Lowkey Rebel: How Vietnamese Women Used Codes to Talk About Sexual Violence
Ever thought about how messed up it is that some people canât even talk about their trauma without it being brushed aside? Picture this: no social media, no memes, no cryptic tweets with a Taylor Swift lyric to express your pain. All you have is your voice. These women turned lullabies, folk songs, and even casual conversation into codes - like an OG version of sub tweeting.
Now, imagine being a Vietnamese woman during the war. The stuff they went through - sexual violence, loss, and unspeakable pain - was happening right under the radar. But hereâs the crazy part: these women didnât have the luxury of just speaking out. Society wasnât having it. So, what did they do? They got clever. They turned everyday language into a secret code, using lullabies, folk songs, and even casual conversation to spill the truth about their suffering. Sounds wild, they couldnât just shout âIâm hurtingâ because the world wasnât listening, so they embedded their pain in hidden messages. Like, imagine writing a post but using emojis that only certain people would understand - same vibe, just way more intense. These women became masters of coded language, slipping their stories of trauma into songs and conversations that seemed innocent to the untrained ear. It wasnât just survival; it was resistance. They were screaming for help without ever actually screaming. So, how do you think youâd survive if the only way to speak up was through hidden signals? Would you have the courage to decode and listen? Because these women, despite everything, found a way to make their voices heard - loud and clear, even if the world wasnât ready to listen.
Letâs talk about âCon CĂČ BĂ© BĂ©â (Little Stork). At first glance, itâs just a lullaby about a stork and a baby, right? But, like a lot of things in history, whatâs seen isnât always whatâs heard. Underneath this seemingly sweet, soothing melody lies a whole world of unspoken trauma. The stork, in this case, isnât just a bird - itâs a metaphor for the things that were taken away. The woman singing this lullaby isnât just calming her child; sheâs whispering the agony of losing loved ones, of war, of violence, and the heartbreak of a peace that never arrived. If you didnât know the context, it might sound like a pretty innocent song, right? But for those who had been through the pain, it was an unspoken truth. Thatâs the power of coded language - when you canât outright say whatâs really going on, you bury it in things that seem innocent. And this wasnât the only lullaby like this.
Take âBĂšo DáșĄt MĂąy TrĂŽiâ (Floating Water Lily), for instance. On the surface, itâs another lullaby, another cute story. But dig deeper, and youâll find it's actually a womanâs tale of being lost, drifting away from everything she knows - something many women during the war could relate to as they dealt with their own displacement and loss. These lullabies were like secret passwords passed down, like messages from one generation to the next. Imagine that: a woman singing to her child, passing down her pain and resilience in the form of a song, knowing that the child would grow up understanding that this wasnât just a bedtime tune - it was a survival song, a quiet scream for the world to hear.
Scholars like Nguyen Thi Minh Thien (2020) and Le Thi Hoa (2021) have broken down the hidden genius of these coded lullabies, calling them "resilient acts of rebellion" that allowed women to survive in silence. Thien argues that these songs were a form of resistance - not in the typical protest sense, but as a quiet, everyday rebellion against the oppression and violence of war. This wasnât about marching in the streets or shouting in the face of the government, it was about survival in its most subtle form. Think about it - what do we do today when we canât directly speak out? We tweet, we post memes, we make art. These women didnât have that privilege. They sang. And through these melodies, they embedded coded messages of grief, trauma, and resistance, all while hiding it in plain sight. Itâs almost like an ancient version of what we do now with subtle activism - like using âcancel cultureâ to critique power dynamics or embedding resistance in pop culture references. Hoa, on the other hand, takes this a step further, claiming that these lullabies were the cornerstone of cultural survival. They werenât just preserving memories - they were actively keeping their identities alive in the face of genocide and war. So, when you think about it, these songs werenât just lullabies - they were an entire survival manual for women navigating the worst. They turned their pain into an art form, one thatâs survived across generations. And honestly, if weâre ever in a similar situation today, wouldnât we do the same?
Just think - how many times have you shared an inside joke or meme that only your closest friends get? This isnât that much different. Whatâs the true power of a âcoded languageâ? Itâs that it allows us to keep our voice, our stories, and our history alive - without ever needing to shout. And now, hereâs the million-dollar question: if the only way you could tell your story was through hidden messages, would you? Could you? And more importantly, would anyone bother to decode it? These women proved that even in silence, their voices were louder than the world ever expected. The least we can do now is listen.
CITATION
Nguyen Thi Minh Thien. 2020. The Role of Folk Songs in Preserving History.
Le Thi Hoa. 2021. Oral Traditions and Memory.
