
I passed the exams into two universities in Saigon. So I moved to this big city, only to find myself even more desperate. Times changed and it didn’t favour my career choice at all. Russian, which had been a privilege for either talented students or high officials’ children, suddenly became odd. Eyes rolled whenever I said I was a student majoring in Russian. I lost conviction myself. When I finished my part-time work and went back to the dormitory, I didn’t bother to study. Once again, I had to ask myself what I would do. Then a friend lent me his old Zenit camera. I read the hand-book and learnt how to take photos. Life’s beauties delighted me as I was able to capture them, so I could forget my questionable future for a while. I also took photos of human beings as one of the many ways to support myself. Some said my portrait photos were cute and “arty”, which made me happy. And I found myself dreaming about a collection of nice portraits.
But photography didn’t seem to give me the motivation I needed. The other day I came upon a picture of a Japanese girl. She was dressed in the traditional Kimono, her face radiating so much gentleness and dignity. I immediately drew her with a pencil. My room-mates all said what a gifted girl I was.(They found it very amusing as I said I picked up the gift as a kid when I drew maps so well that grown-ups often had me do it for them). Then I went on to draw a portrait of my imaginary swear brother. I was more than happy when I completed the work. I felt he was very real now. Towards the beginning of 1995, I came upon a newspaper ad by RAJCI, a company that organized jobs for educated people, saying they were to offer a free drawing course for students with limited budgets. I jumped at the chance. The course last no longer than one and a half month but it succeeded in awakening a passion in me. I started to draw portraits for my friends as birthday gifts. My heart was filled with happiness as I watched the delight on their faces. When I later took a proper drawing course as part of my preparations for the exams into the Arts school, my trainer sai though that the RAJCI course didn’t break good grounds for me at all. However, I still cherished it as an important initial cause that led me onto Arts.
Turning point
It was 1996. I still didn’t have a chance to join the Arts school. After all, it was too new-born a passion to help me convince my family. They saw no valid points in quitting the University for a childish liking, as they saw it. I had inquired a switch to the Asian Study department since the first year. They turned me down although my points far exceeded their entrance parameter. Badly demotivated, I failed to complete my last two years in the Uni. I wanted to start with my new passion, but my basics were poor (I still drew portraits the way I drew maps). Neither could I afford the training for the entrance examination. My father’s policy was very clear, that his children would got the 4 year tuition fees only if they made it to a Uni. The Arts school unfortunately didn’t qualify as a Uni for my family.
There I stood at the dead lock of a high way pursued since my childhood, while the new-born passion was extinguished. Short of alternatives, I opted to learn Japanese and left my course for fate to dictate. Not knowing what I really wanted, I was lost. I sank deeper into my closet. My cofidence gone, I stayed away from everybody. Sadly, it was then that I more than any time needed somebody who cared.
“O solitude, what is there in me
That keeps thou on my flee?
How I try to run away
Exhausted am I, still thou stays!”
...
“Straying cats cries…
how violently admit the nights!
I am not a straying cat
because my chest breaks apart
as my own howl
keeps coming back to my heart!”
It was now 1997. I had been able to get a B degree in Japanese. So I applied for the job of interpreter for a group of Vietnamese who were about to work in Japan. I took the interview mainly to check my language skills. So when they said they wanted me, I was at a crossroad. I still craved to learn Arts. On the other hand, I was afraid I was too weak-hearted to survive the strict working environment of Japan. I saw hope though in the prospect of getting out of my boring life and improving my Japanese, so I could later dictate my own life.
The year was 1998. There were, however, unwelcome surprises on my path. My job turned out to be not only interpreting but also physical work like others. The Japanese bosses understandably wanted to make the most out of their cheap labour source, which left me with almost no free time to go about and talk to native people as part of my plan to improve my knowledge. As I finished working at 9pm every day, I felt drained. We had to work too during weekends and holidays. As they wanted to prevent us from leaving, the bosses made us live within strict and even unreasonable regulations. Very rarely did I find a chance to go about. I was able though to make an emotional connection with a nude statue by the river. Work pressure, bruised nationality pride and misunderstanding drove me crazy. I didn’t feel I was living like a human being at all. My head ached with issues that I couldn’t find any solutions for. There were times I was given first aid on the ambulance due to my depression. And the climax was when I was so mad that I put my hand into the steam compressor. I fainted, but I didn’t lose my hand. After a week of rest, I decided I would leave everything and go home to my country.
