A quietly evocative fable by Lê Minh Hoan, featured in the “Xích Lô’s Notebook” series, draws from the familiar image of Viet Nam’s rice fields to illuminate a deeper philosophy of leadership and human conduct. Through the bending rice—heavy with grain—the author reflects on humility, attentive listening, and growth through lived experience, offering a gentle yet enduring lesson for those in public service and beyond.
THE LESSON OF THE BENDING RICE |
There are lessons that do not live in books.
They stand quietly in the fields—under the sun, beneath the rain—returning each season to remind us of something at once ancient and ever new.
That lesson is the rice.
When it is young, the rice plant stands upright. Its slender stem and green leaves reach skyward, as if unafraid of anything. Yet when the grains begin to fill, as each one grows heavy with life, the plant slowly bends.
Not from weakness, but from fullness.
To bow is not to lower oneself—it is to deepen
People often say: the fuller the rice, the lower it bends. This is not the posture of inferiority, but the bearing of maturity.
The rice plant does not bow to the wind. It bows to the weight of its own yield.
So it is with grassroots officials. The more they travel, the more they understand the people, the more they are tempered by reality—the less they speak loudly or assert hastily, and the more they learn to listen.
At the beginning, everyone wants to stand tall
Those newly entrusted with responsibility often carry many aspirations: to act swiftly, to innovate, to leave a mark.
There is nothing wrong with that. But if one stands tall for too long, one may forget that beneath one’s feet lies the soil—the lived realities of the people, the burdens that never appear in reports.
The rice plant does not keep a single posture. It knows when to rise, and when to bow.
To bow is to see the ground more clearly
When it lowers its head, the rice plant draws closer to the earth.
It sees whether the water recedes too quickly or too slowly.
It senses whether the soil is dry or yielding.
It notices insects, crop pests, and young roots.
A grassroots official who learns to bow will perceive the truths that matter: a minor administrative procedure that confuses citizens; a sound policy that arrives at the wrong moment; a careless word that may quietly discourage another.
Without bowing, one does not see.
Without seeing, one cannot amend.
Humility does not diminish authority—it strengthens trust
Some fear that bowing one’s head is to lose prestige.
But in truth, people do not need officials who are always right. They need officials who are willing to correct themselves—those who can say: “I may not fully understand this yet; let me look into it again,” or “Perhaps this approach is not yet suitable; let us discuss further.”
Such words do not make an official smaller. They make trust grow larger.
Like a field of rice: it does not need to display its abundance. When the season comes, the grains speak for themselves.
The rice teaches a quiet form of leadership—without ostentation, without imposition, without standing above others to point the way.
It works silently through the seasons. Only at harvest do people fully recognize its worth.
So it is with grassroots officials. The finest work is done when people’s hardships are eased—without needing to know who made it so.
To bow is to go farther
Bowing is not an end; it is a preparation for the next season. The grains fall to the soil, and from them new life emerges.
An official who practices humility today will cultivate a stronger team tomorrow.
A way of working that listens will open more enduring paths.
Amid the many demands of duty, let each grassroots official hold onto a simple image:
The rice bends when it is full.
Let it be a reminder that the more one accomplishes, the gentler one’s voice should become; the greater one’s responsibility, the deeper one must listen; and the longer one walks with the people, the more one must learn to bow—together with them.
This is more than the lesson of the rice.
It is a lesson in being human—and a lesson in public service that endures.
In "Xích Lô’s Notebook" by Lê Minh Hoan, even the smallest moment—a rice seedling leaning in the wind—can open into something deeper. From there, nature quietly offers its lessons on how to live, if we are willing to pause and listen.
Some stories begin not with action, but with a quiet sense of loss. This is one of them. “The fisherman and the reef,” a short fable by Lê Minh Hoan in the Xích Lô’s Notebook series, reflects on the fragile bond between people and nature—reminding us that what sustains life is often what we are most at risk of forgetting.
In the ceaseless rush of the digital age, some stories can only be told in stillness—told slowly, with the full weight of the human soul. Xích Lô’s Notebook invites you to pause, if only for a moment, and listen as a land begins to speak. Here, Dong Thap is not merely a place of lotus fragrance and drifting storks, but a place where people are learning to retell their home in the language of artificial intelligence (AI). It is a quiet story. Yet within it lies a larger question: How can identity be not only preserved, but carried far—reaching hearts that have never once arrived?
In a land where ponds meet the river and the river meets the sea, a shrimp begins to wonder where it truly comes from. This quiet fable invites readers to reflect on the roots of an industry—and the fragile balance between prosperity, responsibility, and the living waters that sustain it.
