Dream bookshelf

Thao arrived at the school on a late autumn afternoon, when the cool breeze began to creep across the undulating mountains, carrying a thin chill that seeped into every crevice of the rocks and into every roof discolored by time. The small school was nestled on a desolate hillside, with only a few rows of rickety level-four houses, the rusty corrugated iron creaking every time the wind blew hard. The children from the highlands, their cheeks red from the cold wind, huddled by the classroom door, their eyes wide with surprise and curiosity as they looked at the new teacher.

Illustration

In that scene, Thao felt her heart sink, not because of the cold but because of a feeling that was hard to name. Everything here was so different from what she had imagined, only the sound of the wind, the rustling of dry leaves and the timid looks of the children made her heart suddenly tighten. But in that moment, in the middle of the desolate land and the sharp scent of the mountain wind, Thao felt her heart soften. The children's eyes, though hesitant and bewildered, still shone with sparkling rays of anticipation. Thao suddenly understood that she had come here not only to teach but also to sow hope and kindle small dreams in the children's hearts. Although the road ahead was certainly full of difficulties , her steps were no longer as unsteady as when she first walked up the slope leading to the school.

Right in the first class, Thao realized that the children here not only lacked decent clothes, not only suffered from hunger creeping into every frugal lunch, but also lacked the smallest things, such as books. In the silent classroom, she saw the children busily copying from old textbooks, the paper was yellowed, the corners of the covers were crumpled, some were even patched with tape. Some children did not have books, so they had to sit close to their friends, each pair of eyes following the same line of words, each small head huddled together in the dim light coming through the old, dilapidated window.

And then, when she started telling the story of “The Adventures of Men the Cricket”, the shy eyes suddenly lit up, sparkling as if they were seeing a colorful world of adventure opening up before their eyes. In that simple classroom, between four moss-covered walls and the blowing wind, the children’s imaginations seemed to take flight, beyond the misty slopes, beyond the thatched roofs, flying to a faraway place where the brave Men the Cricket was starting his own journey.

- “Teacher, is De Men real?” - A little boy hesitated, his eyes clear, his tiny hand gently pulling Thao's shirt.

Thao’s heart ached in an indescribable way. These children were so used to climbing mountains, wading streams, going to the forest, herding buffalo, picking vegetables, yet they had never once held a book in their hands, never known the feeling of turning each page of a book, immersing themselves in a world that only had them and the words. Not wanting those bright eyes to only imagine the outside world through stories told during class, Thao wanted them to touch, to see, to dream. A small library, even just a few simple bookshelves placed on a dirt wall, could be the door that opened up countless new horizons. And at that moment, in a poor classroom in a remote area, Thao silently promised to bring the children a real bookshelf.

But things, of course, are not easy.

The first time Ms. Thao presented her idea to the principal - who had been attached to this land for many years - she sighed softly, her voice sad:

- Books are really precious, Ms. Thao!… but it’s very difficult here! I still have to worry about meals and clothes for the children. Besides, who would send books all the way here? The road is so difficult…

Thao bit her lip. She understood. In this place, every packet of noodles was a precious gift, every pair of good sandals was a luxury. She recalled the distance she had traveled, more than a hundred kilometers from the lowlands, through slippery, muddy dirt roads in the rainy season, and dusty roads on dry sunny days. There were sections that cars could not pass, she had to walk for hours, carrying
A backpack heavy with luggage and worries. But if we stop because of difficulties, how many more times will the children here be able to touch another world, beyond the slopes, fields and mud-walled houses?

In the following days, she diligently wrote letters. She sent them to old friends, distant colleagues, and even to charity addresses she found online whenever she went to town to catch a signal. In her simple letters, she told about the sparkling eyes of children when they heard her read, about the tiny hands that held each page of an old book as if it were a treasure, and about her pure desire to learn and know more about the world out there.

“A Lu, date… month… year…

Dear friends!

As I write these lines, I am sitting in my small room in a remote land, where the Northwest mountains overlap one another. Here, there is a small school nestled on the hillside and in it are children who have never held a complete fairy tale book.

Do you believe it? There were children who looked at me in amazement when I mentioned “The Adventures of a Cricket”. There were children who sat flipping through the pages of old books with torn covers and yellowed paper that had to be passed around for the entire school year. So, every time I told a story, I saw in their eyes a quiet yet intense desire: to read, to know, to dream dreams that go beyond this remote village. But I understood that they needed more than that. They needed to turn the pages of books themselves, to enter the world of distant yet familiar stories, of adventures that were not limited by terrain, circumstances or deprived childhoods.

