Oh, my homeland…!

Memories of days gone by, before the internet became widespread, before we saw so many heartbreaking images, the premonition of storms and floods was as thin as morning mist but as heavy as the sighs of countless people. In that place, houses lined the river, water touching the eaves, touching even the breath of the villagers. During storms and floods, the entire countryside fell silent. The rain dragged on endlessly. It poured down on the old tiled roofs. A pungent smell of water seeping through the cracks in the tiles rose up, like the smell of patience deeply ingrained in every piece of wood, every brick. Water from the upstream rushed down fiercely, carrying with it the sighs of mothers. The wind from the sea blew fiercely, salty like the sweat and tears of the villagers who had long been accustomed to living with storms and winds.

Then night fell. The power went out. Darkness enveloped the house. The only sounds in the neighborhood were the lapping water and the howling wind through the corrugated iron roofs. Outside, the water poured down, bringing with it a sense of unease. Inside, the most pitiable were the children. They huddled in the corner of the house, their big, round eyes watching the rising water, yet still trying to smile. That innocence was like a green sprout, reaching upwards amidst the storm without needing any guidance. The people inside sat together, lighting small oil lamps as a glimmer of hope, held together by their hands. They shared warmth with each other through the whispered words: "Hold on, tomorrow the sun will rise."

The storm has passed, leaving behind desolate roads, crumbling walls, and dilapidated roofs… All like wounds that haven't yet healed, ready to be cleaned, to be rebuilt, to start anew. That's the nature of my people – simple yet resilient, hardworking yet optimistic – like the alluvial plain after a great flood, even if swept away, it will always be replenished with the fertility of hope.

For years, the people of this countryside have braved the wind and storms.

After the flood, the sky turned strangely blue again. The sun shone down like scattered gold. The dirt road still glowed red after the mud was cleared away. There are things that only storms and floods teach us: the insignificance of humanity before nature, the warmth of love, and resilience in the face of harshness. I love my homeland with an indescribable love. I love its unwavering strength in the face of storms. I love the millions of hearts that turn towards home, and I love the calloused hands that still reach out to help each other amidst overwhelming difficulties, so that we can move forward together.

Today, my memories are weighed down by a heavy burden, as if I were living amidst the storm in my hometown, the flood rushing straight into the heart of someone far from home. The haunting feeling isn't just from the sound of the wind or the water, but from the cries for help on social media – brief, trembling, and urgent. Perhaps what haunts us isn't just the raging flood, but the feeling of witnessing our compatriots crying for help and being unable to reach them, only hearing their voices but unable to extend a hand, only seeing their images but unable to be by their side.

“My house is right next to the Ba River, the water is rising quickly, anyone with a boat please help,” “My 80-year-old grandmother couldn’t escape in time,” “The house has collapsed, my little child is running a fever, please help”… The rain outside seemed heavier, the sky darker, the colder. My hands trembled, I clutched my chest, feeling suffocated and in pain. I stood up, walked around, then slumped down. Every word, every second felt like a stab to the heart of someone far away, only able to continuously share, call out, and find ways to help.

Despite the haunting atmosphere, it is also a place where light shines through the rain. Rescue boats cut through the water day and night, searching for the source of the distress signal...

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Far away, I gently close my eyes, imagining I hear the song "Missing my homeland, the bamboo groves, the dike/ Dreaming of returning to hear my gentle mother's lullaby on the old stone steps/ Oh, my homeland, the road through the alley/ My mother's figure swaying in the evening breeze..." - like a deep, simple, and heartfelt call that brings back a flood of memories. Perhaps it's because I carry in my heart not only memories, but also the homeland that nurtured me and holds the most familiar things.

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/xa-hoi/202511/que-nha-toi-oi-ea71e86/