There is still a love left

The June wind in the Central region blows gently over the white sand hills. In the scorching sun of the land of fire, I remember her - the female reporter who once burned herself out with passion for writing, who once rushed to the scene, who was affectionately called by her colleagues as the "hardworking bee" of the provincial newspaper village.

She graduated from the Faculty of Journalism, University of Sciences - Hue University. During her student days, she was an outstanding writer in writing competitions, wall newspapers, and student magazines. Each story she told had a soul, as if imbued with a special vitality that not everyone holding a pen has. After graduating, she chose to stay in Quang Tri - a land that is not easy to work in journalism. Not as bustling, not as vibrant as a big city, but the silence of this place is fertile ground for sensitive and powerful writers.

At first, she worked as a contributor for several industry newspapers. The job was unstable, with royalties sometimes coming and sometimes not, but she persisted. People often joke that journalism in a poor province like Quang Tri is a profession of "selling words to earn a living, selling one's heart to earn readers". But for her, words are not just a way to make a living, but also a way to express one's soul, a concern for injustice and paradox in society. That is what has helped her gain a foothold in the journalism world, with sharp, multi-perspective and emotional articles.

I remember the series of investigative articles about overloaded vehicles destroying rural roads that she carried out. She secretly monitored for months, from learning about damaged roads to infiltrating transport hubs, learning how they “evaded the law”. The series of published articles caused a big stir, were highly appreciated by readers, and forced the authorities to intervene to rectify the situation. Thanks to that, she won a high prize at the provincial press award - one of the memorable achievements in her career. But behind the certificate of merit, behind the halo of glory were quiet days, full of struggles between keeping the passion of the profession and the unpredictable life of an unstaffed reporter without a stable support.

She moved to many newspapers, each place in a different phase, a different journey. There was a time when it seemed stable, but then the changes in personnel, operating model, and increasingly tight budget for press activities... made her fall into a spiral of uncertainty. Once, she sat with me in a small coffee shop by the Thach Han River, her eyes pensive: "Words are my flesh and blood, but... blood flows forever and eventually dries up." I didn't know what to say other than a gentle squeeze of the hand.

Then one day, she decided to leave journalism and come back to help her family manage and run a drinking place. Her relatives and friends were initially surprised, but then they understood that somewhere in life, life still requires quiet choices to survive. She no longer has a press card, no longer rushes to the scene, but still maintains the agility, resourcefulness, and dexterity of the past. The drinking place she owns is always cozy, clean, the food is delicious, and customers come and want to come back.

Interestingly, her shop gradually became a gathering place for journalists. Every afternoon after work, old colleagues would come together, sip a beer, and chat about a new topic, about a hot social issue. She sat there, amidst the professional stories, still like an insider, her eyes unable to hide the joy when someone told her about a new article that had just been published and shared by readers.

Once, in the midst of that lively conversation, someone asked her: “Do you ever regret it?” She smiled, as light as a sigh: “No, I don’t regret it. Because I’m still living in the heart of the profession, even though I’m no longer writing.” That statement made the atmosphere heavy, as if someone had just lit a candle in the familiar room. Her love for journalism had never died, she had just chosen another way to be present - silently, patiently and still full of enthusiasm.

I often told her: “Even though you no longer write, you are still a journalist - because you keep your love for journalism as a belief”. And she smiled, her eyes shining with a gentle sadness: “Journalism is a part of my life”.

June 21st has come again. Bouquets of flowers were given, awards were announced, and words of gratitude for journalists resounded in many large and small forums. I suddenly remembered her - the one who has never left the world of journalism in her heart. People like her, though quiet, are the honest and enthusiastic soul of the journalism community. Not everyone who holds a pen is destined to live with the profession for life. But anyone who has lived with the profession as a great love, will forever be a part of it - nameless, titleless, but very real, very deep.

I imagine that on a late afternoon, when young colleagues who have just graduated are dreaming about their first journalism award, in her small shop, the laughter of journalists resounds. In that space, journalism is no longer a lofty or distant thing, but a simple life, associated with sweat, sharing and even silent sacrifices.

The June wind still blows. And in my heart, the image of the female reporter from that day is still there, like a small flame smoldering in the middle of a noisy pub. A flame of words, of ideals, of love that never goes out...

Tran Tuyen

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-con-mot-tinh-yeu-o-lai-194486.htm