The year was 1999. I went home after working in Japan for one year. They felt sorry for me, but I didn’t care. I would start from the beginning with two empty hands. My only gain from my trip overseas was workmanship and psychological growth.
“From now on, lets be good friends
O solitude! Show me your approving hand
Even if a laughter is very gentle
It will be amplified by emptiness, to a thousand times!
Having searched for a soulmate all my life
To warm up my frozen heart
And to dispel the haunting dark
So my sadness belittles, and my happiness doubles
But as a rule in life…
What you search is often out of touch
I was able to stand on my own feet. I succeeded in making my Japanese boss look at me with respectful eyes and saw to the fact that not all Vietnamese went overseas purely because of money. I still co-operated with him whenever he went to Vietnam on business. Neither did I habour resentments. When I managed to retain my hands after that working accident, I knew what would be my next choice.
The year was 2000. When I got the news of passing into the Arts school, I also received an invitation to work for a labour export joint-venture company, which offered quite high a salary (apart from other sources of income that could even surpass my salary). I had to think a lot. My family understandably disapproved my Arts choice. I knew the chance for such a job only came once in a lifetime and it wouldn’t be awaiting me. I knew it would guarantee a stable life and reassuring future. On the other hand, I was not sure about my Arts potentials. Embarassing too was my belated beginning while most of my peers were consolidating their careers. And above all, the job offer was also a love declare. I was at the threshold of touching love. Why not put my ambition aside and look after the couple happiness, something I had always envied. And yet I was afraid, that business would drain my emotional side. While I had faith in Arts and was willing to pay for the choice, I had no such thing when it came to couple relationship. I couldn’t be sure about the lasting of love. I couldn’t be sure either that I would love the work and not be depressed again.
Leaving behind disapprovals and suspects that I would again only go half-way, I went inside the Arts school and started to discover the complex multitude of emotions.
Extra-curricular trips
Year 1: Curious Phan Rang
I had imagined before the trip that it would be like those sketches that the older students drew. That people would sit still for me to draw. How naïve! I still remember what a stranger I was when I came to a Cham village in the Prosper Island. During the first days, I was roaming about the village not knowing what to draw since they wouldn’t sit for me like I thought at all. All the houses were earthen-walled, surrounded by cacti and wooden rails. How beautiful, but they were for painting students. My professor had adviced me to choose a city site for the first year, so he could be around for help. But after all, I had made my presence here, I must do whatever I could. I would look around and take pictures of this interesting village. Being a photographer myself, I would take the chance to have nice black-and-white pictures of the simple, traditional lives. It was hard to resist those old wrinkled faces and young rolled eyes. Kids followed me and would sit by me for hours. Kids faces were so interesting. Their big rolled eyes showed a mixed expression of fear and excitement. So I took out the paper, dropping the intention to go back to Saigon for another topic. While I couldn’t find what I had had in mind, I was able though to be presented with these children holding their younger brother or sister, who would follow me for hours. I couldn’t be bored with these big rolled eyes. I wasn’t good enough to capture their spontaneous smiles, but I could feel how their healthy souls penetrated mine. How strange and unfamiliar a feeling.
Prosper Island, December the…, 2000
“Your first extra-curricular trip. Yeah, reality is not like what you had in mind. But its far from disappointing. Thatched-roofs, earthen-walls, wooden rails and typical Cham ascetic faces. How sadly authentic… What a paradox! Poverty and beauty. One day when the villagers become less poor, they will replace earthen walls with cold cement ones, and fragile wooden rails with sharp steel rails. Life will be better, but the village’s beauty may not remain the same”.
“And kids! You must see their faces and eyes. How curious and naïve. The extent of attention they pay to your drawing make you feel like a very important person! If you tell other students about this, they will find it weird, but these kids really make you happy. It has been such a long time before you can laugh joyfully…”
“You have walked a lot but seen only a few. The further you go into the village, the more familiar it looks. You see gardens, fields, streams, barking dogs, just like in your home village. Only there is a public quay where people bathe and wash clothes. How peaceful! Some Cham girls have taught you a bunch of Cham small talk, but when you speak the kids laugh. You wonder if they teach you swear words… How simple their fun is and how it lightens your heart to see them laugh!”
