Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

In Xuân Diệu's Tender Poetry, a Reminder to Love Honestly and Courageously

2026-06-12T10:00:00+07:00

“Tenderly, fondly, Xuân Diệu held on to my wrist, caressing it up and down. Our eyes locked in affection…Xuân Diệu loved me.”

This emotive sentence is an excerpt from writer Tô Hoài’s memoir Cát Bụi Chân Ai, published in 1992. Most well-known for the children’s book Diary of a Cricket, Hoài is one of Vietnam’s most prolific writers, with over 100 literary works in a range of genres. During the First Indochina War, Tô Hoài and Xuân Diệu were stationed in the remote border areas, where they formed a close bond that might have blossomed into something more, according to Hoài’s recollection in the memoir.

Xuân Diệu.

Across modern history, there are accounts and written records that show Tô Hoài wasn’t Xuân Diệu’s only romantic interest. He also has a relationship with poet Hoàng Cát. Through his tender stanzas, Diệu has professed his love for a number of male contemporaries, despite homosexuality being deemed a deviant illness by much of society at the time. Perhaps that’s a major factor why his poetry is drenched in longing and a hopeless sense of loneliness.

It has been almost four decades since Xuân Diệu passed away, and we can only learn of his life and relationships via poems and anecdotes. A significant portion of Xuân Diệu’s oeuvre belongs to the love poetry genre, so it’s natural that the fragments we can now glean from his life might help soothe a new generation of Vietnamese experiencing love the same way Diệu once did.

The king of love poetry

Ngô Xuân Diệu was born in 1916 in Bình Định. His literary talent flourished early. When he was 21 years old, he became the youngest member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn, or the Self-Reliant Literary Group in English, a collective of distinguished writers in the mid-20^th century. Diệu was introduced to the public by earlier member Thế Lữ as a “wunderkind” with “a radiant and ardent soul living in gentle yet sensual, passionate yet impulsive verses.”

Xuân Diệu is the only member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn who was honored with a street in Vietnam. Photos by Linh Phạm.

And what did that “radiant soul” imbue in his poetry? According to Associate Professor Trần Văn Toàn of the Modern Vietnam Literature department at the Hanoi National University of Education, there is ample evidence of same-sex romance in Xuân Diệu’s poems.

Toàn explains: “For example, in the poem ‘Với bàn tay ấy’ [lit: With that hand] dedicated to Huy Cận, the couplet ‘with your hand holding mine / the pain of my days subsides’ has the sentiments of a lover’s sweet nothings. An intimate atmosphere permeates the poem.”

He also quotes a handful of other doting lines such as “On a dark night, full of clouds / a tree seeks a flower, bending down / the flower seeks the grass, while the grass / leans on the moss, night enshrouds” — as if the entire universe is in love, folding in within itself. The passion reaches a crescendo in the last two lines: “Beneath the joyous moon, my gaze still seeking / the trace of that hand within mine.”

It is widely believed that Xuân Diệu (left) and Huy Cận (right) shared something more than friendship. Later on, Huy Cận married Ngô Xuân Như (middle), Diệu's sister.

Professor Toàn shares another example of Xuân Diệu, in the poem ‘Tương tư, chiều…’ [lit: Afternoon longing…], there are lines like:

I miss your face, your shape, your sound.
I miss you, so much! Darling!

One might easily interpret this as the love profession of a heterosexual relationship, but in Xuân Diệu’s first poetry collection Thơ thơ (Poésies), this poem is positioned right before ‘Với bàn tay ấy.’ The last line of ‘Tương tư, chiều…’ seems to have a smooth connection with the first line of ‘Với bàn tay ấy’:

Darling! Come closer! Give me your hand!
— 'Tương tư, chiều...'

With your hand holding mine
— 'Với bàn tay ấy'

Toàn believes that there could be a thematic progression that reflects a same-sex subtext quite clearly. When Thơ thơ was published in 1938, Xuân Diệu was also writing Chàng với chàng, or Man and Man. Unfortunately, this collection was never published.

When Thơ thơ was published in 1938, Xuân Diệu was also writing Chàng với chàng, or Man and Man. Unfortunately, this collection was never published.

However, these traces of same-sex affection were not mentioned when Xuân Diệu was alive. They were only recognized later on after stories of the poet’s private relationships were publicized. According to Professor Toàn, this obfuscation could be explained by the societal context of the time, as for an extended period of time the mindset of Vietnamese readers was entrenched in the depths of heteronormative culture.

A view from education

Each reader can form their own interpretation when faced with literary texts, but in the context of Vietnam’s public institutions, a “standardized” viewpoint is often imposed on students. That perspective can alienate some students who might not belong to the norm.

Trần Nhật Quang, an officer in charge of the LGBTI rights program at the Institute for Studies of Society, Economics and Environment (iSEE), says of his own experience learning about Xuân Diệu in school: “When we were taught his poetry, I heard talk that Xuân Diệu might not be straight. So when my teacher went through the lesson and mentioned how Xuân Diệu was into some lady, I felt a little annoyed inside. Because I thought that it was an incorrect literary interpretation, especially rendered through the teacher’s lens of male-female heterosexuality. Everyone was taught that love is just something between a man and a woman, but to me, love is so much more than that.”

In 2018, Quang collaborated with Hà Nội Queer, a group of young people passionate about changing the public perception of the LGBTQ community in Vietnam. Quang created scripts for the project’s informative videos on Vietnam’s queer history. He explains that after he could hear more stories about his community through history including that of Xuân Diệu, that childhood frustration turns into contentment.

Xuân Diệu (right) and Huy Cận (left).

“I was very happy to learn about such episodes of history, knowing that in actuality, there are many figures in the literature syllabus or elsewhere that were not as heterosexual as the teachers were saying,” Quang recalls. “I could somehow see myself in those lessons in class because they have always referred to heterosexual love when teaching about love, so I never felt myself in those lectures, I didn’t feel that I belonged to whatever was being taught.”

Regarding the vague discussion of Xuân Diệu’s orientation in a pedagogical setting, Professor Toàn says that he could understand the teachers’ reservation in alluding to same-sex love because it still generates polarizing views in the community. But personally, Toàn actively encourages his students to research and discuss this aspect of Xuân Diệu’s life when teaching his poetry.

“When I teach, I myself do mention it [Xuân Diệu’s same-sex relationships],” he shares. “Because I think it’s a factor that will help us gain a deeper understanding into the realm of emotions encapsulated in Xuân Diệu’s poetry.”

“Moreover, this discussion will also help students learn how to behave in an environment with diversity. How we treat people who are different from us defines our culture.”

