Top 9 Best Essays Written as Mr. Hai Retelling the Short Story 'Village' by Kim Lan (Literature 9)

Oh, my village Dầu! The sweet fragrance of the fresh rice fields still lingers. The same green stone road stretches before me. The sky is vast and endless, with a touch of sunlight falling on the ancient village temple. I have loved and continue to love this land deeply, the place where I was born and raised. The cruel invaders have left, but the village is no longer the same as it was when I had to flee during the evacuation. Yet, as I return, my heart remains unchanged. There is a strange feeling in me—a mixture of nostalgia, love, and pride. I feel overwhelmed with happiness. The suffering of a distant day has become a memory—one that is not beautiful but unforgettable.

It was a sunny day, a few years ago, and I don’t quite remember the exact time.

That afternoon, the sun was scorching. The light made everything bright and blinding. The heat seemed to scorch everything, like it could burn a person alive. I could hear the rooster’s distant call, the sound of cicadas endlessly ringing, creating a deep sense of longing. After finishing my tasks, I had some free time and started to think. And then, I thought of my village Dầu, missing it dearly.

I kept waiting for my eldest daughter. I hoped she would return soon to take care of the house so that I could do what I had to do. After a while, she came back. I gave her some instructions and rushed out. The streets were empty. The sky was filled with wind, but it wasn’t enough to cool the summer heat. I muttered to myself in frustration: 'This damn sun.' Someone walked past and asked curiously:

- Who are you talking about?

- The French, of course. Sitting here is like sitting in prison.

I kept walking as usual and stopped at the information station to hear about the war. There was good news. My heart soared with joy. But it seems that human happiness is fleeting. That joy was only a calm before the storm. After leaving the information station, I turned to remind my wife of a few things and then headed down the old path. I passed by a café where evacuees from the lower areas were gathered. I overheard a woman talking about the French invading the village Chợ Dầu and terrorizing the locals. Panic struck me, and I turned sharply to ask:

- They... they entered Chợ Dầu village? How many did we kill?

- We didn’t kill anyone. The whole village is collaborating with the French; what could we kill?

The woman's voice was harsh, full of hatred. It felt like a bucket of cold water splashed on my face. I stood there in shock, unable to breathe, my face tingling. My eyes kept twitching, and my nerves felt paralyzed. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to ask, my voice trembling:

- Is it true?

- We just came from there...

Before I could finish, the woman spoke firmly. I stood still, my ears ringing, unable to hear anything else. Her words seemed to blend with the wind. I paid for my drink, staggered to my feet, and said quietly to myself:

- Ha, the heat is unbearable, let's go home...

I wasn’t talking to anyone. I tried to comfort myself. I walked away, not daring to look back. My head was lowered, as if I had done something shameful. When I got home, I collapsed on the bed, my limbs feeling weak and drained. I breathed heavily, and the children were quietly playing outside.

Looking at them, I couldn't understand why my tears kept flowing. My eyes blurred. Were these children also from the traitor village? Were they also despised and scorned? How could they be so young, yet their fate seemed to be sealed? I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my skin, the pain sharp and raw. I let out a roar of anguish:

- What are you eating, and why are you doing such a disgraceful thing?

I stopped, confused. I remembered everyone. They were all brave people, determined not to leave and to stay behind to defend the village, prepared to fight to the end. But no! How could there be smoke without fire? Why would anyone spread such lies? Oh, the humiliation! The whole village was a traitor! How could we live with this? Who would take us in? I was lost in thoughts, everything tangled up like a mess of threads. I tried to push it all down deep in my mind, but it seemed that my wife already knew. When she returned in the evening, she was tired, her face heavy. Late at night, she finally brought up the matter. As soon as she spoke, my anger flared up. But I stayed silent.

The night was strangely quiet. The darkness felt thick, as if it was waiting to engulf me once I closed my eyes. I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, sighing deeply. Suddenly, I heard faint voices from upstairs. What was she saying? Why was she speaking so softly? My heart pounded in my chest. I held my breath, my insides churning, and strained to listen...