“Some of the somophores stop by Phu Quy and then asks you to join them for Son Hai, a fishing village about 15 km nearby. It’s Christmas time, so you can reward yourself a bit of rest. My God, Son Hai is very beautiful too! You are going along a rough road across rugged cliffs when suddenly the village appear before your eyes, modestly locating itself on a beach, admist sand hills where pines grow. Looked from afar, these hills make sharp contures against the sky. But the true wonders are the freshwater oases. What could be more marvellous? Clear fresh water lakes, big and small, admidst sandhills. It goes beyond expectation to find such a paradise in a secluded place in the central countryside! Gone are all the sorrows! Loud are the shouts and songs! And the wind and the sea join you in a symphony. You feel happy and elated! You forget your stressful thoughts about him… your sorrow is gone like sand pouring through your fingers. And while you are lying under the pines enjoying a breeze, you gently fall into sleep…”
Have you ever realized that sand shines? What a wonder! When I woke up to the rain drops that fell from branches, I felt touched by a source of light. “Sunny rain?” I wondered and looked at the sky… but actually it was still cloudy and raining heavily. And then a new concept formed itself in my mind, it was “sand shine”. The light that radiated my face was not from the sun, but sand it self. Even though the sky was dark with coulds and the rain was heavy, they couldn’t blur the brilliantly golden light of sand.
“There I lie admit the quiet pine forest.
With sand shine lighting my face to its best.
My lullabies are no longer lost.
Couple happiness becomes meaningless.
How life rewards me with such ectasy
(after all those sorrows)!
Moments of wonders
Falls…
Oh my goodness!”
It was my first extra-curricular trip. How awkward and curious. It opened me to new perceptions. I had travelled widely but only as a shallow tourist. This trip was for observation and realization. I didn’t know what my friends gained, I myself got important lessons. My report got an 8 grade. Those Cham kids made their way into my works. And they would go on to do so.
Year 2:
Raw and inspirational Central Highlands
My second year found me in an emotional tangle. I just kept feeling down. I didn’t know why, I just couldn’t stand the fact that people are far from solid characters. They keep changing. In a work that was supposed to feature three characters, I created a couple happily waiting for the birth of their child. While this cleverness could be seen as “trickery” and failed, it gave me much satisfaction. In a way the work revealed my childhood dream, a happy family of my own, full of love and compassion!
I chose Gia Lai for this year’s exploration. First I came to Kongchoro, a village owned by the Gia Rai ethnic people. It was so remote, and there was no electricity or water supply. I made a word play of the village name, saying it was a “khong cho ra” (no way out) village. Houses were far and few in between. But while it was difficult for me to encounter the villagers in the day time, it was quite the contrary on moonlit nights. They gathered from nowhere in large flocks. What a wild and bizzare life!
