The season of storms, the season of sorrow.

(AI)

I was born in Central Vietnam, where the scorching hot Lao wind blows every summer, the biting cold rains of winter bring relentless storms, and typhoons frequently rage, shaking the very foundations of the land. Sometimes the storms are fleeting, like a warning, but other times they are fierce, leaving deep scars in the memories of the people of my homeland. Facing natural disasters, the people of my homeland are like resilient trees, bending before the wind but never breaking.

Before the storm arrived, the loudspeakers in the neighborhood blared incessantly, reminding each family to prepare. Adults and children ran out into the streets and yards. Anxiety was etched on everyone's faces. The women busied themselves washing rice, arranging jars of fish sauce and bottles of oil, and rearranging essential household items. The men climbed onto rooftops, securing bamboo and reeds, reinforcing fences, and adding more bamboo panels. The entire neighborhood seemed to breathe in unison, united in preparing for the impending "fury."

It was the same at my house. As if by ingrained habit, my mother meticulously closed the windows, pushed the furniture into a corner, and filled the water jars and containers in case of power or water outages. Each movement was slow but decisive, like a soldier accustomed to battle. I knew why she was so cautious; many times she had stayed up all night, keeping watch over the raging winds. I could only sit silently in the corner of the room, watching her thin figure swaying precariously in the dim yellow light of the oil lamp, my heart filled with mixed emotions: pity for my mother, worry, and helplessness because I couldn't do anything to help. My father worked far away on construction sites and rarely came home. So, on stormy days, it was just my mother and I, relying on each other to weather the storm.

Memories of those stormy nights still linger. When the wind howled outside, the roof tiles creaked, and the whole house trembled like a weary body struggling against an invisible force. In my childlike eyes, outside wasn't just wind and rain, but a giant monster roaring and tearing everything apart. I huddled, shivering, and buried my face in my mother's lap, the safest haven. Thank God, our house was built on high ground and was sturdy, so despite my fear, I still felt a little safe. But then, worry surged again as I thought of Thao, my best friend at the end of the village, right by the large river. Every flood season, the water would rise and inundate her yard. I wondered if Thao's small house would be strong enough to withstand the fierce wind outside. Would she be curled up in her mother's arms, safe and sound like me, or would she be terrified, watching the water threatening her doorstep?

The rain poured down, heavy and relentless, as if wanting to sweep everything away. The familiar village road suddenly turned into a muddy stream, water overflowing the fences, carrying away fallen leaves and dry branches. The orchards withered, swaying in the wind. Yet, the people of my village remained undaunted. Under the flickering oil lamps casting shadows on the soaking wet roofs, calloused hands patiently tied together each bamboo mat, patching up the gaps that let the wind in. The storm season in my village is not only about worries for food and clothing, a struggle against nature, but also a season of human kindness. When the wind howled outside, the oil lamps in the village still flickered. People visited each other's houses, exchanging a packet of rice, some salt, a few bottles of water, or simply a handshake, a warm word of encouragement. These outstretched arms, clasped together, not only protected their homes but also built a spiritual home. Amidst the swirling rain and wind, one can still see the flame of love, sharing, and the enduring spirit of solidarity in Central Vietnam, as resilient as the land itself.

My mother often said, "Storms come and go, but love remains." Indeed, after every storm, when roof tiles are still scattered and gardens are barren, the people of my village come together to rebuild their lives. The sound of brooms sweeping the yard, people calling out to each other, laughter mixed with hardship… all blend together into a symphony of rebirth.

I deeply sympathize with the people of Central Vietnam, a land of limited space, harsh weather, and where storms have become an integral part of life! There, you'll find fierce waves, but also hearts as vast and resilient as mountains, as tenacious as the sand of the sea, filled with community spirit and strong bonds. Like small but sturdy houses standing firm amidst the storms, the people of my homeland always remain steadfast in the face of life's challenges.../.

Linh Chau

Source: https://baolongan.vn/mua-bao-mua-thuong-a201569.html