From forbidden to accepted

During Xuân Diệu’s era, homosexual relationships were marginalized, even demonized. Phạm Khánh Bình, Hà Nội Queer’s co-founder, explains: “Before, the word ‘same sex’ didn’t exist, they [homosexual people] were referred to as ái nam, ái nữ [lit: hermaphrodite]. And it’s in my understanding that people view it as something unscrupulous, deviant, debauched, or even perverted. So there’s no doubt that LGBT people back then would feel suffocated, especially when your own identity is seen as something sick, something sinful.”

In the memoir Cát Bụi Chân Ai, Tô Hoài writes that, for two nights in a row, Xuân Diệu was disciplined for fraternization. He was heavily chastised, and not a single soul, not even his friends or alleged lovers, stood up for him. Xuân Diệu didn’t deny the charges, just “said through his tears 'that’s my man love… my man love…!' At once, he couldn’t speak anymore, tears filled his eyes, but he resolutely did not make any promise to stop.”

The villa at 24 Cột Cờ (now Điện Biên Phủ street) in Hanoi where Xuân Diệu and Huy Cận used to stay.

Perhaps, living through those hardships, to Xuân Diệu, “to love, is to die a little bit inside.” But even then, he continued to love, and to spread that love in his poetry. Such self-honesty turns his story into priceless materials for people like Quang and Bình to share with their community.

“When I learned that there are queer, non-conforming people in our books, in our history, I felt represented, and I realized that Vietnam is actually very diverse,” Quang says. “And when members of our community know that somewhere in our history, there are people who were like them, those who differed from the labels out there, people will feel that they belong — it’s a time-transcending connection.”

This article was originally published in 2023.

For the Freshest Fish of the Day, Head to Hội An's Coast Before Sunrise

2026-06-10T10:00:00+07:00

The alarm goes off at 3am. By 3:30am, scooters laden with empty crates and baskets are already moving through the dark lanes and sandy passages towards Hội An's coast. Long before the old town wakes, the beaches along the shore are coming alive with engines, head torches, waves, and fishermen preparing to return to land. Thankfully, coffee is readily available almost anywhere.

A woman walks the shoreline before sunrise as fishing boats wait offshore near Hội An.

This is a different side of Hội An and its surrounding region, away from the lanterns and Instagram cafés, from the topless tourists and coconut boat rides. Here, the coastline wakes early. Boats return through rough surf, while buyers wait eagerly in the water, ready to pull the morning catch onto the sand.

Local fishermen arriving on shore and are pretty pleased about it.

Fishermen haul a coracle through heavy surf at sunrise on the coast.

The sea controls everything here. Timing is everything. Boats wait beyond the breakwaters before committing smaller coracles to the shore. Crews and buyers alike jump into the surf to steady them, rushing the catch in baskets and sacks to the shoreline.

Women await the arrival of the fishing boats from deeper waters offshore.

For photographers, that unpredictability and almost constant action is what makes mornings like these so rewarding. No two mornings are the same, and the conditions change minute by minute as the light slowly illuminates the sky before it reaches the shoreline.

Buyers rush into the water as boats arrive with the morning catch.

A woman carries the squid she has purchased to sell at market.

As daylight reaches the beach, the shoreline becomes a temporary seafood market. People crowd round and jostle for position as impromptu auctions take place. Fish are sorted directly beside the water while traders move quickly between boats, baskets, and waiting scooters. There is no performance to it. People are working against time, tide, and heat before the sun fully rises.

Local vendors crowd around the morning catch as simultaneous auctions hurriedly take place.

Crates arrive at market.

Unloading the fresh catch at the market.

One of the things I enjoy most about photographing these mornings is how connected everything feels to the people around you and the sea itself. The surf shapes the pace of the market, the movement of the boats, and the rhythm of everyone working along the shoreline. Just be ready to get into the waves. It helps. I promise.

Sardines brought ashore.

Keeping the books correct as the market begins to slow.

Further along the coast and river mouths, the morning continues as catches are unloaded and sorted before heading inland towards local markets and restaurants across the region.

Negotiations tend to ramp up in intensity as the morning gets lighter.

Ongoing negotiations over the fresh catch.

Preparing squid for transport to market.

Freshly caught sardines.

For visitors wanting to experience a more local side of Hội An, these fishing beaches offer something entirely different from the old town. The mornings are raw, fast-moving, and shaped entirely by offshore conditions.

Fishermen return to shore after a night at sea.

Pete Walls is a Hội An-based photographer. To learn more about his photography practice and tours, visit his website here.

From the Mind of 'Mekong Review' Comes ‘Yellow,’ a New Lit Mag Focused on SEA

2026-06-09T14:00:00+07:00

“Cooped up in my apartment-cage in Tân Định, I created, with scissors and glue, dummy after dummy of a cosmopolitan rag positively pumping with scandals and half-truths. I was having a lot of fun dreaming of a magazine that I would never be able to do. And buried somewhere in that detritus on the floor—advertising cutouts and newspaper clippings—was Yellow … Once I knew I had the name, the magazine more or less made itself, as though the name determined the rest, ie, form and content,” writes Minh Bui of the birth of Yellow, his “what-do-I-do-after-Mekong Review magazine.”

Mekong Review holds a special place in the hearts of many Saigoneers. Filled with insightful reportage, book reviews, photography, and a smattering of fiction and poetry, the full size newwprint magazine focused on the Mekong Region. Since its founding in 2015, it provided a platform to writers and topics that are otherwise overlooked, particularly in a large, delightfully tactical format. For a variety of reasons, it has been much harder to find new issues of the Mekong Review in Vietnam during the past few years, and Minh sold it in 2022, leaving avid supporters to wonder what he would do next. Yellow is the answer.

Minh Bui Jones opens the Mekong Review a month before the idea for Yellow. Photo by Vi Nguyen via Yellow's Substack.

Modelled on Granta and Freeman's, Yellow, which will be published twice a year, made its debut in early May. Each issue will feature fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors and emerging writers from Southeast Asia and beyond, centered around a theme as announced by each title. The first issue is “Parents.”

In the first issue’s Letter from the editor, Minh shares a heartwarming experience of finding comfort on an impromptu visit to his mom’s favorite city, and concludes: “That’s one of my ‘parent stories.’ We all have one, or more. Not all of them are happy, as some of the stories in this collection attest. But, for better or worse, as Anjan Sundaram writes, they make us who we are. Welcome to Yellow. I hope the magazine speaks for itself. And I hope it speaks to you, dear reader.”

