She graduated from the Journalism Department of the University of Science - Hue University. During her student days, she was a prominent writer in writing competitions, school newspapers, and student journals. Each story she told was soulful, imbued with a special vitality that not every writer possesses. After graduation, she chose to stay in Quang Tri – a region not easily accessible for journalism. It's not bustling or vibrant like a major city, but its quietude is fertile ground for writers with sensitivity and inner strength.
Initially, she worked as a contributor for several industry newspapers. The work was unstable, with irregular payment, but she persevered. People often joked that journalism in a poor province like Quang Tri was a profession where you "sell words to earn a living, sell your heart to gain readers." But for her, words were not just a means of livelihood, but a way to express her soul, a reflection of her anxieties about injustices and paradoxes in society. It was this very quality that helped her establish herself in the journalistic world, with insightful, multi-faceted, and emotionally resonant articles.
I remember the investigative series she conducted on the damage caused by overloaded trucks to rural roads. She silently monitored the situation for months, from researching damaged routes to infiltrating transportation hubs and understanding how they circumvented the law. The series, once published, created a huge stir, received high praise from readers, and prompted authorities to take corrective action. Thanks to this, she won a top prize at the provincial journalism awards – one of the most memorable achievements in her career. But behind the certificate of merit, behind the glamour, were quiet days filled with the struggle of maintaining her passion for the profession while facing the uncertainties of a journalist without a permanent position or stable support system.
She moved through many newspapers, each with its own phase and journey. At times, it seemed she had found stability, but then personnel changes, operational models, and increasingly tight funding for journalism... plunged her back into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Once, she sat with me in a small café by the Thach Han River, her eyes pensive: "Words are my lifeblood, but... even blood eventually runs dry." I didn't know what to say except to gently squeeze her hand.
Then one day, she decided to leave journalism and return home to help her family manage their pub business. Her relatives and friends were initially surprised, but eventually understood that somewhere, life still requires quiet choices to survive. She no longer has a journalist's ID card, no longer ventures into the field, but she retains the same agility, resourcefulness, and skill as before. Her pub is always cozy, clean, and serves delicious food; customers come and want to return.
Interestingly, her café gradually became a gathering place for journalists. Every afternoon after work, former colleagues would gather there, sipping beer and chatting about a new topic or a hot social issue. She sat there, amidst the professional conversations, still like someone involved, her eyes revealing her joy when someone mentioned a new article had just been published and shared by readers.
Once, amidst the lively conversation, someone asked her, "Do you ever regret anything?" She smiled, her voice as soft as a sigh, "No, I don't regret it. Because I'm still living within the heart of the profession, even though I no longer write." That statement brought a somber silence, as if someone had just lit a candle in a familiar room. Her love for journalism had never faded; she had simply chosen a different way to be present – quietly, patiently, and still with unwavering passion.
I often told her, "Even if you stop writing, you're still a journalist—because you hold a love for journalism within you like a belief." And she smiled, her eyes reflecting a gentle sadness: "Journalism is already a part of my life."
June 21st has arrived again. Bouquets of flowers are presented, awards are announced, and words of gratitude for journalists resound in many forums, large and small. I suddenly remembered her – someone who has never left the world of journalism in her heart. People like her, though quiet, are the honest and passionate soul of the journalistic community. Not everyone who picks up a pen is fortunate enough to dedicate their life to the profession. But those who have lived with the profession as a great love will forever be a part of it – nameless, without title, but very real, very deep.
I imagine that one late afternoon, while young colleagues fresh out of school are dreaming of their first journalism award, the laughter of fellow journalists will echo through her small café. In that setting, journalism is no longer something lofty or distant, but rather a genuine part of life, filled with sweat, sharing, and silent sacrifices.
The June wind still blows. And in my heart, the image of that female reporter from those days remains, like a small, smoldering fire in a noisy pub. A fire of words, of ideals, of love that will never be extinguished...
Tran Tuyen
Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-con-mot-tinh-yeu-o-lai-194486.htm
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