Third Prize: Humanities - A spectacular crossing of the boundary of dreams

Everyone has their own dreams, and with each passing day, the jar containing those dreams fills up and becomes more colorful. As a 20-year-old girl, I am happy to have a vast collection of wish jars.

As a child, I dreamed of becoming a pilot because I wanted to fly in the sky, to be a free person. My father used to say that girls should be flight attendants, not sit in the cockpit. But I thought, I wanted to directly control my own plane and fly it to its destination.

When I was a little older, I wanted to be a teacher, spending my days "tapping on the heads of children," teaching them their first words, teaching them spelling and writing. Then, as I grew older, I wanted to be a journalist, to travel widely, to experience many things, to set foot in places I had never been, to try foods I had never eaten, to meet people I had never known. In the eyes of a little girl who was making her first firm and fully aware decision about her future, I was captivated by that little dream, meticulously drawing each stroke on it day by day, cherishing it and placing it in my wishbox.

As the days gradually drifted by like white foam dissolving into the sea, I grew up and took my first steps in my own "airplane." University was perhaps the first stepping stone I took on this long and exciting journey.

Back then, as a naive young girl stepping into the school, I felt so small. Fresh off the boat in the city, silently gazing at the school, its ancient trees embracing each letter of the nameplate, I never ceased to feel joyful and proud. Love can't begin in fleeting moments, but love at first sight is the illogical part of logic. That's how I fell in love with my school.

One cannot love everything about the other person, but one can learn to accept their clumsiness and flaws. I never liked the strong smell of cigarette smoke every time I went to school, but I know that without it, I would lose many memories of this school. From the old stone benches, the gnarled trees, the ancient-colored bricks, I never loved it with the utmost affection, but if one day my Faculty of Humanities were to lose such simple, humble things, I would surely feel a profound sense of loss. The years have left their mark on every stone, every rough tree hollow, every nostalgic stone bench… they have witnessed the growth of this school, the changes and ups and downs of countless generations of faculty and students.

I love the ancient blue-green space of the Faculty of Humanities; it evokes a sense of nostalgia for the distant past, remembering that it was through this very gate, 60 years ago, that generations of our fathers and brothers left their school desks to fight for their ideals and the nation's. Every time I look back at that gate, I wonder when I too will bid farewell to this place to fly with my dreams, to gather small dreams to contribute to the great aspirations of the country?

In the Faculty of Humanities, one can find a touch of old French architecture through the patterns of the walls, the yellow paint, and the arrangement of each window. I found cultural nuances in these seemingly simple yet valuable details, and at times I was utterly surprised to understand the cultural symbols hidden within them.

The Faculty of Humanities is home to many young people. They always smile and relentlessly pursue their dreams. I used to miss home terribly, to the point of tears, during my difficult days in Hanoi. But it was these young people here who helped me understand the simple truth of love and what I needed to do to continue on my path. These people didn't hesitate to travel over 500km to personally deliver warm clothes to children in the highlands, alleviating the biting cold during the harsh winter. They didn't care about skin color, hometown, or even appearance, joining hands to help other resilient individuals, sharing warm hearts and igniting the flames of compassion. They are young, dynamic, confident, and full of love. They are students of the Faculty of Humanities.

The Faculty of Humanities has many beautiful love stories. Sometimes I sit for hours on a bench in the schoolyard, watching new feelings blossom from radiant smiles or sweet gestures. They embrace their guitars, they sing, and they share the most genuine yet playful feelings with each other. Love at the Faculty of Humanities is so "green" and gentle!

The humanities have some truly wonderful teachers. They are people who have dedicated their lives to research, diligently collecting every drop of fragrant, precious honey like bees, bringing it back to their hives and creating the best honey for future generations. Our class follows in the footsteps of previous generations of students, daily receiving the crystallization of that knowledge and carrying within us a great mission – to live like our teachers.

At the Faculty of Humanities, I found kindred spirits, contributing to colorful wish-granting jars, writing the pages of my life. We were captivated, amazed, delighted, and loved it with all our hearts. A person's life is a series of dreams, but how I dream them and how I realize them is a question worth dedicating my youth to answering.

It's often said that love, once fully explored, is no longer complete. I've never fully understood the Faculty of Humanities, because I know that this "being" still makes me love it so much. I love it as if it were the first time I'd ever dreamed and loved my dream. For me, the Faculty of Humanities was a turning point, not exactly early, but spectacular, at least for me.

There will come a day when students like us will tearfully bid farewell to every tree, bench, and even the pair of white bantam chickens in the schoolyard. Because people have their own resting places, their own stepping stones. And after each of those journeys, people must move on. I have to leave the Faculty of Humanities, but it's an ending to a new beginning, a promise to meet again in the future, when both I and "that person" will be different, more mature, more experienced, and understand each other much, much more.