“Parents” contains 11 stories and one photo essay with a diversity of styles, voices, and topics, as is characteristic of the literary magazine format. Best absorbed slowly, piece by piece, some stories might not connect with you while others strike a deep chord; that hodgepodge nature is one of the particular joys of the genre. Inherent in that diversity is the sense that each entry on the table of contents shimmers with the unknown, and nothing in one piece will clue you in as to what follows. In this way, reading a literary magazine is a bit like opening packages.

Saigoneer won’t spoil the experience by offering any greater detail about what awaits in stories about Indonesia’s last dugong hunters, a son who connects with his mother via old recordings of Vietnamese theatre plays, and one of the architects of Malaysia’s modern history education. Or, as Minh offered in typically self-deprecating fashion, on the journal’s Substack as “Sweet, sad and poignant stories about parents. Like I said, boring, predictable lit mag.”

More information about Yellow, including how to subscribe and find copies, is available on the journal’s website.

When Vietnamese Education Begins with Vietnamese Identity

2026-06-09T10:17:00+07:00

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School offers an approach to education where Vietnamese students can step into the wider world with an international academic foundation, flexible language capabilities, and confidence in their roots.

An “international” education has long been understood as a doorway to the world that differs from local education because of greater English fluency, a more global curriculum, and a wider range of opportunities. Many Vietnamese families today are confident about being able to enter the broader world, and now wonder what they will carry with them when they do.

An education for the future should not require Vietnamese children to choose between global integration and personal identity. Children do not need to become “less Vietnamese” in order to become global. On the contrary, the Vietnamese language, Vietnamese culture, and the values nurtured within their family can become the very foundation that helps them move forward with greater confidence in a wider world. This is the spirit that Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School pursues through an educational model that places Vietnamese children at the centre of an international learning journey.

Located in central Saigon, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is an IB World School officially authorised for the International Baccalaureate Primary Years Programme. The school is designed around a continuous learning pathway, where students develop academic capabilities, international-mindedness, and an understanding of themselves from the earliest years of learning. What makes this model distinctive is how the presence of an international curriculum benefits from its placement within the context of Vietnam today.

Through the Dual Language Approach, with Vietnamese and English represented with equal standing, students learn to ask questions, explain ideas, tell their own stories, and view the world through both languages. More than mere school subjects, Vietnamese and English are languages of thinking, inquiry, expression, and cultural connection.

This bilingual emphasis is especially important in an age where “global integration” is sometimes misunderstood as a move away from what constitutes one’s own identity. For children, their mother tongue is not only a tool for communication. It is also how they name their emotions, build relationships with family, receive culture, and form a sense of belonging.

From this foundation, the spirit of “It’s Cool to be Vietnamese” at Viet Nam Tinh Hoa is a way of looking at education: pride in identity does not stand in opposition to global thinking.

A child can love the Vietnamese language, understand Vietnamese culture, and appreciate the values of humanity, etiquette, righteousness, wisdom and integrity, while also learning in English, engaging with international ideas, approaching advanced learning methods, and preparing for an open future.

This vision is further extended through the school’s international academic connections. Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School has long-term strategic partnerships with ReGenerating Education and Harvard Project Zero, along with academic collaborations with Stanford d.school and MIT Media Lab.

More important than the names of these organizations, they reveal how new educational thinking is brought closer to Vietnamese students in Hồ Chí Minh City.

Through approaches to visible thinking and deep learning, students are encouraged to think beyond correct answers and focus on how they think, listen to multiple perspectives, and articulate their own thinking process. Through design thinking, students learn to observe problems, understand people, test ideas, and improve solutions. Through the spirit of creativity, making, and learning by doing, students engage in experiences that are closely connected to real life, technology, and a changing world. In the classroom, these approaches may begin with very specific moments, including a question raised by a student, a model created as a group, a product tested and refined, or a discussion where each child learns to express their viewpoint while still listening to others. Learning, therefore, is a communal journey of exploration, collaboration, reflection, and gradually creating value.

This approach is also why Viet Nam Tinh Hoa does not speak about “academics” in a narrow sense. The school views each child’s development as a holistic journey, where thinking, emotion, movement, creativity, language, identity, and relationships all play an important role.

Through an educational ecosystem connected with the arts, sports, mental well-being, and personalised experiences, students are seen as learners and individuals growing with their own potential, pace of development, and voice. As education in Vietnam continues to evolve, this model opens a larger question for the parent community: what does it truly mean for a child to be ready for the future?

Perhaps it is not only a child who speaks English fluently, performs well in assessments, or adapts quickly to new technology, but rather one who can think deeply, collaborate, empathise, create, ask questions in the face of uncertainty, and, just as importantly, feel confident in where they come from.

As Vietnam becomes more deeply connected with the world, schools need to help children understand where they begin, the language they use to name the world, and the values they carry with them as they enter new environments. Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is interested in examining how international education helps children stay connected to their identity, and in doing so, understand themselves more deeply as they step into the world with greater confidence. In a future that is always changing, one of the most important forms of preparation for Vietnamese children will likely be establishing the confidence to know where they are from.

To give parents the opportunity to learn more about this learning model in person, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is organising Open Day 2026 for families seeking a suitable educational pathway for their child in the 2026–2027 academic year.

At the event, parents will have the opportunity to tour the campus, meet the school team, learn more about the International Baccalaureate Primary Years Programme, the Dual Language Approach, the academic development pathway, and the experiences that support students’ holistic development at Viet Nam Tinh Hoa.

Open Day 2026
Time: 09:00 – 11:00, June 11, 2026
Location: Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School, 214 Pasteur, Xuân Hòa Ward Hồ Chí Minh City 70000
To register to attend open day fill out this form

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa - The Futures School's website

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa - The Futures School's Facebook Page

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa - The Futures School's Email

028 7109 7837

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa - The Futures School| 214 Pasteur, Xuân Hòa Ward Hồ Chí Minh City 70000

In Saigon's Bửu Long Pagoda, a Meditative Escape and Pan-Southeast Asian Architecture

2026-06-08T10:00:00+07:00

It all started with a sparkle on the horizon, a beam of solar brilliance bouncing off a garish metallic surface.

Scanning the skyline from my Biên Hòa home, I notice a golden spire glimmering in the midday sun. Could my vision be deceiving me, I wonder, forcing my eyes to focus on the distant object, or am I, in fact, looking at something completely ordinary — perhaps a feature of the industrial landscape which surrounds the city?

It can only be one thing, I conclude, after brief deliberation: a stupa, and one of ambitious proportions. The enormous bell shaped tower dominates the vista. But you don't get these in Vietnam, I recall. Thailand, Cambodia, or Myanmar, yes, but surely not here. It turns out there is one here, and I had just found it, a mere 40-minute drive from downtown Saigon.