Since that day, I have stayed secluded in a corner of the house, not even daring to visit Uncle Thứ. I felt humiliated! I couldn’t bear to face anyone. My heart burned with shame. Every time I saw a crowd, I became alert, nervous when I heard the words 'French' or 'traitor'. I stayed inside, barely making a sound. The situation was just as I feared; the landlord came and subtly suggested we leave. Of course! Who would want to harbor traitors? Everyone was turning their backs on me. It was terrifying! There seemed to be no way out. Where could we go now? Who would take us in? My mind was consumed by these dark thoughts. Step by step, they took over my every thought... Maybe I should return to the village?

My tears flowed uncontrollably. Was I really going back to the village? No... No... Going back would mean abandoning the resistance, betraying Hồ Chí Minh. Going back meant becoming a slave to the French again. I couldn’t do it! I loved my village, truly! But the village had sided with the French. The village betrayed us, and we must take revenge.

I picked up the youngest child, stroked his head, and asked softly:

- Húc, tell me, who are you the child of?

- I am your child, and your mother’s.

- So where is your home?

- Our home is in Chợ Dầu village.

- Do you want to go back to our village?

The child lowered his head, fiddling with his sleeve, as if thinking about something. He nestled against me and softly replied:

- Yes.

His quiet words felt like my own heart speaking. Why do I still love that village so much? I asked again:

- Who do you support?

- I support Hồ Chí Minh forever!

The child’s eyes sparkled with joy as he spoke firmly. My tears began to flow again, warm and comforting.

- Yes, you support Hồ Chí Minh, right?

I whispered to him, my voice trembling. I engraved those words in my heart and in his. This was the bond between us, a bond that could never be broken. Even if we died, we would never be wrong.

And so, until that day came, I received the news of the correction. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my heart. I bought gifts for the children and hurried to share the news with the neighbors. Yes! Yes! Everyone must know this! I couldn’t contain my excitement. Everywhere I went, I shouted loudly:

- The French burned my village! My house is now just a pile of ashes. The village head has come to correct the lie that Chợ Dầu collaborated with the enemy. It’s all lies! Lies! None of it is true!

The burnt house was proof that my village did not betray us. I shouted to release the tension that had been building up. Everyone was happy for me, sharing in my joy...

The children’s voices echoed. The youngest pulled my hand, calling me back from my memories. I looked around, my eyes filled with tears. I lifted the child, kissed him on the cheek, and he giggled, his laughter blending with the wind. It was as if the happiness inside me spread over the whole village of Dầu. I tucked those memories away deep inside, then stepped forward, straight towards my village. And those memories? They only deepened my love for my village. I believe the future is ahead, and I will plant the seeds here, so happiness can bloom in this place.

Chợ Dầu, the beloved village where I was born and raised, was once disrupted by the invading French forces that forced us to evacuate to other places. Yet, now that I have returned home, the village in my heart remains as whole as ever, at least in terms of the love I have for it. I feel an overwhelming joy at returning to my homeland, the place where my childhood memories were made.

Upon my return, I was eager to hear all the news: how many enemies had been defeated, how many lives had been lost, the heroic efforts of the resistance. Just as I was absorbing this with a sense of pride, a woman’s bitter voice reached me, accusing my village of betraying the revolution and siding with the French. The words stung with such anger that my heart sank. The shock left me speechless, my throat tight, my skin cold. I had always been proud of my village, telling everyone about its heroic deeds, but now I felt nothing but shame and disappointment. I walked away in disbelief, unable to comprehend what I had just heard.

Returning home, I still couldn’t believe it. My heart battled between the love I had for my village and the harsh truth that had been revealed. The place I cherished, where I had grown up and felt proud, was now labeled as a traitor’s haven. It was a gut-wrenching realization. In the midst of my confusion, I shared my turmoil with my youngest son. Talking it through made me feel a little lighter.

I spent the evening with my neighbor, and only later did we hear that the village chairman had issued a correction, declaring that the rumor of our village’s betrayal was entirely false. Overjoyed, I ran to gather the children and shouted, “Come on, kids, I’ve got news for you!”