I then crossed the Azunpa forest and arrived at Phu Bon village, where they said I could find the most interetsing ethnic faces. The scenery was almost the same as my home village, except for mountain ranges and house-on-stills. There were similar tiny paths that wove from hamlet to hamlet. And there were vast fields of rice. How peaceful! At dusk people gathered at the river quay to bathe and wash clothes. I was interested in kids who dug small holes in the sand. They then waited for water to fill the hole and fill their bottles with that “distilled” water. So they didn’t drink from wells but those sand holes. On the first night welcoming their old friend (I was accompanying a fifth-year silk student, who came to the highlands every year for exploration) in a fire-lit house-on-still, the villagers gathered to drink wine and sing. A young man played his own song. His singing was like that of an eagle with broken wings, its desire burning… How telling! And his fiery, wild singing melt into the sweet wine, making it even more intoxicating…
Nowhere else could I find the same elation. As I walked on the uneven road, my singing burst out of my chest like a liberation. Never before had I sung more earnestly and passionately than when I roamed alone along the paths that wove across the villages. “He who loves freedom and forest life should come to the mountain and hear my song…”
“And this is your true self! You are you, today. You who loves so dearly the absorption of Nature. You who loves so earnestly the honest kindness of a Ba na woman who marries a man she does not love. And you who loves so compassionately a 10-year-old Down girl who looks as if she ‘s only 4 years in age. You feel sorry for her and at same time jealous of her immunity to life’s sufferings. Your heart is not as calm as hers, its even weaker. Your girl! How she stirs emotions within your heart. How fortunate you meet her at the verge of madness. It may sound weird but it is her who helps you through the uncontrollabe turmoil. She cools your heart exactly when it’s about to explode. How grateful you are of her! “ (December 21, 2001)
“What a nice feeling! Unbelievable! You no longer want to scream. Alone, you listen to your soul melting into the waves of wind in the pine forest. Alone, but you feel far from lonely, although there is only you in an immense forest, with the wind breezing and dead branches softly falling onto the ground. You slide on the pine leaves, laughing happily. You become the kid of yesterday, letting go of your joys into the wind…” (December 22, 2001)
I was deeply impressed by the fate of women in the highlands… When its early in the morning and I was still half-awake in the cold mist of mountainside, I could hear they were already grinding rice. They would go into the forest at noon and when they were back at dusk, their backs were low bearing heavy dossers of firewoods. I was also impressed by kids with bellies and wild, puzzled eyes… Their eyes looked as if they always haboured a question… Those honest simple people made my heart shrink and tremble…
My sophomore report got an 8.5 grade. More importantly, what I gained from this land would make its way into my works in the whole coming year. And two of my bas-relieves about this topic were so good they were retained by my school. I got a compliment from a notoriously “stingy” professor, which delighted me a lot. Although I wasn’t able to make the most of technical skills, I managed to put a lot of emotions into my creations about the Highlands.
Year 3:
Hanoian and Saigonian Streets, the known and the uncovered…
I had been to Hanoi before. But my previous trips were short and for tourism purpose, so my understanding of Hanoi had been quite fleeting.
This trip was actually a doulbe-purposed one. I had often come to this place whenever my soul was tired and lonely. Since I could find love there. I had not been able to come back to Hanoi since I joined the Arts school.
This time while I roamed about the streets of Hanoi, I was able to look at the capital from new perspectives. And I discovered not the quiet and profound Hanoi like in those songs, but a hustling and bustling Hanoi just like Saigon, where every metre of space was jammed. I discovered a painful Hanoi being torn in conflicts, by the old and the new, by country people flocking here for a chance of getting rich and the original Hanoians struggling in vain to preserve the good old days. I would sit by the Sword Lake in the morning and the afternoon, watching activities around me with delights. I would watch people gathering around a chess game making untiring comments… middle-aged men walking and listening to the radios at the same time… old women squatting and fanning themselves… young boys and girls laughing… all these mixed into each other to create a uniquely hectic atmosphere that you could find only here by the Sword Lake.
Then came the generous wind across the West Lake every evening.
“The stream flows indifferently. The sleep comes indifferently too, the way half-sleeps are… Whenever you open your eyes, there are only water and waves… How wonderful! The wind caresses your whole body… If only you could lie easily on the water like those hyacinths. If only you could just flow with the stream like a leaf… How gentle is the water… How gentle is the wind… You feel as if you were embraced, protected and unified to the fullest extent.”
And you must see those small streets and pavement quan coc, where men would sit for hours. How I wished I could read the thoughts in their heads. For the first time, I had the desire to do works about men. I could sketch out the suppressed fires in them, their egoistic ambitions and internal conflicts…
But what about Saigon. I would say those Hanoi-originated musicians were not fair when they indulged in memoirs about the capital and neglected the land that fostered them. I didn’t like those who would clothe Saigon in a shallow noisy appearance as compared to quiet countrysides, not realizing they would miss the city when they went away. Busy as it was, Saigon boasted tranquil corners. Saigon, how I loved it and was saddened by it.
“Saigon streets in the rainy days
are still as crowded as in the heating afternoons…
Where from and where to, are they?
And you
Where from, where to
under this scorching sun
and tormenting rain?
Has anyone found her man
admit torrential crowds?
Rare looks are exchanged
faded by the rain…
And this mid-day heat
has deprived every face of its uniqueness…
Where are you going?