Bửu Long Pagoda is an idiosyncratic hodgepodge of pan-Southeast Asian architecture, and the bold vision of one man — Lê Văn Giảng — a doctor, civil servant and first abbot of the sanctuary. Established in 1942, the temple complex incorporates sacral forms seldom found in Vietnam.

It is most likely Giảng's extended stay in Phnom Penh that inspired the structure's unique design. The Cambodian doctor, as he is known by the monks, is also widely believed to be responsible for the most recent reintroduction into Vietnam of Theravada Buddhism — the most ancient doctrine of the philosophy, also referred to as Southern Buddhism due to its popularity in Sri Lanka, Thailand, Laos, Burma and Myanmar.

Located in District 9 on the banks of the Đồng Nai River, the temple complex offers a tranquil getaway from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Surrounded by a thick, shady grove, the site is a perfect place to escape the chaos of Saigon, unwind, meditate, and explore the many meandering paths and contained temples.

A monastery found on the site houses ten monks and 30 nuns. They spend their days meditating, chanting and maintaining the 10-hectare property. Typically, those involved in the Buddhist monastic order will renounce meat, intoxicants and earthly possessions, in addition to vowing to remain chaste for the duration of their service.

Devotees come to the pagoda to participate in meditation sessions and chanting led by the monks. These visits are particularly important, as those living in the monastery rely on the daily food donations made by the congregation.

Tuệ Quang, a senior monk at the temple, said the pagoda is open to anyone, regardless of their background or spiritual beliefs. “Pagodas are made to be visited,” he said. “Lê Văn Giảng would not have it any other way.”

Planted in 1959, the enormous tree found behind the main temple was brought to the complex as a sapling by a Sri Lankan monk named Nanda. The tree is thought to be a direct descendant of the Bodhi Tree that once grew at the Mahabodhi Temple in India, believed to be the site of Guatama Buddha's spiritual enlightenment.

Chameleon-shaped dragon heads are among the many foreign elements incorporated into the temple's design. Others include intricately patterned metal features, ubiquitous dharma wheels and, of course, the characteristic gilded towers.

I was told the peaceful atmosphere found at Bửu Long Pagoda is the result of two main factors: the temple's cool, shaded location, and the energy produced by its resident monks during chanting and meditation.

The lush greenery which surrounds the temple complex is particularly striking during the wet season, when daily precipitation fuels plant growth and floral blooms, attracting a multitude of colorful butterflies to the area.

A visit to the area would not be complete without taking a short ferry trip to the nearby Phước Long Temple, located on an island on the Đồng Nai River.

The short ferry ride provides spectacular views of the stupa, framed by the rapidly industrializing banks of the Đồng Nai River.

The gaudy, traditionally Vietnamese Phước Long temple complex, filled with Chinese influences and various deities derived from local folklore, offers a stark contrast to the relatively austere interiors of the buildings found at Bửu Long, where only the Buddha is venerated.

Packed with stalls selling a multitude of offerings, the island is a popular pilgrimage destination for the region's devotees.

The island's vendors sell souvenirs, jewelry and talismans, which can be injected with additional powers through a monk's blessing.

A fortuneteller offers her powers of foresight. Unfortunately, even genuine clairvoyance isn't able to bypass the language barrier, and my fate remains a mystery.

Before leaving the island I'm talked into buying a cage filled with house sparrows — the act of expressing mercy by releasing captive animals is a common practice throughout Asia. Mere minutes later, walking back to the ferry, I slip in a puddle of primordial slime, bruising my tailbone and scraping my ankle — blood and parasitic sludge mixing before my eyes. I'm not sure I buy the whole karma thing.

This article was originally published in 2018.

On Reading Ocean Vuong and Thinking About the Sniff Kisses of My Family

2026-06-07T21:00:00+07:00

Having always been a little brother, I had to learn to be a big one when I was 10 years old. In the midst of the confusion of this new role, I found myself pressing my nose to this newborn’s head and inhaling as hard as I could. This “sniff kiss” was not an action I invented. Rather, it was an instinct forged through mimicry: I started noticing from this point that my father and grandmother both did the same thing to me.

As a kid from the diaspora, I lost myself in thoughts over one poem I could relate to within my deepest senses. It's written by renowned Vietnamese-American poet Ocean Vuong, titled ‘Kissing in Vietnamese.’ I felt for the first time that there might be something bigger than me behind this peculiar habit that I thought was idiosyncratic. Vuong shares his experience with those sniff kisses, which he contrasts with western ones and their flashier display of affection. But this modesty makes the intimacy not less intense, as described in this part of the poem:

“When my grandmother kisses, there would be
no flashy smooching, no western music
of pursed lips, she kisses as if to breathe
you inside her, nose pressed to cheek
so that your scent is relearned”

In researching my heritage to get to root of this habit, I have found that those kisses seem to be typical of Vietnamese people, anchored in the culture. Another aspect of the kiss that is shown here is that it’s usually done by family elders. There are similar customs in many Southeast Asia, according to a study that uses lexical semantic typology through “smell/kiss colexification” to demonstrate that the practice is unique to this region. It actually was a culture shock for European colonizers when they came to Southeast Asia, and many mentioned the quirk in their writings.

The entry for “hôn” (kissing) in the Annamite-French dictionary by Jean Bonet (1899). The description reads: “The olfactory kiss (by inhaling strongly through the nostrils as the Annamites do).”

For me it was never really about my cultural background; rather, it was a vital tool to feel and express affection in my own way. My feelings for it were straightforward: I liked the purity of inhaling the scent of my loved ones, as a way to sense them over and over. At the same time, as Vuong captures in his poem, the kiss could be fierce, born from an endless worry for those dearest to me that can only be soothed by this reassurance of life.

The sniff kiss had become so visceral for me that its cultural implication wasn't clear to me for a long time. It turned into a blurry concept in my mind, midway between an expression of love and a physical scent. The eccentricity of the quirk convinced me it was something my family and I made up, regardless of any country’s traditions. Even now, each time I tilt my head towards my grandmother, so she can sniff my forehead, I am reminded that in all of us there are dormant customs whose existence is beyond us.

Lê Phổ, ‘La Maternité,’ circa 1940s.

It is up to us to uncover these hidden parts of our heritage by noticing that, be it over time or from a significant event, it is actually an inherited behavior. It might be hard, or even futile, but I find it beautiful that through an autoethnographic process, we can dig out an ancestral link from within each of us about how we love.

“My grandmother kisses as if history
never ended, as if somewhere
a body is still
falling apart.”