As I hurried to share the good news, I learned that the French had indeed set fire to our homes, destroying everything. Despite the loss of property, a strange joy filled my heart. Our village had remained loyal to the revolution, to the cause of freedom.

This is the story of my journey through a rollercoaster of emotions, from shock and disappointment to the elation of unexpected good news. Through it all, my pride in my village, Chợ Dầu, remains intact. It stands as a symbol of loyalty to the revolution and to the cause of independence.

It has been over a month since I left my beloved Chợ Dầu village to evacuate. It's true that when you are far from home, you truly feel the depth of the saying of our ancestors.

At the evacuation site, I couldn't stop thinking about my village. The only joy I had was going to the information center to read the news and learn more about the resistance efforts. During those times, my heart would leap with excitement.

Today, for some reason, my eldest child came home late, and I couldn't shake the restless feeling at home. As soon as I saw her approaching from a distance, I rushed out to tell her to watch over the house before hurriedly heading to the information center to read the news, just like usual.

I'm still the same person, but now I have children who are beautiful and respectful. The sight of the bamboo groves, alongside cows and buffaloes, reminds me of the past when I grew up with other children of my age under the early morning sun. The hardworking farmers continue their daily labor, ensuring we have hearty meals together. The image of the smoke from the cooking fire brings back memories of the past when my family and I would roast sweet potatoes by the fire, and the sound of laughter filled the air, erasing the fatigue of the day. Truly, home is essential to each of us. Without it, we wouldn't be who we are today. I deeply love my homeland, my village, and my loved ones. They are precious memories I have cherished for so long. Every time I return to my village, so many memories flood back, like beautiful puzzle pieces from the life of a farmer like me. My neighbors, though they have new families and lives, always remember their roots as I do. The word 'homeland' is so familiar and irreplaceable in my heart.

Now, I only have my youngest child to confide in. Every time I hold them in my arms and remind them of our village, Chợ Dầu, I feel a pang of longing. Even though I decided to leave that village behind, I can never erase my intense love for it. That decision felt like a sharp knife cutting through my heart. It hurts deeply, but I support the resistance. Watching my son raise his hand confidently, shouting 'Long live Uncle Hồ Chí Minh!', my tears flow, and I whisper my affirmation, reaffirming my words as if pleading my innocence. Despite others calling me a traitor from Chợ Dầu, I still support Uncle Hồ, even though my future remains uncertain.

Having been closely tied to the village of Chợ Dầu for so long, moving to the evacuation area, I find myself still adjusting to life here. Whether here or back in the village, people still call me by the familiar name of Mr. Hai.

That day, I worked tirelessly in the garden throughout the morning, and as soon as I lay down to rest, I couldn't help but think back to the days in the village. Back then, I had the strength to work alongside my fellow villagers, and my heart swelled with pride. While waiting for my eldest daughter to return, so I could ask her to look after the younger ones, I planned to head to the information center to listen to the news. As the printed text was hard to read, I had to wait for someone to read it aloud. Fortunately, a local soldier was reading clearly, covering all the important updates. After listening, I felt invigorated, then went straight to the town square where I met a group of evacuees from Gia Lâm.

As I chatted with them, I was startled to hear the news that the enemy had entered Chợ Dầu and was terrorizing the village. I thought we had managed to defeat a few French soldiers, but to my disbelief, I was told that my village had sided with the French, betraying the country. My throat went dry, and I couldn't believe the painful truth. How could my beloved village be accused of such betrayal? On my way home, I walked with my head bowed, dreading what the landlord would say. Would she expel us because of my association with Chợ Dầu? My heart ached for my children, would they be labeled as children of the traitor village? This thought gnawed at me, and I struggled to find answers. Everyone from the village was known for their spirit of resistance, so how could this be? The shame was unbearable; no one would accept us. The whole nation would despise those who betrayed their country.