You leave a space behind
that is to be filled in no time.
Where are they going?
Hurrying into each other…
Hurrying out of each other…
Where are they heading for?
And you, where to?”(July, 2002)
Two cities, one passion. And both haboured a burning thirst.
Year 4:
Colourful Lao Cai
“Can you believe where I am while you read this letter?
It was market day yesterday. Once a week, the H’mong and Phu la ethnic people flocked here from their villages. The husbands led the way while their wives followed, carrying goods on their backs. Sex equality was not the norm here, so it was hard on women just like in the central highlands. Only they dressed colourfully while their counterparts clothed themselves in black. Women also carried their babies, some not even one-month-old…
The roads up here had been even more breath-taking than in Da Lat. Mountains were clothed in clouds. There were lots of ups and downs, twists and turns. It took me first 8 hours on the train, then another two hours on the bus to arrive at the place. I had been to Hanoi on Thursady morning, stayed there for one night, got on the train on Friday evening and made my presence here on Saturday morning. The market opened early on Sunday morning and went on busily till night…
I miss you whenever I travel. I miss your childish happiness when you see something new. Because that happiness is allergic, it makes people around you happy too…
I am sending you this autumn mild cold… Have you guessed where I am now? It consists of six letters. And there is one letter A. There is one letter B too. Make your guess and mail me, will you!”
(Septemper 8, 2003)
“I am sitting by myself on a deserted pass. Down in the valley are rice paddies. Up on the cliffs are rice paddies too (mountainside is probably a better word than cliff, because cliffs are often steep). Terraces of paddies create such a lovely landscape. These ethnic people are not poor in skills at all! Remote and high as these mountains are, they are able to exploit them for agriculture. Opposite where I’m sitting, a H’mong woman and her children are embroidering clothes admist a rice paddy, upon a cliff as high as 25 metres, a height that will surely cause damages should you fall. I find it amusing that they do their embroider in the field, but later am told that its because its too dark indoors (their houses are made of walls as thick as half a metre and with only one door and no window so as to minimize the cold). Also out in the field they can keep an eye on the buffaloes so they don’t graze the rice plants. This is just my assumption, I don’t really know if its true!
The dark green of forest trees, the light green of rice paddies and the glossy green of maize fields clothe the mountains in delightful patches of colours. Plus the white lazy clouds crowning the mountain tops, making it all breath-takingly beautiful. Do you remember the line “How I miss the misty village and the cloudy pass” by Che Lan Vien in the poem titled “A train’s song”? That’s what I see! And I can also hear cockcrows and dogbarks. I just need to close my eyes to feel at home in my village.
Its raining all the time, due to the influence of a tropical front. Its raining too when I manage to climb on top of a mountain for several times, so I can’t take any good photos. Can you imagine things from my words?
I’m sending you this cold of the North West!”
(September 12, 2003)
“Its raining again in the past few days. While I lie in boredom, I suddenly want to go back… The intention just keeps growing although I am well aware that when I am back in Saigon, I will only find boredom too. Then I shout out that if someone was waiting for me in Saigon to come back, I would pack off at once, with no hesitation at all. Funny how I watched two lovers supress their emotions for each other because they were too far apart (one living in Saigon, the other Hanoi). Funny how I felt sorry for them not to have my hearty zeal for love (but you can also call it despair). Funny how I still want to love blindly like kids do, at an age of 27. How these trips and romantic sceneries only make me feel even lonelier”.
