Storm season, season of pain

I was born in the Central region, where the Lao wind is scorching hot every summer, the rain is freezing cold in the winter and storms often make the sky and earth tilt.

Illustration photo (AI)

I was born in the Central region, where the Lao wind is scorching every summer, the rain is freezing cold in the winter and storms often fall, making the sky and earth tilt. Sometimes the storms are fleeting, like a warning, but sometimes they are fierce, leaving deep marks in the memories of the people of my hometown. In the face of natural disasters, the people of my hometown are like resilient trees, bowing to the wind but never breaking.

Before the storm arrived, the loudspeakers in the neighborhood blared incessantly, reminding each family to prepare. Adults and children ran out into the alleys and yards. Everyone’s face was filled with worry. Women and mothers were busy washing rice, arranging fish sauce jars, oil bottles, and arranging the essentials in the house. Men climbed onto the roofs, tied bamboo tightly, reinforced fences, and added more bamboo panels. The whole neighborhood seemed to breathe in unison, preparing for the upcoming “wrath”.

My house was the same. As a deeply ingrained habit, my mother meticulously closed the windows, pushed the tables and chairs into a corner, and filled the jars with water in case of power or water outages. Each movement was slow but decisive, like a soldier accustomed to battle. I knew why my mother was so careful, because many times she had to stay up all night, keeping a lamp on guard against each fierce wind. I could only sit quietly in the corner of the room, watching the thin figure swaying under the yellow oil lamp, my heart filled with emotions: love for my mother, worry, and helplessness because I could not help. My father was far away at work and rarely came home. So on stormy days, only my mother and I leaned on each other to support each other.

The memories of those stormy nights still linger. The wind howled outside, the roof tiles creaked, and the whole house shook as if a tired body was struggling against an invisible force. In my childish eyes, there was not only wind and rain outside, but a giant monster roaring and destroying everything. I curled up, shivering, and buried my face in my mother’s arms, the most peaceful shelter. Thank God, my house was built on a high and sturdy hill, so even though I was scared, I still felt a little secure. However, at that moment, my anxiety rose again when I thought of Thao, my close friend at the end of the village, close to the edge of the big river. Every flood season, the water often flooded her yard. I wondered if Thao’s small house was strong enough to withstand the fierce wind outside. Would she be curled up in her mother’s arms, safe like me right now, or would she be panicking and watching the water waiting outside the gate?

The rain poured down, heavy and incessant, as if wanting to sweep everything away. The familiar village road suddenly turned into a muddy stream, the water overflowing the fence, carrying fallen leaves and dry branches. The garden was desolate, swaying in the wind. However, the people of my village were not shaken. Under the flickering oil lamp that cast shadows on the wet roof, calloused hands patiently tied each panel of bamboo, patching up the gaps that let in the wind. The storm season in my hometown is not only a worry about food and clothing, a struggle with nature, but also a season of human love. When the wind howled outside, in the village, the oil lamps still flickered. People stopped by each other's houses, exchanging a package of rice, a little salt, a few bottles of water, or simply a handshake, a warm word of encouragement. Arms stretched out, clasping each other not only to hold the roof but also to build a spiritual home. Amidst the misty rain and wind, people still see the flame of love, of sharing, of the Central region's solidarity shining brightly, as enduring as this strip of land itself.

My mother often said: “Storms come and go, but love remains.” Indeed, after each storm, when the roof tiles are still in disarray and the garden is bare, the people of my hometown come together to rebuild their lives. The sound of brooms sweeping the yard, the sound of people calling each other, the sound of laughter mixed with hardship… All blend together to create a song of revival.

I feel so sorry for the people of Central Vietnam, where the land is narrow, the weather is harsh, where storms have become a part of life! There are fierce waves but also big hearts, as resilient as rocks, as flexible as sea sand, of village love, neighborhood love, of strong bonds. Like small but solid roofs in the midst of storms, the people of my hometown always stand firm against all the storms of life.../.

Linh Chau

Source: https://baolongan.vn/mua-bao-mua-thuong-a201569.html