That night, I couldn't sleep, consumed by the news of my village siding with the enemy. I stayed indoors for several days, anxiously awaiting any official correction. The landlord continued to make snide comments every day, but I kept quiet, trying to suppress my anger. My mind raced with dark thoughts, unsure of where our future lay. Then, one day, a friend from the village arrived with the news: the French had burned my house and the entire village, but the village head had come to issue a formal correction. I could hardly contain my joy. I rushed to tell all the evacuees that Chợ Dầu had always been loyal to the nation.

I was overjoyed and excitedly recounted the day the French had terrorized our village, feeling as though I had personally fought alongside my fellow villagers in defense of our land.

One can separate a person from their homeland, but the homeland can never be separated from the person. This profound statement holds true. For me, Chợ Dầu village is in my blood and soul, nothing can take it away or erase it from my heart.

It has been decades now, and over that time, I have come to understand the people of this village deeply. We are all Vietnamese, bound by the red blood of our ancestors, and we all share an unshakable love for our nation. The majority of the villagers are hardworking farmers, toiling in the fields from dawn till dusk. We live for ourselves, yet we never forget our love for the country that gave us life. Yet, despite all this, there are rumors circulating that defame our village.

That day, the sky was clear and bright, and as usual, I went to the information center to read the news. I enjoy listening to the news being read aloud, even though I am a poor farmer, struggling in daily life. It's my little pleasure to keep up with the latest information. After leaving the center and stopping by the shop to talk to my wife, I was heading towards the old town square when I overheard a lively discussion among a group of evacuees.

Curious by nature, I joined the conversation to find out what was happening. I was shocked to learn that they were talking about a village that had betrayed the nation by siding with the French. I couldn't believe it when they said it was Chợ Dầu—my own village! They were calling my people traitors, siding with the enemy. It was hard to accept. Could it really be true? Was my village really supporting the French? It didn’t make sense. The people of Chợ Dầu are all patriots, after all. Unable to bear the shame, I quickly changed the subject: 'Ah, the sun is so hot, I should head home...'

From that moment on, I didn't dare to step outside. The rumors spread like wildfire, and my mind grew weary with the weight of disgrace. Even my wife became disheartened and lost interest in household chores. Born and raised in the turmoil of war, I had always lived with the sounds of bombs and gunfire. But I promised myself that I would do something meaningful to help my country.

In my heart, both my family and the villagers vowed to support President Hồ Chí Minh forever. Yet here we were, before we could even contribute to the nation, already tainting its reputation. I love my village dearly—Chợ Dầu has been a part of me for so long—but deep in my humble, simple heart, I hold a greater love for the country. 'I love my village, but if it sided with the French, I must despise it.'

At that time, everywhere I went, people rejected us, the villagers of Chợ Dầu. My landlord also had no choice but to ask us to leave. In those few days, I felt lost and empty, overwhelmed by an unbearable shame.

But then, a sudden joy replaced my sorrow when I heard the good news that the accusations against Chợ Dầu had been officially corrected. The rumors had all been false. I went everywhere to spread the good news, and even my landlord welcomed us back. Life slowly returned to normal, and my spirits lifted once again.

Every river flows into the sea, and so does a person’s love for home, village, and country. For a farmer who works from dawn till dusk, the village holds a special place in the heart. It is where I was born, grew up, and worked. More importantly, it is the root of my identity, a part of my soul. I will never forget Chợ Dầu, and I will always cherish my faith in it, no matter where life takes me.

Decades have passed, and in all that time, I have come to deeply understand the people of my village. We are all Vietnamese, bound by the blood of our ancestors, forever coursing through our veins. The majority of the people in my village are hardworking farmers, toiling in the fields from dawn until dusk. We live for ourselves, yet we never forget our deep love for the country that gave us life and nurtured us. And yet, for reasons I can't quite grasp, there have been rumors tarnishing the reputation of my village.

That day was clear and beautiful, like any other. I went to the information center to read the news, which I always enjoyed, even though I am a poor farmer struggling with everyday life. Reading the news gave me a way to stay connected to the world around me. After leaving the center, I stopped by a shop to speak with my wife before heading toward the old district, where I overheard a group of evacuees gossiping noisily.

