Even though the village no longer has its old name.

1. It was a chilly late afternoon at the end of the year. We came across an old man sitting leisurely fishing by the Kien Giang River. He proudly told us that he was from Quang Cu village, although for more than a decade now, this area has been known by a new name: Xuan Giang residential area, Kien Giang town. Quang Cu, his hometown, is famous as a land of learning—a place that has nurtured generations of studious, diligent people who made education their great profession. But as he said, what makes this place different is the strong essence of folk wisdom in its daily life.

The people of Quang Cu have a unique style: they enjoy witty and exaggerated storytelling—jokes and hyperbole that are full of thought. This linguistic charm is like an intangible asset, passed down from generation to generation. These stories are not only a source of joyful laughter but also contain simple yet profound life philosophies, a way for the people here to express a positive outlook on life and all its harsh challenges. The people of Quang Cu are humorous without being flippant, profound without being pretentious. They use their witty storytelling as an art of living—lightening heavy burdens, satirizing wrongdoings without hurting anyone, and using self-deprecating humor to love themselves more.

A homeland may change its name, but no one can change the way a place leaves its mark on a person's heart. (Illustrative image.)

That "Quang Cu spirit," even if the village name changes and the wards and communes shift, remains present in every figure and every voice. It lies in the way people pause in the late afternoon of the year-end to leisurely cast their lines, without haste or competition. It's the way that, despite the rains, suns, and struggles of life, the villagers still hold their heads high and live with confidence. Village culture, ultimately, isn't something tied to a place name, but rather the blood flowing in their way of life, behavior, and perspective. Like the way the old fisherman proudly tells strangers: "Whatever the name, we're still Quang Cu people."

2. On the day the province was re-established, my parents carried me back to Dong Hoi. At that time, the name Quang Binh appeared on the map like an old wound that had just healed, still bearing the scars and the lingering emotions. I didn't understand much, I only remember that my parents were very happy. But making a living in our homeland in those early days was never easy.

Back then, the rough, red dirt roads of Con—a rural area on the outskirts of Dong Hoi—still bore the footprints of my mother, a thin woman wearing an old conical hat, riding her rickety bicycle with me as she sold her wares. I sat behind her, winding through the alleys of Con, carrying my basket of noodles, my big dreams, and a part of my childhood. The bicycle passed the market, the dusty red roads, the sun-faded yellow walls, and the dark brown tiled roofs of the houses. Con—in my memory—is not just a place name, but the sound of my mother's early morning cries, my worn-out plastic sandals as I ran along the dusty village roads, the buzzing of cicadas in the dry July sun. And Con, is a place of countless simple yet surprisingly delicious dishes and people with a rare, carefree, and charming spirit.

Now, it's called Dong Son ward. The name Con has disappeared from administrative documents, as if it never existed. But I know it still remains in people's hearts—especially those like my mother, like me, like anyone who lived and grew up there. That name is like an underground stream, silently flowing through the folds of memory, not noisy but unforgettable.

My teacher was born in Con. In her stories, she still speaks with a deep sense of emotion and pride at being from "Con land." She says the village name has changed, but her hometown hasn't. Like a new shoot growing on an old root, the new name can't erase the layers of soil that have clung to it for generations. Like me, there are afternoons when I wander along the small roads in the heart of "Con land," and my heart suddenly leaps upon encountering some old sound: the smell of my mother's sweat on her back, the clatter of a bicycle, or even the familiar cry of "Noodle soup for sale!" It's so heartwarming it brings tears to my eyes. It turns out that people can call it by a different name, but no one can forget the place where they once looked up at the moon, or bent down to listen to the fragrant scent of wet straw during the harvest. The more impoverished the memory, the harder it is to forget.

3. I grew up, left my hometown, and moved to the city to study. Saigon was crowded and unfamiliar. Some days, walking through the bustling streets, I felt like I was being sucked into the crowd, alone in a sea of strangers. Then one day, at the busy Hang Xanh intersection, a motorbike with license plate number 73 sped past. Just a number, but it made my eyes well up. No one knew why a young woman in the city would stand still at a red light. But I knew. Because within that number was my mother, my hometown of Con, my hometown of Quang Cu, everything I called "homeland."

I once encountered a regional accent in the heart of Saigon—that heavy, slightly accented accent that I used to try to hide so no one would know I was from the countryside. But one weary afternoon, I heard someone calling from the bus stop: "I'm here, where are you?" That alone brought tears to my eyes. I don't know when I started seeing my homeland in such small things. A bowl of porridge with a pungent peppery taste. A sudden rain shower. A muddy stretch of road that crossed my memory. My homeland—no need for reminders, no need to call its name, it lives silently and steadily in my heart.

Then I suddenly realized that a hometown name is not just a set of letters. It's a heritage, a bloodline, an identity, a "collective memory." We may not be able to stop the flow of change, but we have the right to remember, the responsibility to preserve, the reason to feel sadness and regret, and the need to remind our children and grandchildren that this place once had a name, a place where many proudly held their heads high: It was our homeland!

Names can be changed. But hometowns cannot!

Home is a place that doesn't need a household registration or proof of identity; it only needs a place in your heart—so that no matter where you live, what you do, or how far you travel, encountering a voice, a dish, a license plate… makes you feel like you've returned. As the old fisherman on the banks of the Kien Giang River said one late afternoon at the end of the year: A homeland may change its name, but no one can change the way a place leaves its mark on a person's heart. These are things not found on a map, but in memory, in blood and flesh, in the way we look back and see ourselves as small amidst an immeasurable sea of love.

Dieu Huong

Source: https://baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202504/dau-lang-khong-con-ten-cu-2225778/