So today, I write this letter to you. If in the corner of your house there is an old book, a comic that once made you smile, please do not let it stay on the shelf forever. Let the little hands here touch knowledge. Let those eyes light up once because of the miracle of words.

Just one book can change a young mind.

Just a small bookcase - can open up a whole future.

I and the children in this poor village are waiting for such a miracle.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you!

Grass".

Then one day, the miracle finally knocked on her door, a group of student volunteers from Hanoi contacted her. They said they had read the letter, had heard the story of the children's eyes thirsting for knowledge. They wanted to donate books and bring them there themselves. Thao was speechless. The joy that came so suddenly almost made her cry in the middle of the class. She looked at the children who were busy writing, imagining the moment each book would be placed in their hands, imagining their eyes lighting up with joy again.

However, on the day the group of students set off, it suddenly rained heavily. The already difficult roads became muddy and slippery. The book cart got stuck in the middle of the forest, unable to move forward. They had to stop, cover it with a tarp, and wait. Thao could not hide her anxiety. The whole afternoon, she could not stand still. She kept going out and then coming back, her eyes kept looking at the distant, misty road. At night, the sound of rain falling on the corrugated iron roof seemed to knock on her heart with each anxious beat. And then, a text message came: “Teacher! We are sorry… It is raining too hard, the road is landslide, the cart cannot continue. We have to turn back.”

She sat silently at the table, her eyes drifting aimlessly towards the dark corner of the classroom. There was a choking emptiness in her heart, the feeling that all her efforts were being buried under the mud, in the middle of the mountains and forests that always seemed to test people's hearts. The next morning, when the rain had just stopped, the sky was still cold and damp, Thao walked into the classroom, gently asking: "Who wants a book to read?"

The whole class seemed to wake up. Tiny arms raised high like young bamboo shoots after the rain. Their eyes lit up, not because of curiosity but because their true desire was being called by name.

- Then we will go get the books ourselves, children!

This time, the children cheered loudly like small waves spreading throughout the classroom. And so, a small but brave army, ready to go. They wore conical hats, wrapped in raincoats made from old sacks, some went barefoot, some carried a small child on their backs, wrapped in a wet scarf. The forest path was still slippery, yesterday's tire tracks were still visible in the mud. But no one complained. No child backed away. The steps were small but determined because what awaited them was not just books but a new world.

When the group arrived at the meeting place, they saw boxes of books stacked neatly on the damp ground. The children seemed to be
burst into cheers, chirping like a flock of baby birds that had just found a nest full of ripe fruit. The whole group rushed forward, busily opening each box, their eyes wide open as they looked at each book as if they were looking at a miracle that had just fallen from the sky. A little girl hugged the book "The Little Prince" tightly, pressing it to her chest as if afraid someone would snatch it away, whispering: "Teacher, it's so beautiful! It's so new!"

Ms. Thao burst out laughing, a smile mixed with tears. It was just a book, yet it was being cherished like a treasure. In that moment, she knew all the fatigue, the rejections, the muddy roads were all worth it.

That afternoon, under the weak sunlight after the rain, the group of small students carried each box of books back through the forest. The boxes of books were heavy, mud was still stuck under their feet, but no one complained. Because today, they not only brought books home but also brought hope, and dreams to touch. From that day on, the dream bookshelf was officially born. Thao personally repainted a corner of the classroom, added shelves, and labeled each compartment with colored paper. And then, every day, during recess, the children flocked to the corner of the bookshelf like bees returning to a honeycomb, passing each book from hand to hand, reading so intently that they forgot the sound of the drum. Some were learning about Snow White for the first time, following Tom Sawyer on his first adventure.

And then, one day, Ms. Thao saw a little boy writing behind the classroom. He hid a notebook with scribbles about his first life story that he imagined. She was speechless because when a child starts writing, it means he starts to believe that he can create his own world.

One afternoon, when the sun was fading behind the distant mountains, the boy who had once asked her about The Adventures of a Cricket suddenly ran up to her and whispered: “Teacher! When I grow up, I want to write a book like Uncle To Hoai. I will write about the cricket I caught in my garden.”

Thao paused, then bent down to stroke the boy's head. In those clear eyes, there was no longer pure innocence but a dream sprouting gently in the barren land and sky. Perhaps, a book cannot change anyone's life immediately, but a bookshelf, a reading habit can open up a whole horizon. And in this remote place, amidst the fog and steep slopes, small dreams are gradually taking flight. Not noisy, not hurried, but quietly flying up like crickets in the grass garden after the rain./.

Linh Chau

Source: https://baolongan.vn/tu-sach-uoc-mo-a193677.html