In a country fractured by ideology, Hoàng Việt's love for his wife Ngọc Hạnh persisted like a secret melody carried across closed borders by weak radio signals, and letters that had to circle the globe before finding their way home.

Hoàng Việt and his wife, Ngọc Hạnh.

I spent most of my life in a Hanoian neighborhood where great artists made their homes. A few steps from my house, at the old French villa on 65 Nguyễn Thái Học Street, lived some of Vietnam's most influential artists: songwriter Nguyễn Đình Thi, who penned revolutionary anthems like ‘Diệt Phát Xít’ (Killing Fascists); painters Nguyễn Phan Chánh and Nguyễn Tư Nghiêm, towering figures in Vietnam's art history; and writer Vũ Tú Nam, whose short piece ‘Cây Gạo’ (The Kapok Tree) has been memorized by generations of schoolchildren. The neighborhood also housed veterans from different sides of the 1950s “culture war” Nhân Văn-Giai Phẩm, including the poet Trần Dần and his fierce critic, songwriter Đỗ Nhuận.

Just steps away stood a collective house at 13 Cao Bá Quát Street, home to several southern artists now rarely discussed. Among them was Hoàng Việt, composer of the red music masterpiece ‘Tình Ca’ (Love Song). During my childhood, while my grandparents often spoke of the great artists in my textbooks as friends and neighbors, they rarely mentioned Hoàng Việt. Yet whenever the public loudspeaker outside our house played ‘Tình Ca,’ my grandfather would remark that it moved him more than any other song. Perhaps because Hoàng Việt belonged to an earlier generation of revolutionaries, one whose personal struggles often remained unspoken.

From Lê Trực to Hoàng Việt

Born in 1928 as Lê Chí Trực, Hoàng Việt's life spanned just 39 years, yet his career was long and complex. His music resonated on both sides of war, and his journey extended far beyond his mother's hometown of Mỹ Tho. Before becoming a revolutionary musician in 1949, he was a romantic writer in Saigon. Under the pen name Lê Trực, he composed works like the tango ‘Tiếng Còi Trong Sương Đêm’ (The Whistle in the Night Fog), ‘Chị Cả’ (The Eldest Sister) and ‘Biệt Đô Thành’ (Farewell to the Capital City) which South Vietnamese refugees still perform today, even when they're far away from home.

‘Tiếng Còi Trong Sương Đêm’ was particularly controversial. It portrayed mothers holding their children through sleepless nights, waiting for husbands who had joined revolutionary forces fighting French rule. From a non-communist southern perspective, it expressed the awakening of urban youth to patriotism and radicalism. From the north's view, it represented the communist Việt Minh guerrillas led by Hồ Chí Minh.

‘Tiếng Còi Trong Sương Đêm’ performed by Thanh Thuý via Hollywood Night Music.

The song marked Lê Trực's early success in South Vietnam, gaining airplay on Radio Saigon in 1946–1947, and later, on Radio France Asie after 1950. But it also led to his capture by the Việt Minh, who viewed his romantic, westernized style as reactionary. After three months studying dialectical materialism in a re-education camp, Lê Trực joined the Việt Minh and became Hoàng Việt. He initially chose the name Hoàng Việt Hận — “Hoàng” for yellow-skinned, “Việt” for Vietnamese, and “Hận” for hatred — rejecting French colonial attempts to erase the Vietnamese identity and create “Frenchmen in yellow skin.” He later dropped “Hận,” but its brief inclusion would prove prophetic in ways that even he might not have anticipated.

The transition from Lê Trực to Hoàng Việt marked a radical shift. Beyond embracing communism, he began incorporating indigenous elements into his music. In ‘Lên Ngàn’ (Ascending the Hill), he chronicled the devastating 1952 flood in Tây Ninh, where only the upland fields of Trảng Còng remained cultivatable. The song became an artistic symbol of the region, with locals hailing it as a masterpiece. It wasn't just a description of natural disasters but a testament to the resilience of ordinary people facing extraordinary circumstances.

‘Nhạc Rừng’ (The Music of the Forest), written in 1953, was inspired by the Southeast region's forests. It captured a breathtaking scene: early sunlight bathing the trees, green branches swaying, leaves dancing in the breeze, winding streams, and graceful bamboo groves. The pure symphony of birdsong, cicadas, murmuring water, and rustling leaves created a dreamlike peace far removed from war. This piece demonstrated his growing ability to blend revolutionary fervor with a profound appreciation for Vietnam's natural beauty.

A love story across borders

But what truly distinguished Hoàng Việt's work was something more intimate: his love for his wife, Lâm Thị Ngọc Hạnh. Their separation after the 1954 Geneva Accords divided Vietnam inspired his masterpiece ‘Tình Ca,’ written in 1957 when he finally received a letter from her after three years of silence. This was more than just another love song; it was a radical statement about the power of personal connection in a time of national division.

A map of North and South Vietnam after the Geneva Accords of 1954.

Love had always been the wellspring of Hoàng Việt's artistry, flowing through his work long before the creation of ‘Tình Ca.’ In ‘Tiếng Còi Trong Sương Đêm,’ he had already given voice to the profound ache of separation, capturing the quiet desperation of mothers waiting for husbands who had answered revolution's call. His verses spoke of promises broken by time and circumstance:

Oh my child, your mother's heart is heavy with sorrow,
Worrying for your father across the distant mountains and rivers.
When he left, he promised to return this autumn,
But now autumn leaves have fallen everywhere.
And winter has passed, yet I wait in endless pain and longing.

A vintage cover of ‘Tiếng Còi Trong Sương Đêm.’