Being naturally curious, I approached them to learn more. I was shocked to hear them talking about a village that had betrayed the country by siding with the French. To my horror, they were talking about Chợ Dầu—my very own village. They said my village was a traitor, that we had sided with the enemy. I could hardly believe my ears. Could it be true? How could this happen? We, the people of Chợ Dầu, are all patriots! Unable to contain my anger, I quickly changed the subject and left: 'Ah, the sun is scorching, I should head home...'

From that moment, I didn’t dare to leave the house. The rumors spread like wildfire, and I felt mentally drained, unable to focus on anything. My wife became just as despondent, losing interest in her household chores. Growing up in the war, surrounded by bombs and gunfire, I always promised myself that I would do something meaningful to contribute to the country.

In my heart, both my family and the villagers had pledged their unwavering support to President Hồ Chí Minh. Yet, now, before we had even been able to make a meaningful contribution, we were already being blamed for betraying the nation. I love my village dearly—Chợ Dầu has been my home for so long—but deep in the heart of this humble farmer, I hold an even greater love for my country. 'I love my village, but if it betrayed the nation, I must condemn it.'

At that time, everywhere we went, people turned us away, the villagers of Chợ Dầu. Even my landlord had no choice but to ask my family to leave. In those few days, I felt lost and empty, overwhelmed by an unbearable shame.

Then, a sudden joy replaced my sorrow when I heard the good news that the accusations against Chợ Dầu had been corrected. All the rumors were proven to be false. I went everywhere to spread the good news, and even my landlord welcomed us back. Life returned to normal, and my spirits were lifted once again.

Every river flows into the sea, and so does a person's love for their home, village, and country. For a farmer who labors under the sun day in and day out, the village holds a very special place. It is where I was born, grew up, and worked. More than that, the village is the root of my heritage, an irreplaceable part of my soul. I will never forget my beloved Chợ Dầu, and I will always hold it close in my heart, never to leave it behind.

This morning was like any other. I sipped my freshly brewed tea, flipped through the pages of the daily news, and reminisced about my youth, the vibrant days spent with my village, and the beautiful memories etched in my mind.

That afternoon, I was home alone. My wife and children were out doing business, so I went down to the stream to work on a patch of land. I planned to plant a few hundred cassava plants, enough to have something to eat next year during the hunger season. After working all morning, my body was exhausted, and I lay down on a soft mattress, lost in thought. I longed for the days I spent in the village, digging roads and hauling stones with the others... I missed Chợ Dầu so much.

While waiting for the bigger group to return, I quickly sent them a few reminders about looking after the house before running off to gather information, as I often did. On my way, a few people stopped to chat and tease me, and I hurried along. Listening in on conversations? Well, there wasn't much of interest, but it was a habit of mine that troubled me. I had once attended a basic literacy class but still couldn't read well enough to understand the news myself. So, I would sit there, pretending to read, but actually eavesdropping on others who could. What I hated most were those who flaunted their literacy but wouldn't read aloud for the rest of us. Today, however, I got lucky. I heard a militia man reading out loud, and I managed to gather a lot of useful information.

Excited, I left the information center, reminded my wife of a few things, stopped by a shop for a few smokes, and enjoyed the breeze. Suddenly, I saw a few unfamiliar faces, so I approached them and asked questions.

I learned that they were from Gia Lâm and that the enemy had opened fire from Bắc Ninh towards Chợ Dầu. With my usual sense of pride, I casually asked, 'So, how many of the enemy did we kill in Chợ Dầu?' To my shock, their response pierced my heart like a dagger: 'We didn’t kill anyone. Your village is a traitor to the French. What’s there to fight?' Could I have heard wrong? No, this couldn’t be true. But I asked again, and the response was like a cold splash of water, forcing me to face the truth. I stood up, pretending to complain about the heat, and rushed home, shaken to my core.

Back home, the harsh words of the villagers echoed in my mind, and I silently mourned for my children. They were the children of a traitorous village...

