My father was a journalist, but to live out his passion for the profession, journalists sometimes have to sacrifice a lot of sweat and tears. I used to hate my father's job because it took up most of his time. I longed to be with him at school festivals, but he was busy going out to write articles. I wanted him to make me a lantern out of green and red cellophane like other children, but he was busy writing articles about Mid-Autumn Festivals for children in mountainous regions. At that time, with the mindset of an 8 or 9-year-old child, my father's job as a journalist was truly hateful. Back then, I just wanted my father to have a job like my friends' fathers—selling ice cream, working as a construction worker, being a teacher—anything but being a journalist.
It wasn't until much later, when my passion for writing grew and my desire to explore more intensified, that I truly understood my father's dedication and love for his profession. My father had been a journalist since his days in a poor rural area of Central Vietnam. He recounted how things were scarce back then; the entire office only had one rickety typewriter. Each time he typed, the keys slammed against the parchment paper with a loud, scraping sound, as if trying to tear the paper apart. Everyone took turns typing articles, and manuscripts were entirely handwritten. There were no convenient ballpoint pens like today; owning a Trường Sơn fountain pen was considered a luxury, while most used dip pens, a single dip producing a few words.
Despite the hardships and deprivations, my father always loved the profession he had chosen. After getting married, he followed his uncle to the South to continue working as a journalist. The land was unfamiliar, the people were strange, and the economy was incredibly difficult at that time. My mother was a teacher, and her salary wasn't much. With the birth of my four siblings and me, the burden on my parents became even heavier. My father worked tirelessly, requesting assignments in remote and isolated areas, places that most people feared. Because those places provided so much inspiration, he wrote many feature stories, which meant increased income and more time away from home.
I only truly fell in love with journalism one late winter day when I was 18, when my father returned home with his leg in a cast, covered in scratches. Yet, he confidently declared that it was alright, that in a few days he would be running around with his camera taking spring photos for the whole family. It was close to Tet (Vietnamese New Year), and everyone was busy preparing their spring articles. My father was assigned to write about successful farmers, and in his group, there was a young man assigned to write about spring in the border region.
Later, I heard my mother recount that my uncle's child had to be urgently hospitalized with pneumonia, and fearing he wouldn't have enough material to submit, he asked my father for help. My father readily took on my uncle's task. He went to the border to survey and record the situation of the people in the border region during the days leading up to Tet (Lunar New Year). He was given a letter of introduction to contact the border guards for assistance. That day, while the soldiers were taking my father to visit and gather information from some needy households in the border area, he fell into a trap set by the locals to trap wild boars that weren't destroying their fields.
My father was rushed to the district hospital for emergency treatment. After the doctors carefully splinted and bandaged his bones, he still refused to go home. He said he could still endure it, that his manuscript was unfinished, and that if he went home he would break his promise to his colleagues and affect the work of the agency. A week later, the soldiers brought him home. My mother was worried, tears streaming down her face, while my father, with his usual playful nature, said that it was the first time he had ever been able to lie down while writing, with someone bringing him food and drink, and he laughed heartily as if nothing had happened.
And only then did I understand that the work of a journalist like my father was not simple at all. It was arduous, involving dust, sun, and wind, and sometimes even life-threatening situations, all to produce a truthful report. My father's profession contributed countless stories to life, both joyful and sad, happy and challenging… But above all, I know that my father was truly happy with his work.
At the age of 20, I received a used Canon camera that my father bought from a colleague. I used it to capture memorable moments throughout my youth. I still keep that camera proudly in a glass cabinet along with my father's certificates and awards, as a keepsake of our beautiful youthful memories. Thank you, Dad, for always being a true journalist; I am so proud to be your son.
Hello, dear viewers! Season 4, themed "Father," officially launches on December 27, 2024, across four media platforms and digital infrastructures of Binh Phuoc Radio and Television and Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values of sacred and beautiful fatherly love. |
Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/172480/tu-hao-nghe-bao-cua-cha
![[Photo] The rapeseed flower season heralds the arrival of spring on the summit of Suoi Giang.](https://vphoto.vietnam.vn/thumb/402x226/vietnam/resource/IMAGE/2026/02/12/1770911320984_baolaocai-br_chuyen-muc00-00-38-10still068-jpg.webp)
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