These haunting lines would prove prophetic, foreshadowing his fate with Ngọc Hạnh in the years following their marriage in the late 1940s. The couple met in Saigon amid the tumult of revolution, sharing both love and hardship in a re-education camp, only to be pulled apart by the tides of history: she became an urban liaison while he joined the Military Band Unit of Zone 8, constantly traveling around to create songs for the revolution. Their story of separation echoed again in ‘Lên Ngàn,’ where he wrote of a wife harvesting rice while her husband fought in distant battles: "When victory is ours one day, I'll return, and your dreams will come true."

Unlike other songs about Vietnam's 1954 division, such as Văn Ký's ‘Bài Ca Hy Vọng’ (The Song of Hope) or Phan Huỳnh Điểu's ‘Tình Trong Lá Thiếp’ (Love Within the Letter), which emphasized a rather abstract sense of patriotism and hope, ‘Tình Ca’ expressed an intensely personal love. For Hoàng Việt, the country's division meant concrete loss — he couldn't see his wife's eyes, couldn't know when they'd meet again. The song was inspired by a letter from Ngọc Hạnh that had to travel from South Vietnam to Paris before reaching him in Hanoi, as direct communication between north and south was impossible.

‘Tình Ca,’ performed by Trần Khánh and Hoàng Mãnh. Video via YouTube channel Dzung Vo.

‘Tình Ca’ was Hoàng Việt's response, broadcasting hopes that somehow, against all odds, Ngọc Hạnh might catch the signal in the south. But the song's personal, sentimental nature clashed with northern revolutionary aesthetics. It was banned for ten years, until 1967 — the year Hoàng Việt died in battle. This tension between personal emotion and revolutionary duty perfectly exemplified the struggles many artists faced during this period.

In the shadows of this silenced song, I begin to understand the deeper resonance of the name he chose upon leaving re-education: Hoàng Việt Hận. The “hatred” embedded in this early identity wasn't merely a rejection of his torn country's fate. Rather, it spoke to something more intimate and profound: the exquisite pain of separated lovers. His hatred echoed the same delicate agony that the ancient Chinese poet Li Bai captured in ‘Sadness Over Love’: “Only the tears, filling and falling, who could guess whom the heart harbors its hatred for?”

Radical love

In The Architects of Dignity: Vietnamese Visions of Decolonization, political scientist Kevin Pham presents a compelling analysis of how Vietnamese leaders approached nation-building. He argues that figures like Phan Bội Châu, Phạm Quỳnh, and Hồ Chí Minh employed shame rather than pride as their foundation. While they criticized French colonizers, their harshest criticism was directed inward, deliberately shaming their compatriots for perceived moral, intellectual, and cultural shortcomings. This self-criticism wasn't meant to destroy but to motivate Vietnamese people to fulfill their national duties. They conceptualized dignity not as an inherent individual quality requiring outside recognition, but as a collective property that had to be actively asserted through the nation's unified efforts to improve itself.

To the architects of revolution, Hoàng Việt's deeply personal expressions of love and longing represented dangerous weakness: a betrayal of collective dignity that earned his masterpiece a decade of silence. Yet for artists like him who wielded pens rather than political power, this intimate defiance of tragedy became their salvation. In their hands, personal sorrow transformed into a shield against despair, allowing love to flourish even as American bombs fell and Soviet Kalashnikovs echoed across the divided land.

The music sheet of ‘Tình Ca.’

French philosopher Alain Badiou provides a framework that can help us understand why Hoàng Việt's love was itself revolutionary. Badiou argues that true love is inherently radical, a “minimal communism” where “the real subject of a love is the becoming of the couple and not the mere satisfaction of the individuals.” By this measure, Hoàng Việt's love for Ngọc Hạnh was the pinnacle of radicalism, outlasting the ideological boundaries of his era.

For Badiou, love isn't merely feeling but active construction: two people building a new way of experiencing the world together. When lovers look at a sunset, it's not just that they both see the same sunset, but that their shared gaze creates a new way of experiencing that moment. This is what Badiou means by construction: the ongoing, point-by-point labor of creating a shared world that exists neither in one person's perspective nor the other's, but in the space created by their union while maintaining their difference.

Through their love, Hoàng Việt and Ngọc Hạnh constructed an inseparable country where lovers could reunite. Each challenge they faced, each moment of separation, became part of this constructed world. Love became their strongest weapon against terror. As he wrote in ‘Tình Ca’:

We sing together a resounding song from distant lands,
Driving out the enemy, ending the bloody war.
Shattering all the pain and separation,
Hold firm to our enduring faith, my dear,
Keep the heart alive with a love for life.
Let us create a love song of our union,
To offer it wholeheartedly to everyone.

This wasn't just poetic metaphor; it was a radical act of world-building in the face of national division.

Their construction remained unfinished when Hoàng Việt died young. But after years in Hanoi and Sofia, Bulgaria, where he studied music and composed Vietnam's first symphony, ‘Quê Hương’ (Homeland), he returned to South Vietnam in 1966. He crossed the entire Trường Sơn mountain range to fulfill ‘Tình Ca’'s promise and see his wife once more. This journey wasn't just physical; it was the culmination of years of constructing a world where love could triumph over division.

Lâm Thị Ngọc Hạnh (right) and the couple's youngest son Lâm Lê Dũng (left). Photo via Báo Giao Thông.

Hoàng Việt died shortly after reaching his mother's hometown in Cái Bè, Mỹ Tho. But his wish eventually came true. When Quốc Hương performed ‘Tình Ca’ in the north, the weak radio signal somehow reached Ngọc Hạnh in the south, years after her husband's death — a final love letter carried on the airwaves, transcending the divisions of war. In this moment, the world he and Ngọc Hạnh had constructed through their love became real, if only briefly, proving that some forms of revolution outlast both ideology and death itself.