In the depths of my childhood memories lies a peculiar ritual: my grandfather feeding me baby powder while Vietnamese revolutionary songs, or “nhạc đỏ” (red music), played in the background. Without these melodic accompaniments, I would refuse to eat.
Our family's music shelf embodied Vietnam's complex cultural landscape: red music albums sat alongside bootlegged copies of Thúy Nga's Paris by Night — the glamorous variety shows produced by Vietnamese refugees in North America that were technically forbidden in our homeland before the age of YouTube. This contradiction was unremarkable to us then; it was simply the soundtrack of our lives. Years later, as a student in the west, this complex musical inheritance would lead me to an unexpected revelation. Far from home, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds, I found myself drawn back to those revolutionary songs, discovering in them layers of meaning that my childhood self could never have grasped.
The symbolism of ‘Cô gái mở đường’
One song in particular has stayed with me through the years: ‘Cô gái mở đường’ (The Girls Who Opened the Road), a haunting tribute to the young women who maintained Vietnam's vital supply routes during the American War along the Hồ Chí Minh Trail. The version played most often on our VCD player was performed by Vũ Dậu, one of red music's most prominent figures, celebrated among the People's artists.
‘The Girls Who Opened the Road,’ performed by Bích Liên, Vũ Dậu, and Vietnam National Music Song and Dance Theatre's female choir.
This seemingly simple childhood memory would later spark an academic journey into the heart of Vietnam's socialist realism movement and its profound influence on the nation's artistic expression. The intersection of politics, art, and personal expression during this era reveals a complex narrative about how societies shape their cultural identity during times of revolution.
Consider the opening lines of ‘Cô gái mở đường,’ written in 1966 by Xuân Giao: “Walking under the night sky, stars twinkling, a song echoes through the forest trees. Could it be you, the girl who opens the road? Can't see your face, only hear your song.” These verses paint a vivid picture of a soldier marching through the darkness, guided by an unseen young woman's voice. What's most striking is the deliberate anonymity of this female figure — she remains faceless, representing countless youth who sacrificed their personal identities for the revolutionary cause.
Young volunteers on Trường Sơn Road. Photo via Báo Chính Phủ.
Xuân Giao's composition technique was characteristic of the era: he gathered material directly from the field, meeting young volunteers in Vĩnh Linh, Quảng Trị, one of the war's fiercest battlefields. Most of these volunteers were women in their twenties who had devoted their lives to fighting American forces and, more broadly, to building a communist future. However, instead of telling their personal stories, Xuân Giao aimed to create an image of the selfless, revolutionary Model Youth who represented every young soul in the country.
Young volunteers on Trường Sơn Road. Photo via Báo Chính Phủ.
Two years after the song's release, this dedication would be tragically embodied in the Đồng Lộc junction incident, where 10 young female volunteers lost their lives to an American bomb while hiding in a tunnel. The song's enduring power lies in how it transforms these individual sacrifices into a collective narrative of revolutionary progress. The faceless girl becomes a symbol of all those who worked tirelessly for not only Vietnam's liberation but also its progression toward what was believed to be the final stage of societal development, communism. Their personal stories were subsumed into a larger narrative of historical inevitability.
This artistic choice wasn't merely aesthetic. It reflected a broader philosophical framework that dominated Vietnamese art during the war years: socialist realism, an artistic doctrine imported from the Soviet Union that would shape Vietnam's cultural landscape for decades to come.
From Russia, with realism
The roots of socialist realism can be traced back to 1932 Soviet Russia, where Ivan Gronsky, a literary critic and Bolshevik Party official, first coined the term after meeting with Soviet leader Joseph Stalin. By 1934, it had evolved into a comprehensive artistic philosophy under Party Secretary Andrei Zhdanov, who famously declared writers to be “engineers of human souls.”
Zhdanov's vision for socialist realism went beyond mere documentary representation. Artists were expected to depict reality not just as it existed but in its “revolutionary development” — a concept deeply rooted in Karl Marx's theory of historical materialism. This meant grounding artistic expression within a grand narrative of societal advancement, moving through distinct stages from primitive communism to the eventual triumph of scientific communism.
‘Tình ca’ in the form of music sheet.
This artistic movement found fertile ground in Vietnam through the efforts of Trường Chinh, the Secretary General of the Communist Party of Vietnam from 1940 to 1956. His 1948 speech, “Marxism and Vietnamese Culture,” definitively declared that “in our era, the revolutionary culture is the socialist realist culture.” This pronouncement would shape Vietnamese artistic expression for generations to come.
