Hold on to the Land That Hasn't Sinked Yet - Short story by Mai Thi Nhu Y

The wind from the Ganh Hao River blew through the dense water coconut trees, rustling like the sound of someone's shirt gently brushing against it. Nhu Y had become so used to hearing that sound of wind that every time she turned over in her sleep, she felt as if someone was whispering for her to come back.

The water today was muddier than usual, carrying with it bits of roots, drifting pieces of bark, and a nameless mass of anxiety rolling at the foot of the village. The edge of the land in front of the porch had collapsed into a ditch, the golden layer of soil exposed like the belly of a dead fish.

She stood on the steps, her arms holding an aluminum kettle still warm with steam, her eyes passing through the mangrove trees that curved like eyelashes casting shadows on the river. It was neither sunny nor rainy, but there was a thin layer of mist hanging across, making her heart as blurry as the scenery.

"It's a landslide again." She said, her voice slow like a mangrove fruit breaking in water.

She bent down and looked at her bare feet sinking deep into the cold muddy sand. The mud seeped into every crack, making the old sores bleed red, as if the earth was bleeding under her feet. But the pain under her skin was nothing compared to the choking sensation in her heart as her eyes silently stopped on the other side.

That was Mrs. Sau’s house, which used to have a flickering kerosene lamp every night. Now, all that remained were a few sun-burned wooden pillars, swaying in the storm. The faded raincoat still hung loosely on the collapsed gourd trellis, flipping back and forth in the wind like a hand waving forever, unnoticed. Looking at that scene for a long time, made one feel as if the memory itself was rotting away with each passing patch of earth.

Như Ý stood still for a long time, her eyes still looking at the landslide where Mrs. Sau’s house used to be. Something inside her felt like it had been ripped apart. Her hometown, where the mangrove forests were once green and the sounds of fishing nets echoed every morning, was now lying in disarray like a broken body, each part drifting away.

"I will study to keep every inch of my homeland left."

***

After several years of university, Nhu Y returned. The old red dirt road was now paved with cement, but the rows of mangrove trees on both sides were sparse and bewildering. Under the midday sun, patches of soil slid from the bank into the canal, revealing the bare tree roots writhing and clinging. The water level was getting higher and higher each day, while the banks were retreating deeper and deeper into people's hearts each year.

When she was little, she thought landslides were a natural occurrence, an inevitable consequence of strong winds and unusually high water levels. She believed so because she had been used to seeing landslides happen every day since she was a child, and had been used to hearing adults sigh: "Oh my god, what can we do...". That belief helped her feel more at ease because if it was nature's fault, no one would be responsible, no one would feel guilty.

But the older she got, the more her heart wavered. Behind the landslides were the consequences of human actions. The sound of sand suction machines hummed in the dark night like someone was extracting the river marrow without a scalpel. An industrial park project that had just started a few months ago calmly laid the foundation on its own bones. Resorts built close together on what used to be a migratory bird's alluvial ground glowed brightly at night, like lipstick on the worn face of the homeland.

She was silent when she looked at the flow maps and hydrological data that she had studied in the classroom. The red circled points matched the landslides in her hometown. Large ships passed by, leaving behind huge waves that lashed like knives into the mangrove and agarwood trees. The mangrove trees were cut down, no longer having roots to hold the soil. And the alluvial layer that used to be the flesh and blood of the delta now built up strange things.

That night, in the cramped room, under the pale yellow light and the wind whistling through the window as if someone was crying outside, she began to write the first lines of the mangrove regeneration project. Each word fell onto the page like a leaf falling from a rotten tree. Each number, each plan, each image that appeared was not an idea, but a silent prayer sent to the earth.

"The river does not get angry with anyone. How we live, the river pays back."

ILLUSTRATION: AI

Như Ý began her journey silently but persistently like mangrove roots digging deep into the mud. She no longer just stood on the shore watching the water encroach, but began to follow each branch, each canal that crisscrossed like blood vessels drawn across the body of the West to find a way to preserve the alluvial skin of the motherland.

She went to Tra Vinh , waded among the remaining sparse mangroves, and learned how the Khmer planted protective forests using a "three-layer" model: the outermost is mangrove, the middle is mangrove, and the innermost is mangrove. A model that sounds simple, but is the most durable natural armor for the land bank. She brought that model back to Ca Mau, improved it according to the terrain, and invited people to intercrop, both to preserve the land and to raise fish and crabs ecologically. The forest gradually turned greener, and the bank no longer slid.

She went all the way to An Giang to learn soft embankment techniques using local materials, bamboo poles, earth bags, and coconut nets instead of pouring concrete. People were skeptical at first, but they were surprised when, three months later, the land not only did not slide but also added a small lawn, where children could play in the mud and fly kites. She organized small sharing sessions at markets, communal houses, and elementary schools. She did not teach high-level theories, but only told stories about rivers, trees, and roots, a language that everyone in the West understood. She printed landslide maps on large paper, pinned them to the communal house walls, and marked each dangerous area.

Gradually, illiterate old people also learned how to use their phones and send photos. Primary school children also learned to collect plastic bottles to make eco-bricks. Men who used to dredge sand by boat now turned to growing brackish water plants, thanks to the new livelihood model she proposed: "Nurturing the banks - preserving the land - living sustainably".

Nhu Y wrote a report to the province, with evidence, field results, and the voice of the land, the river, and the people. She advocated bringing environmental education into schools, so that children could grow up with the awareness of protecting their homeland, like a young mangrove tree that grows up knowing how to cling to the soil without anyone teaching it.

