For me, memories of the village are enriched by my travels. I remember once returning to a remote village, half a day's journey from the city, nestled peacefully in a valley amidst hills and mountains. Along the winding red dirt road leading into the village, there was a vast expanse of green intertwined with the red of coffee plantations in harvest season. As I walked, I listened to the lively chatter and laughter emanating from the coffee trees laden with ripe fruit.
On the opposite side, my eyes fell upon the figure of a woman, half hurried, half leisurely, walking barefoot with a basket full of firewood on her back. Beside her was a young boy. Seeing me stop to strike up a conversation, she responded with a slightly shy but bright and warm smile.
In the afternoon, I followed the mothers and sisters to the water source. From afar, I could hear the lively sounds of the bustling village. After all, for generations, the water source has been the place where the villagers' daily activities take place. The custom of using water from that source has contributed to the community's cohesion. Moreover, in the minds of the villagers, the water source holds immense spiritual value, representing a unique cultural aspect. That image is both familiar and sacred.
From this very drop of water, countless people have grown up, nurtured by the gentle, refreshing water, the warmth of stilt houses, and the camaraderie of the community. Therefore, even when they grow up and travel far, they still remember the water of their village. This sentiment is deeply ingrained in their minds, becoming an unforgettable part of their memories. Over the years, these memories of the village are enriched, kindling a flame that warms hearts and awakens love for their homeland and roots.
I remember the nights in the village. In the vast, tranquil space, the night deepened with the silent breath of the mountains and forests. The wind seemed to grow thicker, permeating every trace of thick white mist that embraced the hills. In the chilly weather, by the crackling fire in the stilt house, I sat listening to the elders murmur stories of the village.
Fragments of memories are evoked, recalled with the affection of those who have dedicated their lives to the mountains, loving them with the deep breath in their chests, and believing that the mountains and forests are a refuge for human life. Stories of the past and present intertwine, connecting and lingering like the crystal-clear, never-ending stream at the edge of the forest. I remember once, in the midday sun, I sat by the stream and leisurely drank its cool, clear water, realizing even more clearly how much I cherished this second homeland.
Over time, my trips back to my village became more frequent. The bond between me and the villagers, and between the village and me, grew stronger, more genuine and heartfelt. From these trips, I gained a deeper understanding of the age-old customs and traditions of my people, immersing myself in a space steeped in legend, with the intertwining sounds of gongs and the rhythmic circle dance around a warm fire, accompanied by jars of fragrant rice wine.
It was during important village events, such as the water offering ceremony, the new rice harvest celebration, or the Pơ Thi festival... And in those moments of marking my entry into village life, sharing thoughts and feelings with the villagers, I deeply understood the profound love they had for their community. This love was expressed most profoundly through the cultural values that each individual and the entire village community were preserving and passing on together.
From all those journeys, I grew to miss the villages where I had stopped even more. And then, in moments of vulnerability, my heart ached with longing for home, where I grew up alongside my hardworking grandmother. My village nestled beside the Tra Ly River. My grandfather said that the Tra Ly River is a tributary of the Red River, beginning at the Pham Lo junction, several dozen kilometers from my village.
The river meanders gently through the villages, sometimes flowing right past my village before emptying into the East Sea. This peaceful, year-round flowing river holds the memories of countless generations who grew up in this rice-growing region, bound to the fields, stained with the sweat of their labor – like my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, like the people of my village. Decades away from home, that river still evokes a deep longing in me. A longing that tugs at my heartstrings!
People are sometimes strange; when in the city, they miss their village, and when in a new place, they yearn for their old home. And as the longing grows stronger, I spend time wandering with the golden sunshine and gentle breeze along the green, leafy roads, returning to my village with joyful laughter ignited by a flood of memories.
Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/ky-uc-lang-post575029.html