Meet Th.ink Room, the Tattoo Collective Bringing New Life to Old Artworks and Onto Skin

2026-06-07T10:00:00+07:00

Tattoo Therapist, dr.99hz, cd.cadao, goc.viet, Solarist and Baby Nepotism: listing the artists that call Th.ink Room home feels like shouting out the members of a rap clique. Indeed, tattoo artists, more than any other visual artists, are akin to rappers in their use of pseudonyms, so to employ a common hip-hop refrain, Saigoneer became interested in Th.ink Room because “game recognize game.”

Like Saigoneer, the studio, or “art hub for art lovers from all over the world” as they describe it, is dedicated to gathering inspiration from Vietnamese architecture, design motifs, flora, fauna, and history; preserving traditional artwork; telling stories about and through niche passions and forefronting creative expression, united by, as Phi (@tattoo.therapist) puts it, “the ethos of an ever-curious observer, and an ever-diligent maker.”

For such a permanent end result, tattooing too frequently involves an impulsive or careless process and experience. Phi founded Th.ink Room in 2023 to actively work against both, emphasizing, “we care about the whole experience, starting from your connection to the tattoo you are getting and its origins to your artist to how you feel after you leave.”

Phi (tattoo.therapist) and their designs.

I experienced the studio’s thoughtful approach first-hand last year after seeking out Phi’s detailed black line work. Having grown up in Russia, they were heavily influenced by Europe's golden age of illustration (circa 1880s–1930s). With that inspiration in mind, they developed their signature style while studying art in the UK, but upon graduation, they encountered a market that had little interest in it; clients had moved from print books to websites and wanted color and full images without backgrounds and/or animation. Fortuitously timed requests from friends for tattoo designs introduced the possibility of becoming a tattoo artist.

Golden age of illustration examples: ‘Then There Came a Wind So Strong that it Blew Off Curdken's Hat’ by Jennie Harbour (left) and ‘Reigning Death’ by Robert Montenegro (right).

During that visit, Phi explained the carefully curated design of the District 1 space. Situated in a classic, low-slung residential block partially repurposed for commercial use, the lobby’s raw clay color calls to mind pottery and the shaping of inspiration into tactile ideas. Clients then proceed to the stark red interior room, where those ideas are metaphorically fired and become permanent. The back garden — where artists and clients hang out before, during, and after sessions — meanwhile, embodies the calm and welcoming vibe that transcends the space. Tattoo artists, with their impressive talent in an art form that, despite increasing mainstream acceptance, continues to carry a hint of rebellion or danger, can be intimidating, but everyone at Th.ink Room is a sweetheart, which contributes to an effortlessly relaxed vibe.

The Th.ink Room lobby and studio space.

So much work; that's Vietnam

A man catching a dragonfly in a tree, a physician checking for a pulse, a hand-pulled wedding procession, a rural notice-board demanding “commit no nuisance,” and 15 types of shoes: these are amongst the thousands of woodblock images produced by 19^th-century French ethnographer Henri Oger and his local team. Saigoneer had written about the work several years ago and recently noticed selected images appearing on Th.ink Room’s Instagram page as available tattoos.

Original Henri Oger images (top) and Vũ's (@goc.viet) tattoo designs (bottom).

“This is what started it all. I really liked it and was like, who did this?” Phi noted while showing some Oger illustrations that they had come across in an artwork anthology. Inspired to find more, they sought out a tattered copy of his work at a local book shop. “Actually, I nerd it out so hard on this,” Phi said while flipping through illustrations. “Look at that guy, he's wonderful!” they continued while pointing to one of the images and explaining how the single slim volume contained hundreds of illustrations and thus inspiration “So much work; this is just Vietnam,” they concluded.

Some of the books kept at Th.ink Room.

While online resources help the Th.ink Room team explore their interests and sources of inspiration that range far beyond Vietnam, when it comes to local topics, antique shops have been a part of their process since the beginning. “We used to drive Trần Nhân Tôn Street, which is an antique street, and they have books there as well. We'd look through things that we thought would make good tattoos, and it sort of became a tradition,” Phi explained of early field trips with Trung (@dr.99hz).

Designs and final work by Trung (@dr.99hz).

Those books now get handed over to Vũ (@goc.viet), a young artist whom Phi had mentored at the studio. “I have materials available from books, and I take designs out of them to make tattoos. I research the contexts: which time period they belong to and how the characters are drawn,” Vũ explained of the works he makes and shares on the Instagram account goc.viet, a name that he explained as “here ‘goc’ means both ‘perspective/corner’ and ‘roots/origin,’ so that people will know who we are — we are people born here and we are Vietnamese. And most of the designs I explore are from within Vietnam, even just a certain corner of Vietnam is fine.”

Vũ at work.

Works by Oger and his team, those collected by Nguyễn Thị Thu Hòa, various unfortunately uncredited drawings, such as ones in the margins of revolutionary South Vietnam: the Struggle newspapers from the 1960s and 1970s, or classic Đông Hồ prints — all require alterations to become suitable tattoo designs. Because of their age and printing methods, details are often lost, so Vũ needs to research the image’s purpose, background, and the conventions of the time it was produced to fill in details such as facial expressions and hand positions while making adjustments for line widths to suit the tattoo medium. Within the laborious examination of what to adjust and how, there is also room to include some personal touches. For example, I had requested a portion of the classic Thầy Đồ Cóc (toad teacher) đông hồ and Vũ adjusted its skin texture while Phi advocated for it to have a bigger butt and more impressive steam coming off the tea kettle. Comparing the original and the finished tattoo makes the final product feel like both a matter of preservation and a conversation between artists across time.

Example of full Thầy Đồ Cóc đông hồ and Vũ's completed tattoo.

More than simply creating works that he hopes will attract customers, Vũ’s recycling of past artists is a matter of pride. “I am Vietnamese, so when I see those images, they remind me of the things my grandparents or parents told me — things I had only heard about before. But today, seeing them in these books, I find them very interesting, yet no one had [made tattoos from them] before. This style of imagery has also been around for a very long time, but no one has developed it further; people just let it be forgotten. Over time, I want to convey it and let everyone know more about the activities of Vietnamese people in the past; these are things that will remain and continue to exist.”

Vũ's designs based on collected đông hồ illustrations.

In addition to his goc.viet account, Vũ operates the vznary account where he posts original artwork that shares some resemblance to his archival pieces but also allows him to explore other impulses. Th.ink Room considers it important to differentiate between tattoo artists (nghệ sĩ xăm) who design original pieces and tattoo technicians (thợ xăm) who execute already existent designs, while emphasizing that one is not better or more valuable than the other, and they both require mastery of different, difficult skills.

Sample issue of South Vietnam in Struggle newspaper (left) and Vũ's tattoo designs based on the periodical (right).