That afternoon, when my wife returned, she seemed different, and the house suddenly felt cold and quiet. The children were unusually quiet too, not playing as they normally did. But after some reflection, I realized that the people of the village had always been patriots, sworn to fight the enemy. Who would spread such lies? But as I thought more, I wondered, could anyone still trade with a 'traitorous' village?

For the next few days, I isolated myself, overwhelmed with shame and humiliation. I confided in my children, sharing my feelings of betrayal. Ultimately, I decided never to return to the village. 'I love my village, but if it sides with the French, I must oppose it.' I resolved to support the resistance and President Hồ Chí Minh, dedicating myself to the country. If I couldn’t do something good for the nation, I would at least avoid causing harm.

I spent that night wrestling with my thoughts, my anger and humiliation growing. Even though I had pledged to support Hồ Chí Minh and the resistance, I wondered where I could go when everyone hated the people of Chợ Dầu. In a moment of complete despair, I received a call early one morning from the village chairman, who had news for me. It turned out that all the rumors were lies, an attempt to undermine the people's spirit. Chợ Dầu was not only innocent but had actively participated in the resistance against the enemy. It felt like I had been reborn. I was overjoyed and eagerly went to correct the misinformation, proudly sharing the true story of my beloved village. To this day, I continue to share this story, just as I’m telling you today.

What is homeland, mother?

What did the teacher say about loving it?

What is homeland, mother?

Anyone who leaves it feels the longing.

Everyone has a homeland, a place where they were born and raised, a place that nourishes our souls from childhood, and a place we always long for, no matter how far we go. For me, it is the village of Chợ Dầu, full of cherished memories. You might wonder who I am? I am the character Ông Hai from the short story "Làng" by Kim Lân.

Oh, my beloved village of Chợ Dầu! I still vividly remember the images of my village, which had the largest information center in the region, a radio tower made from a tall bamboo pole, broadcasting loud and clear in the evenings. Every resident could hear the announcements. The houses were all made of tiles, tightly packed together, bustling like a city. The village roads were paved with green stones, and when it rained, we could walk from the village entrance to the back without getting mud on our shoes. The rice and straw were always dried perfectly in the sun. I was so proud of my village and often boasted about it. But then, the cruel invaders destroyed it, and the villagers had to flee.

Now, when I talk about my village, I boast differently. I talk about the uprisings that took place there, and how I joined the resistance from the very beginning. There were military training sessions for everyone, even elderly men with grey beards. They would struggle to keep up with the commands, always ending their actions with a drawn-out 'A...!' My village was also filled with trenches, bunkers, and defensive structures that took years to build. After many trials and tribulations, we finally returned to our homeland.

Honestly, I didn’t want to leave when we had to evacuate, but my wife, Mrs. Hai, insisted. She begged me, saying:

- What are you going to do, leave me and the kids to starve? You have to go and take care of them so I can manage!

So, reluctantly, I agreed to go, with the support of our village chief and the villagers.

The early days in the new place were tough. There was no work, and I was constantly upset. My wife had a hard time with me. I would snap at her and the children, but then I would think of the village, the life I had known all my life. My ancestors lived there for generations. How could I just abandon them during such a crucial time? My responsibilities weren’t just mine; they were for the whole community.

Every time I stepped out of the small, messy room full of bowls, clothes, and damp air, I felt a sense of relief. I hated that room, especially in the hot, quiet afternoons when the landlord’s voice echoed from outside. I had to get out. I had never met such a greedy, devious woman. She was as thin as a stick, with a sharp, continuous chatter that grated on my nerves.

When I first arrived, I was already annoyed by her. The neighbors spoke ill of her, and I quickly learned she wasn’t a decent person. One afternoon, I was alone at home. My older daughter had gone to the market, and the younger kids were outside tending to the garden. I was working in the fields, breaking the ground for some cassava plants. Exhausted, I lay down on the bed, my mind wandering back to my village, remembering the days working alongside my comrades. I could almost feel the joy of those times. My heart raced with excitement as I thought about returning to my village, working together on the roads, digging trenches, and hauling stones. I wondered if the watchtower at the village entrance had been completed, or if the secret tunnels were still being built.