Originally, it was said:

- Children learn Western characters to talk in the clouds.

- Planting forests to prevent landslides? Can a few young mangrove trees, like onion stalks, stop the rushing water?

- That little girl, seeing her wading in the mud all day, she looks like a crazy person...

The murmuring sound was like wind blowing through the grass, small but persistently whistling in the ears. Some people shook their heads and walked away when she knocked on the door asking for cooperation. Some people interrupted the meeting with a dry voice:

- Can you do anything different from the other groups handing out flyers? Just do it for fun and then go!

She heard it all. There was laughter. There was silence. But her heart ached like salt water eating away at mangrove roots.

Until one day, a heavy rain lasted for three days and three nights. Water from upstream poured down, carrying rotten trees, floating rubbish, and broken water hyacinth rafts. The canal behind the village filled up to the edge of the fields. The bank, which had collapsed the day before, now continued to crack like a fish's mouth gaping for air.

A scream came from Mr. Muoi's house, the house next to the river, the foundation had sunk a meter:

- Help! Help, the house collapsed, Mrs. Muoi is stuck in the room!

While people were still frantically searching for ropes and boats, Nhu Y had already jumped into the muddy water. Mud was up to her chest. A piece of driftwood was stuck in her feet. The undercurrents were strong. But she still swam. Still waded. Still clung to the mangrove branches to get past the collapsed section. She broke the door, climbed up the back wall, pried open the broken plank, and pulled Mrs. Muoi out of the house that was shaking like a banana in a storm.

Her whole body was torn, blood mixed with mud. Her hand was swollen from scratching on a piece of corrugated iron.

After that day, people started calling her name in a seductive voice:

- Miss Y, let me help you plant trees.

- Let me go with you when we go on a survey today.

The children saw her and smiled, running over to show off: "I planted three more mangrove trees!" The men sitting drinking morning tea discussed anti-erosion as if it were their own family matter.

A week later, Như Ý was no longer alone. A dozen or so villagers waded through the mud with her, replanting each young mangrove tree. Each tree had a tiny bamboo stick stuck in it, written in purple student ink: "Third Grade Hoa", "Mr. Bay Sells Banh Bo", "Lottery Ticket Lady"... The names were simple but warm like stubble, like straw kept by the fire.

Then she showed them how to make eco-bricks, stuffing bottles with plastic waste, compacting them, stacking them up to form walls, to form embankments. Rough but sturdy. Another group of young people followed her to learn how to report landslides by sending photos via a simple phone application, drawing the interface themselves with rough strokes, but each red dot on the map was a warning not to be ignored.

In August, the storm came silently like a snake slithering through the reeds. The wind from the sea rushed in, whistling like a distant call from the forest. The rain lashed across the river, breaking into layers of foam. She and her group of young friends stayed up all night, carrying sandbags, tightening bamboo ropes, supporting the embankment, tying each panel of fence, each mangrove root.

Amidst the strong wind of the forest, she said, as if talking to herself: "The river is my mother. If I don't keep my mother, who will keep me?"

The next morning, the sky cleared with a thin ray of sunshine. No one had been swept away. The houses were still intact. The mangrove forest was still standing. Only one tree had broken, but green shoots had sprouted from the roots.

A month later, Nhu Y returned to the old bank, standing in the middle of the chest-high forest. The mud was smooth and fragrant with the smell of moss that had just receded, revealing every human footprint and every newly sprouted bud. Not proud, not brilliant, but clinging to the soil, clinging to the water, as steadfast as the hearts of the Ca Mau people rooted in the monsoon.

The mangrove leaves swayed. The river wind whispered like a gentle sigh. She smiled. Not because she had accomplished something great. But because, amidst the water, there were still so many things silently taking root.

The fifth Living Well Writing Contest was held to encourage people to write about noble actions that have helped individuals or communities. This year, the contest focused on praising individuals or groups that have performed acts of kindness, bringing hope to those in difficult circumstances.

The highlight is the new environmental award category, honoring works that inspire and encourage action for a green, clean living environment. Through this, the Organizing Committee hopes to raise public awareness in protecting the planet for future generations.

The contest has diverse categories and prize structure, including:

Article categories: Journalism, reportage, notes or short stories, no more than 1,600 words for articles and 2,500 words for short stories.

Articles, reports, notes:

- 1 first prize: 30,000,000 VND

- 2 second prizes: 15,000,000 VND

- 3 third prizes: 10,000,000 VND

- 5 consolation prizes: 3,000,000 VND

Short story:

- 1 first prize: 30,000,000 VND

- 1 second prize: 20,000,000 VND

- 2 third prizes: 10,000,000 VND

- 4 consolation prizes: 5,000,000 VND

Photo category: Submit a photo series of at least 5 photos related to volunteer activities or environmental protection, along with the name of the photo series and a short description.

- 1 first prize: 10,000,000 VND

- 1 second prize: 5,000,000 VND

- 1 third prize: 3,000,000 VND

- 5 consolation prizes: 2,000,000 VND

Most Popular Prize: 5,000,000 VND

Prize for Excellent Essay on Environmental Topic: 5,000,000 VND

Honored Character Award: 30,000,000 VND

The deadline for submissions is October 16, 2025. The works will be evaluated through the preliminary and final rounds with the participation of a jury of famous names. The organizing committee will announce the list of winners on the "Beautiful Life" page. See detailed rules at thanhnien.vn .

Organizing Committee of the Beautiful Living Contest

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/giu-lay-phan-dat-chua-kip-chim-truyen-ngan-du-thi-cua-mai-thi-nhu-y-185250914100611088.htm