When using outside images, technicians must be extremely careful, though. Phi has noticed that many in Vietnam and abroad are eager to follow trends and fads and will thus steal ideas and exact designs from living artists who are still around and able to make a living from creations that are incontestably theirs. Not only is such behavior unethical, it's also unneeded. “Here lies an enormous, beautiful graveyard of past illustrators and printmakers whose work is brilliant but lost. Many of these can be reworked into tattoos as a humble nod to our past masters, giving them a second life in a world that is getting further and further away from print,” they conclude. In such instances, the Th.ink Room team makes every effort to provide citations, including source, date, and artist when possible, that they include on their Instagram and share with the clients along with assurance they will never repeat the design on anyone else. Of course, this material cannot be included in the tattoo itself, and thus it’s up to each individual to share the story behind their ink.

Finding inspiration for styles vast yet distinct

Ngọc feeds goats, the team hangs out in the zoo, Vũ holds a flower, and Trang imitates a statue in Tao Đàn Park.

Fostering warm, memorable experiences, a core mission of Th.ink Room, requires members of the team to genuinely like and appreciate one another, a truth attested to by how frequently they gather outside of the studio. “We spend days together,” Phi said of their routine field trips. “We sit in the same space, but are drawn to different things in those spaces and the different textures.”

Examples of photos the team sends one another.

In addition to these trips to the park, the zoo, interesting buildings, and corners of the city with particular energies, they are frequently sending photos and links to one another, serving as “each other's eyes.” Animals, ducks, and dogs get sent to Trung; prints and illustrations on vases or ceramics go to Vũ; and Vietnamese architectural elements, patterns, and motifs go to Trang (@cd.cadao).

Trang at work.

“At first, [my style] stemmed from the fact that I just liked ethnic patterns because I spent some time going to the highlands and saw the people there embroidering very beautiful patterns on their clothing. Later on, as I worked and learned about the meaning of these patterns and about the different ethnic groups, I found it very interesting, and I could learn a lot more about the culture, and about the specific techniques,” explained Trang of her handpoke designs. Her method of engaging with past artwork is less one of ethnographic preservation and more a matter of finding inspiration. Ethnic minority embroideries and motifs mingle with organic elements, typography and architecture to become wholly original works. “I draw inspiration from everything — I could listen to a song, read a poem, or read a newspaper… Then it comes along with my memories, my emotions, my own thoughts, and inadvertently, it becomes relatable to everyone.”

Able to offer explanations and academic sources for many of her influences, Trang creates work that is, according to Phi, “very well researched; she can speak about it in a lot of detail.” Of course, no one needs to know the context, details and story behind an image to appreciate it, let alone permanently put it on one’s body, but Th.ink Room believes there is intrinsic value in knowing more. It’s a matter of curiosity about the world. “I don't think there's anything wrong with not being curious, but I think it just makes things better; you just end up learning more,” Phi explained.

Trang's (@cd.cadao) flash designs surrounded by finished pieces.

One of Saigoneer’s illustrators can surely speak on the story behind the tattoo she got from Trang, having selected one based on our logo, which was meticulously scouted before being selected several years ago. And while currently Saigoneer only boasts three tattoos from Th.ink Room artists, there is a trend amongst clients for more. As Vy (@babynepotism) explained, some regular guests have gotten work from each Th.ink Room artist and many that come for guest residencies. Members of the team have also begun experimenting with collaboration on single works. The first piece Vy had done, for example, involves Trang’s patterns and vegetation alongside Trung’s butterflies and bees. Meanwhile, Vũ and Ngọc have begun collaborating on ideas that combine his archival pieces with her coloring.

Vy's collaborative tattoo from Trang and Trung (left) and a collaborative design from Vu and Ngọc (right).

This collaborative ethos extends to Th.ink Room’s lobby, where, alongside the collection of archival texts and various books and zines, are products from local creators for sale. Dyed fabrics, buttons, prints, and photos, as well as random items that members of Th.ink Room make, are available, as well as pro-Palestine fundraiser pieces. The eclectic shop space reflects Th.ink Room’s desire not to be seen as only a tattoo studio, which is underscored by its name. While it includes “ink” it doesn’t explicitly say “tattoo,” and the large Thinker statue at the entrance suggests a different way to interpret it. Such versatility coincides with the space hosting art, music, and community events.

The Th.ink Room team.

Th.ink Room’s perspective on art, originality, and creativity seems particularly relevant today when AI is upending not just how artists make money, but society’s relationship with creativity in general. It seems to me that too many people are eager to outsource their creativity to computers that gobble up sources for commodification while individuals abandon the curiosity that compelled them to make or appreciate art in the first place. While Phi may have concerns about AI, they are not worried about creativity. “Our collective culture is unimaginably rich. I do not personally believe that creativity is dead or ever will be; you can see how vast yet distinct it has always been, by looking back.”

How Saigon's V.A.R Building Epitomizes Vietnam's Architectural Autonomy

2026-06-05T12:00:00+07:00

Completed in 1973, the V.A.R building at 9 Nguyễn Công Trứ Street in Nguyễn Thái Binh Ward, District 1, is a prominent example of Vietnamese mid-20^th-century modernist architecture designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm. It not only represents the Vietnamese architectural identity in post-colonial eras, but also exemplifies its cultural autonomy.

Following colonization, Vietnam gradually developed a unique architecture style reflective of its culture: a version of modernism that contained specifically Vietnamese traits emerging to take over traditional architecture styles. Lê Văn Lắm was one of the architects that set up the foundations for the movement. He played an important role in tropicalizing modernist architecture to fit the hot and humid climate of Vietnam.

Along with other giants like Trần Văn Tải, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Huỳnh Kim Mãng, and Ngô Viết Thụ, Lê Văn Lắm specialized in the double-skin techniques found in Vietnamese modernist architecture. His buildings — including the headquarters of the Voice of HCMC broadcast station on Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm Street and the Library of General Science on Lý Tự Trọng Street, on which he worked as an adviser — all show substantial and excellent use of double-skin techniques. Yet the most interesting and the most intricate of Lắm's portfolio is still the "moving" double-skin of the V.A.R building at the junction between Hồ Tùng Mậu and Nguyễn Công Trứ Street.

This building deserves acknowledgement alongside the former Indochina Bank, the Independence Palace, Notre-Dame Cathedral and Bến Thành Market as Saigon’s most iconic structures. Even though the double-skin front demanded a lot of space on the modest-sized plot, Lê Văn Lắm chose to use it for its microclimate function. The building thus serves as a great example of tropical modernist architecture despite being in a crowded urban setting.

