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Memories of a once-glorious craft village.
Located along the Red River, Vu Thu district, Thai Binh province (now Vu Thu commune, Hung Yen province) once had a bustling village with a thriving silkworm and cocoon spinning industry. Before the 1990s, this area was a key silkworm farming and silk reeling center in Thai Binh, with hundreds of households engaged in the trade, and products exported to many northern provinces.
The silk reeling craft in Vu Thu has existed for hundreds of years, passed down from generation to generation. No one remembers exactly when the craft started, only that during the rural renewal period after 1986, this profession helped many families escape poverty and become prosperous thanks to silk. Thai Binh silk also had a reputation in the market at that time, but the silk reeling and cocoon processing craft could not keep pace with the times.
Mulberry fields, silkworms, and silk threads have been intertwined with the lives of the local people for generations, becoming a beautiful cultural feature of the countryside.
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Since the 2000s, with the influx of cheap Chinese silk and the rapid development of the industrial textile industry, the silk reeling craft in Vu Thu has declined. People gradually abandoned the cocoon trays and reeling facilities, turning to farming or seeking work in industrial zones. Now, only a few households still practice the craft.
In late July, when the sun was still blazing across the Northern Delta, photographer Nguyen Trong Cung visited Vu Thu commune. Amidst the red-tiled houses and winding alleyways, the clicking sound of silkworm trays and the pungent scent of fresh mulberries still lingered in a few remaining homes.
As time passed, many families "cleaned up their trays and put away their cocoons," and the silkworm breeding profession gradually faded away, with only a few people still dedicated to it.
The last cocoons
Gone was the bustling scene of the whole village buzzing with the sound of silkworms eating mulberry leaves. Upon arriving, Mr. Cung found only empty courtyards, a few scattered trays of cocoons drying in the sun, and dusty spinning frames in the corners of the houses.
With the silkworms no longer producing silk, the silkworm rearing business now mainly involves selling cocoons to other places at a price of 250,000 - 300,000 VND/kg. Processes such as boiling cocoons, spinning threads, and reeling silk have been simplified. No one weaves silk on-site anymore. The machinery is also old and operates only intermittently, enough to maintain a long-term connection with the trade, but it no longer generates the same profit as before.
Nevertheless, each scene came alive under the faint rays of sunlight filtering through the wooden window. Through the weak light, the small house appeared hazy, as if immersed in old memories. Golden, shimmering silkworm cocoons, covering the bamboo trays, surrounded the old craftsman like a circle of memories.
In Vu Thu, only the elderly, with their gray hair, dim eyes, and calloused hands, still practice the craft.
Under the old roof, where light barely filtered through a small crack in the door, stacks of golden silkworm cocoons lay piled high, like vibrant splashes of color against the somber backdrop. The pungent scent of silk, dried bamboo, and the sweat of the workers mingled, creating a familiar, familiar aroma. The woman sat beside the cocoons, her hair streaked with gray, her eyes beginning to cloud, yet still shining with a glimmer of light, like a ray of light piercing through the window, illuminating memories of a time of deep connection.
To reach that moment, they went through a meticulous journey. From planting mulberry trees, incubating eggs, caring for silkworms through each molt, feeding them handfuls of clean leaves, and then transferring them to the cocooning frames – all of it is like a cycle of life recreated with each season. Silkworms are delicate creatures, requiring as much care as caring for a newborn baby. When the silkworms are mature and spinning cocoons, the sunlight must be just right; too much sun will dry them out and make them brittle, while too little sun will make the cocoons damp and the silk threads will break. Every step requires meticulousness and precision.
Silkworm farming is known as a "standing job," as farmers must care for the silkworms like newborn babies, spending almost all their time picking mulberry leaves, feeding the silkworms, and changing the leaves.
When the cocoons ripen, each one is meticulously removed by hand, cleaned, sorted, and then boiled or steamed to preserve its color and fibers. Each strand of silk is pulled out, spun, and dried – a segment of memory added to the journey of preserving the craft.
Today, that memory has lost the process of spinning silk and weaving cloth, but the silkworm cocoons remain, golden like a precious gem of time, even though times have changed.
Mature silkworm cocoons, with their golden yellow color and shimmering in the sunlight, are the culmination of the time and effort of the silkworm breeders.
Sitting quietly in the room was an old craftsman, his hands trembling but still diligently removing each cocoon from the nest, neatly arranging them as if rearranging a part of his past life. "People call this job 'eating while standing.' We work from dawn until dusk, our hands always covered in water and smoke. But we're used to it; we'd miss it if we quit, and it's hard work," an old craftsman said, then looked towards the silkworm cocoons outside, glistening in the sunlight.
What remains besides the cocoon fibers?
For people like photographer Nguyen Trong Cung, a trip to Vu Thu is not just about taking a series of photos, but also about gaining a deeper understanding of the silent loss of traditional craft villages.
The silk-making village in Vu Thu still stands, with its low tiled roofs, solitary cocoon trays, and a few elderly hands that refuse to give up the craft. But without the care, support, or at least recognition from the community, one day the last cocoon trays will be extinguished. And then, the images captured by photographers like Nguyen Trong Cung may be all that remains.
Photographer Nguyen Trong Cung's images don't seek embellishment or staged lighting, but instead focus on the eyes of the weaver, on the cracked, wrinkled hands diligently removing the cocoons. There, you find something called nostalgia, but also a deep respect for a craft on the verge of extinction.
"Not everyone understands how fresh cocoons grow from silkworms that feed on mulberry leaves. Only when you remove the trays and see the cocoons burst open, turning white, do you realize the value of the labor," said the old worker, his voice calm as if speaking from a past mulberry season.
