The Mountains Sing

by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

My grandmother used to tell me that when our ancestors die, they don’t just disappear, they continue to watch over us. And

A breeze gusts through the open

window, holding my face like Grandma’s hands once did.

The sun is a large egg yolk peeking through a row of tin-roofed houses. The sky is as blue as my mother’s favorite shirt.

Grandma and I emerged, shivering thin leaves.

soldiers. I wondered why foreign armies kept invading our country. First it was the Chinese, the Mongolians, the French, the Japanese, and now the American imperialists.

nights, to dry my tears, Grandma opened the door of her childhood to me. Her stories scooped me up and delivered

the French occupation, the Japanese invasion, the Great Hunger, and the Land Reform.

crossing several communes before arriving at Vĩnh Phúc, a village in the North of Việt Nam. The

But you only know the Old Quarter if you remember its thirty-six main streets. Each has a life of its own—Silk Street, Silver Street, Tin Street,

Shoe Street, Bamboo Street, Coal Street, Copper Street, Salt Street, Coffin Street, Cotton Street, Traditional Medicine Street . . .”

air. Large bushes lined up along the roadside, their silhouettes looking like gigantic animals ready to pounce.

tree. The rain had died into the earth. A half-moon dangled from the sky. I closed my eyes and saw myself as a child, my mother combing my hair, her singing voice the wind in my ears.

forward. She scooped up the mixed bồ kết stew, letting it run through her hair. A river of light wove its way down a river of black.

Quiet pond a frog leaps into the sound of water

Bashō, who lived in the sixteenth century.

Wars have the power to turn graceful and cultured people into monsters.

Dậu—the Great Famine of 1945—which killed two million of our countrymen.

used to think that we were the ones in charge of our destinies, but I learned then that, in time of war, normal citizens were nothing but leaves that would fall in the thousands or millions in the surge of a single storm. For months after my mother’s death, whenever I slept, I saw her slumped against cracked soil.

Soft and persistent rain penetrates the earth better than a storm. I need to be patient with him.”

A short distance away, in the midst of the water, the Turtle Tower glimmered in the afternoon light, moss greening its walls.

Atop the tower, figures of dragons and phoenixes soared up to the sky. On a tiny island near the tower, the Ngọc Sơn Temple rose above a thick clump of trees.

Army. When peace came, the Emperor went boating on this lake. A huge turtle appeared before him, spoke in a human voice, asking the Emperor to return the sword. “The world will only be at peace if all people let go of their weapons,” the turtle said. Astonished, the Emperor held out his beloved sword. The turtle took it with his mouth, disappearing under water. From then on, the lake was named Hoàn Kiếm—the Lake of the Returned Sword.

splendid name.” Grandma smiled at me. “Sơn ca means ‘The Mountain Sings.’” “Believe me, this bird can sing,” said Uncle Đạt. “Whenever it did, all the mountains around me seemed to be singing, too. My comrades used to tell tales about the Sơn ca. They said the Sơn ca’s songs can reach Heaven, and souls of the dead can return in the Sơn ca’s singing.” “What a special bird, Uncle.”

“Daughter, you are the warm blood in my heart.”

Ten years earlier, after the Việt Minh saved us from the Great Hunger, Hùng had become an underground Việt Minh member, writing leaflets and documents, calling on our fellow citizens to unite in supporting the Việt Minh troops.

the Communists have started some crazy thing called the Land Reform. Landless farmers are encouraged to rise against rich landowners. That’s why the Đinhs left.”

the longan tree was blooming, its blossoms spreading a dome of pearls atop its green canopy. Instead of bringing joy to my heart, the sight reminded me that life’s peaceful moments could be as short-lived as flowers—gone with a strong gust of wind. The news

“Mama, look.” I turned to see Đạt, sunlight on his shoulder, rushing toward me. Fourteen years old then, he was taller than me, and well built. Thuận, eight, and Hạnh, seven, ran after him. Carrying bags in their hands, they were

found out that the Việt Minh deliberately chose bần cố nông—landless farmers who were fed up or angry with life—to lead the Land Reform movement.

in darkness, touched the teary faces of Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, and Hạnh. I embraced them, willing

But by reading their books, I saw the other side of them—their humanity. Somehow I was sure that if people were willing to read

each other, and see the light of other cultures, there would be no war on earth.

that history will write itself in people’s memories, and as long as those memories live on, we can have faith that we can do better.

of hanging roots, and realized it was a Bodhi tree. Buddha had meditated and became enlightened under the Bodhi tree.

air. I gazed at Buddha’s earlobes, so long they touched his shoulders. My mother had told me that with those ears, Buddha could hear our cries of suffering.

khôn—Each day of travel earns one basketful of wisdom. Once tired of traveling, I’d stay in Sài

I want to meet the pilot who launched the rocket that killed Sánh. I want to rub her blood onto his face, so he could taste her suffering.

How come I can’t tell her that I love her, my own daughter? In our family, love is something that we show, not something we speak about. Mama has never said that she loves

“My elderly mother is a ripe banana clinging onto the tree, the wind could rattle her to fall, leaving me an orphan.”

I wish I could take back the words I’d flung at her, but words are like water: once they have escaped one’s mouth, they’re spilled onto the floor. Words are like knives, leaving invisible wounds that continue to bleed.

the Long Biên Bridge, its body arching like a skeleton across the Red River. Perhaps

News about the punishment of landlords was flooding into Hà Nội. Each village, each hamlet, and each town had been given a quota of how many rich landowners to denounce, beat, or

The repairman was an elderly person whose hair looked like a puff of cloud that had fallen down from the sky. He

They galloped away, dragging their laughter with them.

became a Buddhist. I’ve been practicing Nhẫn, the principle of patience, which teaches me how to love other human beings. Only through love can we drive away the darkness of evil from this earth.

Standing before them, I shed bitter tears. I heard them whisper to me, on the wind that sang among the green canopies of leaves.

Human lives were short and fragile. Time and illnesses

consumed us, like flames burning away these pieces of wood. But it didn’t matter how long or short we lived. It mattered more how much light we were able to shed on those we loved and how many people we touched with our compassion.

to. Uncle Đạt and Auntie Nhung named the baby Thống Nhất, which meant “Unification,” a fiery wish of many Vietnamese from North to South throughout the war.