The building’s double skin, created for its function, has become its defining feature. The entire surface of the facade is covered by a reinforced concrete curtain made of an assemblage of layered parts.

An approximately one-meter-wide buffer zone consists of curved edge-beams suspended over overhanging beams. They are vertically braced together all across the floors via a row of thin concrete bars spread across the facade. The surface between this assemblage of horizontal beams and vertical braces is where the incredible happens.

While some other examples of double-skin exteriors consist of a brise-soleil wall multiplied over the facade, the double skin of the V.A.R building was entirely made of reinforced concrete. The texture of this doubled skin was created by a "fabric" of very thin horizontal and vertical concrete bars weaved into one another in a rhythmic pattern. The result is an illusion of rigid elements being able to move.

This makes the V.A.R building an excellent experiment in both structure and sculpture. It reveals how Lê Văn Lắm investigated the ways rhymes, contrast, and depth come together to create a three-dimensional object. With light, structure, and shadow, he crafted a building that subconsciously responds to sensory dialogues.

V.A.R's poeticism is also seen in the typical palette of finishing materials, including đá rửa (washed rock), slated stones, and mosaic tiles. The ingenious ensemble evokes a harmonious intensity via the contrasts and slight shifts in colors, textures, or the graininess of the materials. These materials, however, were not applied spontaneously. They were chosen and applied depending on aesthetic characteristics and structural roles in response to climactic situations. Yet, they still come together harmoniously to form a consistent architectural personality.

The palette of finishing materials, including đá rửa (washed rock), slated stones, and mosaic tiles is a harmonious combination.

The V.A.R building was built towards the end of the mid-20^th-century modernist architecture movement in Vietnam, and thus retained style elements developed in the previous two decades. It includes abstractization while remaining excellent both technically and artistically. The V.A.R building, therefore, is an shining example of technology meeting art.

In Vietnamese architectural history, modernist architecture is the direct descendant of local traditional architecture. Traditional architecture was handed over to the modernists who retained links between humans and their territory through time. These links result in a special sense of roughness, a sense of suspension, a rhythmic intensity, and a unique equilibrium that dictated how shades are poured and how layers of building parts are tastefully intertwined for human activities. It is a testament to the cultural lifeblood that keeps flowing even in the face of historical turbulence.

The double skin of the V.A.R building is a testament to how its creator was mindful of the local tropical climate in design.

Vietnamese mid-century modernist architecture fits perfectly in the discourses with the functionalism of global modernism. The V.A.R building responds to pragmatic needs including climactic concerns that did not exist at the site of other modernist structures. It was not simply a "machine to live in,” but rather a humane machine that connects to inhabitants via proportions and intuition that created the so-called "Vietnamese-ness" in mid-20^th-century modernist architecture.

Vietnamese modernist architecture was executed very differently than its counterparts around the world. The institutional buildings, modernist villas, shophouses, and modernist rural houses share a mutual spirituality about the way humans and architecture interact. Vietnamese modernist architecture in the mid 20^th century, unlike that in other centers of global modernism, relied on traditional craftsmanship. And the V.A.R building by Lê Văn Lắm is one of the most concentrated expressions of the unaffected identity manifested during this transformation of Vietnamese culture.

This article was originally published in 2021.

A (Literally) Brief History of Vietnamese Representation in 'Mean Girls' (2004)

2026-06-05T11:00:00+07:00

Written by Saturday Night Live alum Tina Fey and premiered in 2004, Mean Girls is often heralded as a sharp, self-aware comedy that was ahead of its time, yet still holds up surprisingly well today. Alas, its depiction of Asians has aged a little more poorly, even though at the time of its release, the Asian representation was shockingly accurate for its time, despite some haphazard characterizations.

In Mean Girls, a previously home-schooled Cady Heron was plopped back into an American high school after 12 years in Africa. The film follows her fish-out-of-water experiences as she learns how to navigate the complex politics and shenanigans of high school.

For Vietnamese kids with limited exposure to American culture like me, this premise was incredibly helpful because we were all Cadys ourselves: all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed to explore American school culture.

During lunch, Cady is introduced to the geopolitical map of the school canteen, where cliques are divided into different tables like world sovereigns. Amongst the Plastics, Unfriendly Black Hotties, and Sexually Active Band Geeks is the Cool Asians, spearheaded by its leader Trang Pak and deputy Sun Jin Dinh.

Trang Pak (Ky Pham) in red tank top and Sun Jin Dinh (Danielle Nguyen) in black shirt with pink letters.

This is where Mean Girls first failed its Asians: while both characters are Vietnamese, their names are a hodgepodge of Vietnamese and Korean names. I have to give the casting credits for hiring actual Vietnamese to play them, however: Ky Pham plays Trang Pak and Danielle Nguyen plays Sun Jin Dinh.

Trang Pak caught making out with Coach Carr.

Later in the film, we discover that the rumor that Trang made out with Coach Carr is, in fact, true and he was grooming her. I have mixed feelings. Nonetheless, the film’s top Vietnamese representation comes later, during a group therapy session in the gym where the girls are encouraged to have a heart-to-heart to make peace.

Trang Pak: Tại sao mày giành các anh của tao quài dzậy? (Why do you keep stealing my men?)
Sun Jun Dinh: Mày chỉ có ghen vì mấy thằng con trai thích tao nhiều hơn thôi (You’re just jealous because they like me more.)
Trang Pak: Làm ơn đi mày, hông dám đâu? (Please, don’t even.)

This obviously failed the Bechdel Test, but I found it delightful that the lines were delivered in Vietnamese, and fairly decipherable Vietnamese at that. I suspect the actresses improvised the lines themselves, because Tina Fey cannot be trusted with writing for non-white characters.

However, this is where Mean Girls failed its Asian the second time: Trang’s second line was mistranslated in the subtitle as “N****, please,” making her look like a racist for no reason.

A Visit to Lê Minh Xuân, a Rare Craft Village Making Incense Sticks Amid Saigon

2026-06-03T15:00:00+07:00

From inside the workshop, artisans carry bundle after bundle of freshly made incense sticks into the courtyard amid the morning mist. A gentle scent of spices linger in the air.

At Lê Minh Xuân incense village

Despite its well-known moniker, this neighborhood where many incense makers congregate is not a village, but Lê Minh Xuân Commune of Bình Chánh District, Saigon. Here, the marks of urbanization are etched into every corner: a mishmash of old and new corrugated roof pieces is strewn across the canopy, forming distinctive patches.

Minh Phước incense workshop.

Having been here for nearly 50 years, Nguyễn Cát Bội Thúy, owner of the Minh Phước incense workshop, has witnessed the location experience ups and downs. She reminisces: “Before, the surrounding areas were all empty land. Then thatched huts started showing up. Long after that, life got better and the people got some help from the local commune authorities to construct corrugated roof homes like today.”

