Mưa Đỏ (‘Red’ Rain) – 2025

Mua do (2025) – IMDb

When my friend invited me to watch Mưa Đỏ, she later shared that the story didn’t unfold in the way she expected—it didn’t flow as a single line, nor rise to one grand climax.

But for me, walking into the cinema without expectation and walking out with my eyes full of tears, I realized the beauty of its form. Mưa Đỏ is not one continuous story—it is broken into fragments, like scattered pieces of memory. And in each fragment, a tear falls. Perhaps that is why I love it so deeply. This is a movie I could watch endlessly, because every time, I know it will open my heart again.

The film tells of the 81 days and nights of 1972, the defense of Quảng Trị Citadel—one of the darkest, bloodiest chapters of the war.

But it does not celebrate victory, nor wave the banner of pride. Instead, it whispers of peace—the most fragile, most sacred human right. It tells of grief and of loss. And I felt it all—the suffocating pain, the broken breaths. Even now, writing these words, listening to the soundtrack, my tears keep falling.

The movie holds within it so many shades of humanity:

• Romance – pure love blooming in the harshest of times, cherished more deeply than today.
• Motherhood – the greatest love of all, willing to sacrifice everything for the country.
• Fear – the shadow of death always near, and the quiet preparation for it.
• Bravery – the courage to step forward, knowing life would end.
• Joy – the fragile joy of laughter, born even in darkness.
• Loss – of fathers, husbands, lovers, comrades.
• Grief – the endless ache that lingers even after peace returns.

And then there is the music. Not only the rhythm, but the lyrics—so piercingly beautiful, so heavy with sorrow. The mothers searching endlessly for the sons. The wives still waiting for the husbands. Peace may come, but their beloved never returns. They remain forever in the land, or beneath the waters of the Thạch Hãn River—a river I long to stand beside one day.

The song stays with me most: “Nỗi Đau Giữa Hòa Bình” – Hòa Minzy x Nguyễn Văn Chung.

A title that itself holds a truth: even within peace, there is pain.

The acting, the script, the way each sacrifice was portrayed—every death, every heartbreak, every brave heart of soldier, wife, child, and mother—it was all felt. And the loss was not only Vietnam’s. It was America’s too. Because war never belongs to one side alone. We are all human. And yet, we still allow ourselves to be torn apart.

How many lives were left behind, only so peace could return?

When will the world stop denying the simplest human right—the right to live, the right to breathe in peace? Sometimes, I want to cradle this little peace we have today, but knowing that others are still suffering makes even the news unbearable to read.

And even when wars end, peace does not return overnight. Trauma remains, passed on silently, like an inheritance. As “It Didn’t Start With You” and “The Body Keeps the Score” books remind us, the wounds of war linger in our bodies, our minds, and our children. I have seen it. I have lived it.

The final scene of Mưa Đỏ stays with me still: a soldier, shattered in mind, dances in madness after the bombing. It reminded me of a story Susan Cain once shared in Bittersweet. A cellist, Vedran Smajlović, played music in the ruins of Sarajevo. When asked if he was crazy to play in a war zone, he replied:

“Am I crazy for playing cello in a war zone? Why don’t you ask them if they are crazy for shelling Sarajevo?”

That line has never left me. And now, like this film, it reminds me that even in the ruins of war, art, love, and humanity can rise.

Perhaps that is why Mưa Đỏ touched me so deeply. Because it is not only about the past of Vietnam. It is about all of us, everywhere, who carry grief, who dream of peace, and who still believe that even in the darkest night, a song, a dance, a memory—can keep our humanity alive.

……………………………………..