(September 17, 2003)
“The day before yesterday I climbed 3 mountains to arrive at a Dao’s home (I wouldn’t go had I known it was that far away, but she kep saying “very nearby, with lots of beautiful clothes!”) Yes they were beautiful, but it was hardly worth my tired walk. The Dao people build their houses on the mountain tops so they can watch their territories below. They will easily detect a trespassing stranger or a buffalo grazing rice plants… The ethnic people here are much richer than those in central highlands. Their terraces of rice paddies stretch all over the mountain sides. Their clothes are expensive (from 3 hundred thousand to a million dongs’ worth). They weave the clothes themselves, which often take them months. Tourism has made them much aware of economical values. But it has also made them more open and friendly. Yesterday when a Meo woman in the SaPa market learned that I was from the South, she asked me to sing a cai luong song. Delighted to the fact that people as remote as here loved cai luong too, I sang right in the market. And suddenly I found myself in a show star position! You know my voice, it was loud and strong enough for the whole market to hear. They kept giving me big hands and asked me to go on, which inspired me to sing on. They only permitted my leave when it was dark. As a result of this, they would sell me souvenirs for cheap prices in a whole week I stayed in SaPa. What a joy!” (September 25, 2003)
“Yesterday I once again strayed into an unbelievably wondrous site. How breathtakingly beautiful, and how freezing too. It would probably have been more fulfilling without such a cold that made you crave a human warmth. I was sitting behind the bike driver, with such a cold stiffing my nose. Had I been you, I would find enough courage to lean on his back and throw an embrace. You won’t believe it but what I miss most of those days we were together are when you held me and let me lean peacefully on your shoulder… Yeah. Will anyone imagine how a rebel like me craves a peaceful feeling.”
“Today is Saturday. I’ve just been back from the weekly market of Can Cau. This one is much more interesting than those markets in the Northen Plain. Here they gather outdoors on mountain slopes instead of jamming into cement houses. Imagine rows of people along a road that winds up a rough open yard on the mountain slope. Down below on three directions are glossy valleys enclosed by ranges of curious-shaped mountains. Imagine a colourful spot emphasized by a dark green forest background, how impressive! That would make a lively demonstration of colours!”
(September, 2003)
Year 5
Coming back to the Central Highlands
I had to make careful decisions about this year’s site because it would affect my graduation works. I had come back to PhanRang in the summer, but things had changed. And while I loved the landscapes of the North, I was not moved by the people like I had been in the Central Highlands…
So back I went to the Central Highlands. A mountainside where people led a poor life but were spiritually rich. I went back to the place that had bound me emotionally. A few persons there would recognize me. I stopped by at Y Thoan’s house but she was not home, so I just left a message and left the Kon Tui village. Amazingly she would be waiting for me at the Kohnlor three-way crossroads when it was already dark. She insisted I dropped by and drunk wine with her one day. It was still the same sweet half Vietnamese voice. I was able to meet again Doan, the girl who had married a man she didn’t love. Doan had had another second child, her face darker because of hardship, and she was on the way to the first-aid station to get medicine for her child when we met and talked. The sorrows in her girlhood eyes were now replaced by the worries of a young mother.
The landscapes and the people just remained the same. I realized why my friend, who was nicknamed “the frontier ghost”, had always chosen the Central Highlands for his extra-curricular trips. He was successful too in conveying the spirit of the people here in his works. I was not tough enough like him to wander from village to village which were far apart. But I did have a deep interest in the lives of the women. Old women still carried firewood on their backs, while the young ones carried both their children in the fronts and their dossers on the backs and went up the mountains and worked their days. And even teenage girls were bentbacked as a result of carrying dossers of firewood as high as themselves. Their endurance was amazing! When I asked them, “Where’s your husband? Doesn’t he go up the mountains with you?” they only replied with a contented smile, “He’s drinking wine at home. Won’t join me up the mountains”. It was a rare scene if I saw a man on an ox-driven cart carrying firewoods or whittling a boat by the sandy river bank.
“This Kongrobang village now boasts Kinh-styled houses beside the old houses-on-stills. It’s a pity that the community house is steel-roofed, so it looks just soulless and detached from others.
And in no time the place will completely change. I feel saddened at the thought that one day when I come back, all the old houses-on-stills will be replaced by cold boxes of cement.
But the river quay will probably remain the same. Still the slopy bank, rows of boats waiting, people gathering to wash clothes and taking a bath in the afternoon and very young kids who despite being only 4 or 5 years in age manage to wash clothes and bathing themselves”.
“In the rainy Kon Tum
which treats me with its intoxicating rum
so I am very, very drunk
to the extent I want a close friend
so there will be another drunk man
and another sorrower, besides me then”
“I often sit under the hanging bridge and look up at their paces. How they walk with their arms folding around their bellies as if to counter the significant weight of dossers of firewoods on their backs. I just keep asking myself a question. These women, from very early in their lives till marriage and old age, are always attached to that burdensome dosser. What sort of binding karma is it? When will they be able to get out?”