Oh, how I longed for my village! Outside, the sun shone brightly, and the sound of a rooster’s call broke the silence. The house felt suffocating, as if it were closing in on me. I knew the landlord would soon return from the fields. I had to endure listening to her complaints and constant scolding.

When my daughter returned, I asked:

- Why did it take you so long out there?

I didn’t wait for her answer. Grabbing my hat, I quickly told her:

- Stay here and watch the house. Don’t go anywhere.

The sky was bright and clear, with clouds lazily drifting by. The street was empty, everyone had gathered under the shade of trees to escape the heat. I walked aimlessly down the street, my arms swinging. As usual, I stopped by the village information station to catch up on the news. My heart raced with every new update. But happiness is fleeting, and just as I was enjoying a brief moment of peace, the storm came. Leaving the station, I stopped by home to give my wife a few instructions before heading back down the old road. I stopped at a café, where I overheard a woman talking about the French soldiers invading Chợ Dầu. Panic swept over me, and I immediately asked:

- The French have entered Chợ Dầu? How many did we kill?

- We didn’t kill any. The whole village is working with the French.

The words hit me like a cold splash of water. I froze, my throat tight, my skin crawling with shock. For a long time, I couldn’t speak. Finally, I managed to ask in a trembling voice:

- Are you sure? Or is it just…

- We just came from there. It’s true.

I was speechless. My ears rang. I barely heard anything else. I paid for my drink, stood up, and walked out of the café. I gave a dry laugh, muttering:

- What a scorcher of a day. Time to go home.

I couldn’t shake the image of my landlord from my mind. When I got home, I lay on the bed, feeling different. The children noticed. They quietly played at the house’s entrance, sensing something was off. I looked at them and couldn’t hold back my tears. Why were they being looked down upon as traitors? How could this happen to children so young?

- Are these children of the traitors? Are they being rejected by everyone?

My anger boiled over. I clenched my fists and shouted:

- What kind of children are these? What have they eaten to be called traitors!

Could it really be true? I mentally checked each person in the village, but no, they were all good people. They had stayed in the village, willing to live or die with it. They would never betray us! But how could such a rumor arise? The village head, Chánh Bệu, was definitely from our village. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Who would make up such lies?

That night, there were no words exchanged. Everything felt still, until the usual low voice interrupted the silence:

- Father?

I didn’t respond, lost in my thoughts.

- Are you asleep?

- What? I stirred slightly.

- I heard people gossiping. I snapped:

- I know.

I shuddered. The dark, oppressive thoughts of the past crept into my mind. I couldn’t return to that village anymore. If I did, I’d lose everything. But I couldn’t hate it either. I loved it, but if the village sided with the French, then I had to hate it. I held my youngest son and gently asked him:

- Húc, who do you belong to?

- I’m your son, and mother’s.

- Where do we live?

- We live in Chợ Dầu.

- Do you want to go back to Chợ Dầu?

The boy nestled into my chest and softly replied:

- Yes. I hugged him tightly, then asked again:

- So, who do you support?

The boy raised his hand confidently and clearly said:

- Long live Hồ Chí Minh! Tears flowed down my cheeks. I whispered:

- That’s right, my son. Long live Hồ Chí Minh.

Later that afternoon, a fellow villager came to visit. He was from Chợ Dầu as well. I quickly got ready and went with him, forgetting to tell the kids to watch the house. I didn’t return until evening, my face brighter and more joyful than it had been in days. As I entered the gate, I called out:

- Where are you all? Come, I’ve got gifts for you!

I then went to visit Uncle Thứ:

- The French burned my house down. It’s gone. The village head clarified everything—there was no truth to the rumors that we were traitors.

That’s the story, everyone. To this day, I can’t forget the relief I felt when I heard the truth. It was the faith in our Party, in President Hồ Chí Minh, and in my village that helped us triumph in the end. I hope that through my story, everyone will grow to love their homeland even more.