Writing helps us to love each other more.

(QBĐT) - 1. I have an old school friend who is now a literature teacher in my hometown. Occasionally, he sends me short articles published in the industry's journal. He says he writes to "record the good things that are gradually disappearing, so that students know that journalism is not just about reporting news, but also about preserving the soul." "Preserving the soul"... sounds like something grand, but in reality, it starts with very small things.

He once told me, "Not everyone who holds a pen is a journalist, but anyone who sincerely records life with decent words and an honest heart is indeed practicing journalism." I didn't disagree; I just felt a lightness in my heart, like listening to a wordless piece of music by a quiet river. Once, I visited the school where he taught, sitting behind the classroom, listening to him lecture on an old news report—an article about a poor village in a coastal area. His voice was deep and even, but his eyes sparkled. The students were completely silent.

At the end, he only said one sentence: "The writer didn't say much, only recounted bare feet and hands stained with the salt. But I believe that through such words, people learn to love each other more." I left, my heart filled with a lingering emotion difficult to name. Perhaps it was a silent but unwavering belief that words, if they don't make people live more decent lives, shouldn't be used in the name of anything too grand.

My friend still lives in his hometown, teaching and writing for newspapers. Every article he writes is simple yet warm, like a kite soaring in the windy afternoon. He doesn't care about fame or strive to stand out. For him, writing is simply recording life. I'm always grateful for friends like him. Because they remind me that journalism is not just a profession, it's also a way of life: to live with compassion, integrity, and responsibility for every comma and period we place in a world full of complexities.

2. In the bustling days of June, amidst the summer's excitement, I often remember Uncle Tư—an old, frail writer who retired decades ago and lives in a small village by the Gianh River. Uncle Tư no longer writes; his hands tremble, his eyesight dims, and his memory fades with age. But there is one thing he never forgets: Every morning he waits for the newspaper, still smelling of fresh ink, to flip through the pages, eagerly anticipating each sentence and word. And he still remembers every issue, even the smallest details that, for him, represent a lifetime.

Once, when I visited him, I saw him intently looking at a faded newspaper page. He smiled toothlessly: "I'm just used to reading, but my eyesight is failing, so it's mostly... memorizing. Back when I wrote, there were no computers; articles were written with a pen, printed using a mimeograph machine, and the ink smelled strongly of the past." He said that war correspondents like himself not only carried pen and paper, but also had to cultivate composure amidst danger. I looked at his hands, his thin, age-spotted fingers, yet they seemed to carry the memories of a time when he typed on an old typewriter by the flickering oil lamp, braving the gunfire.

Another time, he recounted his experience writing about a flood-stricken area in Quang Binh province . It was raining heavily. He slept in the attic above the kitchen with the locals, listening to the sound of water pattering against the wooden walls. A poor mother brought him a handful of leftover rice and pressed it into his hand: "Eat this, journalist, so you can leave early tomorrow." He said, his eyes welling up with tears: "Journalism isn't just about reporting the news. It's about going, meeting people, feeling their pain, and writing from the heart."

Grandpa Tư no longer writes, but every morning he still sits waiting for the newspaper to arrive, like waiting for an old friend. He still smells the ink, flips through the pages, looking to see if anyone has written anything about his village, about the drying Gianh River, about the children at the edge of the village… Small things, but they make up the soul of the village.

Reporters from various media outlets are working at the DK1 offshore platform.

I left her house on a peaceful afternoon. The sun was setting over the river. Her back was hunched in the twilight. Perhaps one day, no one will remember who she once was, but someone will still read what she wrote and feel a warmth in their heart. Because, as she once told me, journalism, if only for reporting news, is like water flowing through your fingers. But if you put your heart, your belief, and your love into every word, then those words will stay.

3. My colleague dreamed of becoming a journalist from a very young age, even though she didn't fully understand what journalism was at the time. She said she only remembers spending hours staring at old newspapers her mother brought home to pack things, cutting out news snippets and pasting them into her notebook, imagining herself writing stories that would change someone's life. She believed journalism was a guiding light. She believed that simply holding a pen was enough to do something useful for the world and for people.

Then she grew up and enrolled in journalism school. In her early years studying far from home, the hardships of city life as a poor student sometimes made her want to give up. There were nights she sat under the eaves of her rented room, watching the rain wet her hair, and wondered, "Why am I pursuing this profession?" Then came handwritten letters from her mother, friends, teachers, and先輩s (senior colleagues). No one said grand words, they simply encouraged her: "Keep writing, don't forget what got you started." They were the light that guided her through the most uncertain part of her journey.

After 20 years in the profession, one day she realized: The great things she once thought journalism could accomplish—changing society, uncovering the truth, becoming a "hero of words"—she hadn't yet achieved. But there's one thing she has done and never regretted: practicing her profession with kindness. She said, don't expect to accomplish great things; in an era full of ambiguity, fake news, hasty news, and news used for sensationalism, journalists can still choose a different way of life, through quietness, patience, and kindness.

Kindness in asking a poor person if they need anonymity. Kindness in refusing to quickly type up an unverified news report. Kindness in thanking those who have shared their life stories, not as reporters, but as people who need to be understood. Journalism taught her to listen, to be patient, and above all, to maintain faith in seemingly small things: that a written word does not hurt anyone, that an article does not damage the reader's trust, and that a lifetime of journalism does not diminish kindness.

Just believe that a single truthful word, a single honest line, a single sentence without deception is a way to preserve light amidst days filled with darkness. Beneath seemingly silent words, so much is alive. And writing, as my friend always says, is a way for people to love each other more.

Dieu Huong

Source: https://baoquangbinh.vn/van-hoa/202506/viet-de-biet-thuong-nhau-hon-2226838/