I don’t know how they will judge my gradutaion works. Some may say I am repeating myself, but some will give me encouraging compliments so I can carry on. After all, I have always had a soft spot in my heart for the place since my second-year trip. So in this very last year at school, I naturally wanted to go back. They may say my works are not new but repetitions of the past ones. And that’s OK, because the emotional chords between the land and its people and me have been reinforced and won’t easily change.
I’m not certain if I will be able to go exploring again now that I’m no longer at school. But I do know for sure that wherever I went, I really want to come back, and not just once!
Conclusion
My artistic answer to the pursuit of happiness
I used to dream about my happy life, a cosy family of my own. For a whole ten years I used to drown myself in the vicious circle of torments. The more I craved and searched for love, the lonelier I was, so lonely that I could hear my internal screams…
“Solitude is not synonymous with tranquility at all. Whenever I am by myself, I hear me screaming like mad. So I fear to be alone, opposite my own self”
(1998)
“I still don’t know what true, fulfilling happiness is. I am always looking for tiny bits. Joys, passions, dreams, worries, regrets, longings, hopes… bits by bits… Only to be happy that I’m still alive, because I do suffer and feel.
I fear solitude! It easily throws me off balance: it refreshes thoughts that drive me crazy. But most of all, I’m scared at the threshold of a love affair.
Nobody will ever know what happens within me. Nobody will ever know how I’ve felt. Even if I scream out my thoughts. No screaming or craziness will take me out of despair. In the past few days a part of me has escaped to look over my fallen self. How vulnerable I was to the indiffenrence and evilness of human beings. I saw myself on the verge of being discharged by life. That human part that was being discharged was energiless and lifeless… I don’t know what to do to salvage that humanity. But should I save it at all? Because I know that human part doesn’t need me. It always looks around for other people, those who won’t try to understand or feel sorry for it.
There is blood in the nose! I have a feeling its my life sap or force that spills out. But one day it will drain, really drain… I delightfully visualize that ending. That humanity will die, exhausted because my weak heart can’t stand the pressure of emotions.
My heart has been beating very fast recently. It seems to know that if I remain in this situation then it will soon stop working. It beats chaotically, hurrying its last rhythm of life. I try to slow it down. But the heart doesn’t obey me but that stupid emotional side. It has no sense at all to realize the non-sense of its heart. It doesn’t realize that these crazy fast beats will only finish its life. The heart beats so disorderly that the brain doesn’t get enough blood supply and I faint, suffocated. Then one day the heart will become too malfunctioned, the veins too weak and then there will be no heart beat. But I may fall before my heart. My senses are paralyzed and dumb. Then what will happen? Uncontrolled, my heart will go mad. Its very possible! Without me it won’t be able to stand firm, even though it has neglected or even hated the intellectual side of me that tried to control it!”
( December, 2000 )
There used to be a time like that, a time when I bordered between madness and alertness. Looking back I realize that I wasted too much time. I was searching in vain for human intimacy, a sort of happiness that I couldn’t decide upon or create by myself. Then I enrolled myself in this school and went on extra-curricular trips and came to realize that every time I went away and lost myself in Nature, observing different pieces of lives and simple, honest people at the various places, I felt so relieved and calm! And what a joy it was whenever I completed a work! What a sensation when my own ten fingers created shapes and features! This is the sort of happiness that I could create for myself without depending upon anybody. That’s why I regret that lengthy 10 years when I insisted on a dream of happiness in love, only to be longing and suffering and sorrowful and loathsome about the human-to-human relationship. Happiness actually are within my palms and my thinkings!
This is my last year at school. I no longer suspect my ability or feel unsure about where to go among the many roads that lay before me. Because I know I won’t be led by anybody but my own heart. I won’t need fame or popularity. I will begin my childhood burning dream. I will start the journey of exploring life around me, collecting bits and bits of tiny joys and gathering them into a true happiness! Of course, somewhere in my soul, the hidden desire is still there, that I want to duplicate my joys. Who knows that wonderful thing will come about, somewhere on the journey that I’ve chosen!
2005.
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The thesis of Nguyen kim Hoang (Himiko. Nguyễn).