But what did this mean for artists? Take the case of Hoàng Việt, whose story illustrates both the power and limitations of socialist realism. Originally writing romantic music under the pen name Lê Trực in South Vietnam, he was labelled a “reactionary” songwriter and sent for re-education in 1949. After joining the revolutionary cause and moving to Hanoi in 1954, he left behind his wife and three children in the south.
In 1957, inspired by a letter from his wife after three years of silence, Hoàng Việt composed ‘Tình ca’ (Love Song), perhaps the greatest piece in the entire red music genre. What made it exceptional was precisely how it deviated from socialist realist principles — instead of subordinating personal experience to collective struggle, it gave voice to individual longing and separation.
‘Tình ca’ as performed by Kiều Hưng.
The song's reception reveals the strict ideological constraints of the era. It faced criticism for displaying “personal weakness and tragedy.” Cultural authorities initially banned it, and Hoàng Việt was pressured to modify it to emphasize its propaganda value. Tragically, he died in an American bombardment in 1967, the same year the song was finally allowed to be performed. ‘Tình ca’ was first performed by Quốc Hương, who belonged to the first generation of red music singers, and quickly became a hit.
This tension between personal expression and political doctrine highlights a fundamental critique of socialist realism: its tendency to prioritize ideological certainty over human experience. The movement's unwavering optimism about historical progression often came at the cost of individuality, replacing lived reality with political imagination.
Hoàng Việt and his wife.
Contemporary scholars have suggested that socialist realism eventually evolved into what Russian American anthropologist Alexei Yurchak calls the “Soviet hegemony of form” — a standardized ideological language. This theoretical framework emerged from a fundamental disagreement between Stalin and Marx over the nature of language itself. While Marx viewed language as part of society's political superstructure, controlled by the dominant class and thus inherently unable to truthfully represent the masses' reality, Stalin took a different view. He argued that language existed outside the superstructure, making it possible — even necessary — for the state to shape and standardize language in service of the people's revolutionary consciousness.
Under Stalin's new linguistic vision, Soviet citizens were required to use a kind of “pure language” that would signify reality correctly. They learned to navigate this linguistic framework to avoid persecution, even as the gap between official discourse and personal experience widened. This standardization of artistic expression created a parallel reality where artists had to master the art of speaking in approved forms while finding subtle ways to convey genuine human experiences.
Trường Sơn Road. Photo by Võ An Khánh.
Yet even within these constraints, artists found ways to speak to diverse personal realities. The enduring popularity of songs like ‘Tình ca’ suggests that the most powerful works of this era succeeded not because they perfectly adhered to socialist realist principles, but because they managed to channel genuine human experiences through the required ideological forms.
The role of socialist realism today
The legacy of socialist realism in Vietnam is complex. While officially abandoned after the country's 1986 economic reforms (Đổi Mới), its influence on Vietnamese artistic expression persists. The movement's emphasis on collective struggle and historical progress helped forge a national identity during times of war, even as it sometimes silenced individual voices.
Today, as Vietnam navigates its place in the global community, the question remains: how do societies balance the need for collective narrative with individual expression? The story of Vietnamese red music suggests that the most enduring art often emerges from this very tension — works that speak to both personal truth and shared experience.
A sketch of Hoàng Việt.
As I reflect on those childhood moments with my grandfather, I realize that the power of these songs lies not just in their political message but in their ability to capture human experience in all its complexity. They remind us that even within the most rigid ideological frameworks, the human spirit finds ways to express its fundamental truths.
Songs must speak of what's true in our hearts. As history unfolds, people look back to Vietnam's musical legacy and choose those songs that speak to the visceral emotions of their souls, regardless of political orientation. That's why, far from home, I re-encounter songs that belong not only to my childhood, but also to my country's nuanced past. I love and cry for the artists who courageously remained lovers of life in times of war and destruction.
Looking back at this cultural moment, we might ask: Is there still a place for Hoàng Việt's kind of honesty in modern artistic expression? Perhaps the enduring resonance of these revolutionary songs suggests that the most powerful art will always find ways to speak both to and beyond its historical moment, capturing something fundamentally true about the human experience, regardless of the political context in which it was created.
The story of Vietnamese revolutionary music serves as a reminder that art, even when shaped by political forces, retains its capacity to touch hearts and transform lives across generations. In the end, perhaps that's the most revolutionary thing about it.
