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In Memory of a Troubadour
-by ianbui
"Living this life
Requires but the heart.
You know for what, my love?
For the wind -- to sweep it away..."
- Trinh Cong Son (1939-2001)
The year was 1974. The war was intensifying even though, or perhaps because, US troops had
all but withdrawn completely from Vietnam. It was a turbulent time, a crazy time. An
increasing number of refugees had steadily been streaming South from Central Vietnam where
the fighting had escalated in preparation for the final Big Push. Conflicting news,
depressing news was everywhere. Everyone was tense.
I was a student at the Hong-Bang Academy in Saigon. Prepubescent, pre-occupied with more
than just schoolwork and friends, and not so naive anymore after the deaths of my uncle
and a cousin (who was barely seventeen when he marched off to die.) Nevertheless, I was a
normal kid -- a happy kid, all things considered.
One day our school organized a field trip to one of the refugee camps that had been
hastily set up outside Saigon. The weeks prior we had collected several truckloads of food
and supply for the refugees -- everything from rice and instant noodle to sleeping mats
and mosquito nets. For a young boy who rarely got a chance to get away from the safety of
the capitol, it was an exciting event.
We'd made hospital trips to visit wounded soldiers before, but seeing civilian sufferings
face-to-face made the war seem even closer and ever more real. For the first time in my
life I saw a tent city, with thousands of people crammed into it. (Little did I know then
that only a few months later I would be living in one myself!) I remember the haggard look
on the faces of the women, the wild staring eyes of the children, the skinny old men, the
bare feet, the mud, the smell, the dust, the flies...
My classmates and I were considered "kids" and thus were not given a lot of
responsibilities. My job was to pass out drinks to the 11th and 12th graders who ran the
operation, and to keep the water coolers always filled. But I watched the elder students
go about their work -- organizing, worrying, laughing, sweating... -- with total awe and
respect. But the most poignant and memorable moment came during lunch break, and it came
quite unexpectedly.
Sitting atop one of the camions, our student council president, a senior, took out a
guitar and began to sing. We all stopped what we were doing and started to gather around
his truck to listen.
His voice was sweet but full of pain, his playing clear and warm. Soon the music began to
drift above the tent tops like a floating lullaby.
"A tear for a child aslumber in peace
A tear for a stream that nurtures her weeds
A tear for an earth so barren and scarred
A tear for a race so displaced and scared..."
It was a song by Trinh Cong Son, one that I had heard on the radio before but didn't pay
much attention to. "A Tear For My Homeland" [*] was its name. And for a small
while everything seemed to come to a standstill; even the dust settled and the flies
stopped buzzing.
I still can see the image in my mind as though it was only yesterday: An eighteen-year
old, in his white-and-blue school uniform, strumming and singing what was at the time
considered "anti-war" music. But no one protested. No one moved.
"A tear for a cloud asleep on the hill
A tear for a tree that silently fell
A tear for a man whose coarse blood's run dry
The tears of our land are coursing inside..."
"Oh, the tears of my heart
They're tearing apart the time of our lives
Oh, the tears in my soul
They beckon me on and on through the night..."
The sun beat down on our humble convoy. The heat rose up to meet the still, blue sky.
The song, cool as a blade, slowly knifed its way into one's subconscious and then left it
quietly bleeding at the end.
"A tear for the birds who forests have fled
A tear for the night all covered with death
A tear for you, love, your pain to relieve
A tear without name -- this homeland I give."
It was one of Son's many war-time ballads that had made him both a well-loved public icon
and a loathed enemy of the Saigon regime during those dark and fateful years. No matter.
His songs always spoke directly to the commoners -- and never with even a trace of
pretension. They sometimes were bitter, yes, but always filled with human compassion, even
in the face of utter hopelessness and despair. Those qualities have, perhaps more
subliminally than real, had some influence on my own artistic and musical style years
later -- one never knows for sure. But probably the greatest debt I owe to this lonely
poet/songwriter is not something of the aesthetic realm, but rather an unconditional love
for humanity and a sense of humility and grace. And for that I feel thankful.
Farewell then, my friend, though we never have met; I hope there is peace wherever you
are. And to him that day on top of the camion with a guitar (and whose name I didn't even
know to forget) I dedicate this requiem for the finest troubadour Vietnam has ever had.
April 09, 2001
Melbourne, FL
ianbui@yahoo.com
[*] translation by ianbui
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