Chapter 7 — The Bookmobile Through the Mountains

Ly Hoai Nam has been teaching at Nam Cay School for six years, since the day he was twenty-four years old, just graduated from pedagogical school with an excellent degree in hand and a bright future if he chose to stay in the city. But he chose to write a volunteer application to go to the highlands, a decision that surprised many people who knew him, including his parents, who expected their son to teach at a spacious school downland, close to home, with a more stable life.

The evening after Nghi's visit, when the children had all gone home, only Nam and teacher Vi Thi Ngan, his colleague who was almost an hour older than him, were grading papers together under the light of an oil lamp because the electricity grid here was still unstable and unstable. Ngan graded the papers while glancing at Nam with mischievous eyes.

"That librarian came up today, Mr. Nam seems very stressed," Ngan smiled, his voice full of teasing. "People were kind enough to bring books all the way here, but you still asked twisted questions like an interrogation."

Nam scratched his head, a bit embarrassed. "Miss Ngan knows I'm not the type of person to be harsh with anyone for no reason. It's just that I've seen a lot of things and I'm afraid the children will be disappointed."

"Yes, I know. That charity group last year came up to take pictures all day, promised to build a new toilet for the school, then disappeared, still nowhere to be seen. But looking at Ms. Nghi today, I see something different. She carefully took notes on every detail, asked carefully about every thing her school lacked, unlike other groups that only came to take pictures and then leave." Hesitantly put down his pen and looked at Nam more attentively. "And teacher Nam pays such close attention to her, surely it's not just because of the books, right?"

"You're teasing me again," Nam laughed, shaking his head, but in his heart he couldn't deny that the image of the young woman standing next to the old truck, patiently explaining to him about her father's bookmobile program, left an unforgettable impression.

That night, after Ngan returned to his room to rest, Nam still sat alone at the wooden table on the porch, looking out at the dark schoolyard, with only the chirping of insects and the dim moonlight shining through the foliage. He took out an old photo from his desk drawer with worn corners - a photo of him and his younger brother, Ly Hoai Phong, when they were children, standing in front of the gate of a village school, both wearing uniforms, smiling brightly.

Phong is three years younger than Nam, and like Nam, he is an intelligent student, eager to learn. But Nam's family was not well-off. His father passed away early in a work accident when Nam was only in ninth grade. His mother alone had to support the two brothers as a street vendor at the market. By the time Phong was in eighth grade, his family's finances were so exhausted that they could not afford tuition for both brothers at the same time. Nam's mother had to make a heartbreaking decision - to let Nam, the older brother who was better at studying and was close to the university entrance exam, continue to go to school, while Phong had to quit school midway and work as a helper at a carpentry workshop in the village.

Nam still clearly remembers the evening when Phong quietly put his books back into a cardboard box, did not cry, did not complain, just quietly told him: "You study better than me, continue studying, in the future you can do something big and take care of the whole family." That sentence, spoken by a fourteen-year-old boy, haunted Nam for many years to come. Every time he sat in the university lecture hall, every time he held a diploma in his hand, he thought of his younger brother, of what Phong had to sacrifice for him to be where he is today.

Now, Phong is over twenty-five years old, works as a carpenter in a family workshop in the countryside, life is stable, has a wife and children, but Nam knows that in his younger brother's heart there is still a void that nothing can fill - the void of unfinished dreams, of an educational path that was interrupted not because of lack of ability but because of lack of conditions. That's why, when he graduated as a teacher, Nam did not choose to stay in the city like many of his classmates, but wrote an application to go to the highlands to teach, with a strong belief that if he could not change his younger brother's fate, at least he could prevent that tragedy from repeating with other children.

Six years in Nam Cay, Nam has witnessed many similar cases - children who are smart and eager to learn, but have to drop out of school midway because the family needs more people to work in the fields, or simply because they do not have enough money to buy books or pay tuition for higher studies at district schools. Every time he witnesses a student leaving the classroom forever, Nam feels like an old wound in his heart is being deepened again.

That's why, despite being asked many times to transfer to more convenient schools, closer to the district center, Nam always refused. He is used to a life of poverty here - meager meals, nights without electricity having to prepare lesson plans under oil lamps, rainy seasons when the roads are muddy and he can't leave the village for weeks at a time. But in return, he got what he considered the most meaningful thing in his life - seeing every child in the village grow up with words in their heads, even though the road ahead of them is still very long and arduous.

The next morning, when Nam was teaching reading exercises to a group of third graders, he noticed that Lo Van Pao, even though he had finished studying last night, still took advantage of break time to sit in class, diligently reading the Advanced Math book that Nghi had lent him the day before. That scene suddenly warmed Nam's heart, and he realized that perhaps he had been a bit hasty in judging that woman after just a short meeting.

During recess, Ngan walked up to Nam and followed his gaze towards Pao. "See, just one day and Pao has changed completely. That librarian seems really sincere."

Nam nodded, was silent for a moment, then spoke, his voice thoughtful. "I hope so, Ms. Ngan. The children here have suffered a lot already, so we shouldn't be disappointed again."

"So why don't you proactively contact us and ask what the program there needs so we can coordinate, instead of just sitting here guessing?" He narrowed his eyes, his voice full of meaning.

Nam laughed and shook his head at his older colleague's mischievousness. But Ngan's words also made him think. That night, he sat down to write a short letter, asking a villager who had an errand to go town to bring it to Nghi's mother's tea stall. The content was simply a list of the books the school needed most, accompanied by a short line of thanks for the hard trip the day before. It was a small gesture, but for Nam, it was also a turning point - the first step where he proactively opened up, instead of just standing from afar observing like a defensive habit that had been ingrained over the years.

Ms. Ngan, who has taught at Nam Cay for twelve years, longer than Nam, also has her own story, although she rarely tells it. She is a Tay person, born and raised right in Van Thac district. She had the opportunity to transfer to teach at a school in town but refused, choosing to stay in the remote area because she could not bear to see children of her own ethnicity growing up in a severe shortage of teachers - there were years when Nam Cay school had only her teaching classes for all four grades, having to teach multiple classes, constantly rotating from one group to another in the same room.

"When I first came here, there weren't any trails like there are now," Ngan once told Nam on a free evening, "I had to walk from home to school for an entire morning. One day it rained, I slipped and fell face down in the middle of the road, my books were all wet, and when I got there I had to dry each page under the fire. But I never thought about quitting my job, because every time I saw the children reading a sentence, writing a word, I felt the effort I had put in was worth it. worth it."

It was Ngan's steadfastness, combined with the story of his younger brother Phong always in his heart, that became the silent source of motivation that nurtured Nam's determination over the past six years. The two of them, one young and one old, one born here and one from another place, share an unshakable belief - that literacy is the only thing that can open the door to the future for highland children, and they, the hard-working teachers, are the ones who hold that key, even at the cost of deprivation, loneliness, and sometimes even their youth.

A few days later, while Nam was writing lesson plans on the porch of the classroom, a strange wind blew carrying the smell of rain coming from the distant mountain peaks. He looked up at the sky that was gradually turning gray, suddenly remembering Nghi's promise to return, and wondered if that arduous path would hinder her determination, or like him, once she chose this path, she would not give up easily.