Thúy and her workshop have been keeping the traditional incense-making craft alive while creating a way to make a living for many underprivileged households here. Knowing first-hand the struggles of being stuck in instability, she fully understands the circumstances that lead people to this place.

Nguyễn Cát Bội Thúy.

A typical workday of an incense maker starts at 6am and ends at 6pm. “I think making incense sticks is not that difficult; I only needed one day to familiarize myself with all the steps,” a young worker in her early 20s tells me nonchalantly.

A workday starts at 6am.

Thúy sits down with me to explain how to make joss sticks; her dye-stained hands move animatedly with every description. There are four main ingredients for each stick: sticking agent, bamboo sticks, coating powder, and dyes. Each hails from a different place in Vietnam: the glue is from Gia Lai, while the toothpick-thin bamboo sticks are shipped from Hanoi.

“We can’t manufacture every single ingredient, because each region is specialized in one thing, each step is handled by a different worker. Take the bamboo sticks, for example. It might look simple, but if you’re not careful, they will break.”

Each worker handles a step.

Throughout decades in business, the incense-making process is still pretty much the same; any newcomer can learn the craft and handle any step of the way. First, the bamboo sticks are dyed red outside the house. Each 1,000-stick batch is soaked in a rectangular bath filled with red dye for five minutes, and then dried separately in the sun in the courtyard. The excess dye is reused for the next batch.

The sticks are soeaked in dye.

Just five minutes and the original yellow sticks have turned into that recognizable shade of scarlet while lying in the sun, so the colorant becomes baked in.

The sticks are dried in the sun.

Then, workers bring the sticks into a rolling machine, where the incense powder is evenly coated onto about two-thirds of the stick length. Once that’s done, wet incense sticks are dehydrated for 12 hours. Lastly, fully dried sticks are packaged in front of the house.

Rolling the incense.

A standard incense stick should have a smooth, crack-free surface. Every stick should be of the same length and, once lit, should burn seamlessly from top to toe in one go. Thúy tells me that she feels a sense of pride and assurance whenever she lights up a stick she’s made herself. It’s how she sends goodwill and well-wishing to the ancestors on the altar.

Drying the sticks.

Memories of hand-shaped incense and the forgotten counting machine

Before the advent of machinery, the most labor-intensive step in incense-making was rolling each stick by hand. Artisans used a plank to roll the powder onto the bamboo sticks. However, a “technological breakthrough” arrived in the incense community, not from engineering schools, but from the… scrapyard. A waste collector got his hands on a discarded currency-counting machine, one often seen in banks, and tinkered with it to produce the first prototype of an incense-rolling machine. Thanks to his invention, the process became more efficient: before, amongst 1,000 incense sticks made by hand, about 800 were not up to commercial standard; the figure is just 80 when rolled using the machine.

Rolling the sticks.

Nonetheless, with technological advancements also came concerns over rising operating costs and risks of machine failures. Amid the constant clanking of the rolling machine throughout the day, workers now take on new tasks as part-time mechanics who have to both oversee their production step and “babysit” the machine to maintain work safety.

In any incense workshop, there are workers of all ages. From older adults with salt-and-pepper hair and curved backs to barely grown-up young people who couldn’t finish their K-12 education. They come from everywhere: some grew up right next door, while others migrated to the city from the Mekong Delta.

Người làm nghề nhang đến từ nhiều hoàn cảnh khác nhau.

Thúy tells me that her personnel is constantly changing. The most successful ones work for a few years and leave to form their own workshop, expanding the reach of the incense village. Some just quit altogether and move elsewhere to find other work.

Similarly, bundles of incense sticks leave the workshop and head towards a fate of their own. Most are shipped to the Chợ Lớn Bus Station, following each bus to every region in Vietnam, from rural to urban. And finally, when they are lit up on an altar of a cozy home, they would fulfill the ultimate honor of their existence — being a bridge between our reality and our historic roots.

The seasons of uncertainty about the future

In the minds of many, the COVID-19 pandemic might be a story of half a decade ago, but to many traditional craftspeople, its ripples could still be felt today. The economy is unstable and challenging, and ingredient costs have been on an upward trajectory. Consumers favor cheaper alternatives of questionable quality, so traditional makers are gradually losing out.

A last coat of colorant is applied.

For years, the peak season for incense production often falls on the month before Tết and the Hungry Ghost Festival, but these days, even those festive periods are less lively. Even though those days are gone, incense makers can’t bear to leave their craft, yet. “I’ve been in this trade for so long. It does make me sad, but what can we do? I just keep working and hoping that perhaps one day it will stabilize.” Thúy places her hope on the next generation, who has the IT know-how to take incense sticks onto internet platforms instead of just relying on regional buses and festive seasons.

Bundles of final products are ready for shipping.

Behind each lit incense stick is a prayer from descendants to their ancestors and an expression of the rich spiritual customs of Vietnamese, established and maintained through generations. Beyond that, incense sticks also encapsulate the story of their makers, people from all walks of life trying to make a living on a traditional craft that’s entering a time of modern uncertainties.

Cà Rem Cây, Kem Chuối and the Frozen Tickets to Our Childhood

2026-06-01T10:00:00+07:00

Sometimes, when I hear the distant sound of a tinkling bell, fond memories of summer days from my wonder years come flooding back to me.

Like many children who grew up in the city, I greeted the summers of my childhood with a sense of dread and boredom. The relentless extension of the urban sprawl had robbed us of the joy of flying kites in a field, or splashing in a cool pond. Instead, we endured the scorching heat in our concrete cocoon, our little bodies drenched in sweat if we dared venture outside to play. When it was high noon, our alleyway fell quiet and deserted, everyone sought refuge indoors to escape the punishing sun.

Kem ốc quế (ice cream cones).

Amidst that stifling atmosphere, the only sound that could break the silence was the gentle, rhythmic ringing of a bell. My eyes, momentarily drooped due to midday drowsiness, would suddenly open wide. My ears would strain to locate the source of the sound and I would quickly slip on my flip-flops and scurry along the sizzling asphalt road to follow the fading echo. Slowing down to a complete stop at a corner of the alley, an old motorbike stood, resting on its seat was a metal freezer box.

"Ice cream...here comes ice cream!" — the driver, a man whom I would later only know as “the ice cream uncle,” belted enthusiastically, bringing out all the children in the neighborhood. In my memory, the ice cream uncle was a hot-season version of Santa Claus — he was not plump, jolly-looking, nor bearded. Rather, the uncle was a scrawny and tan-skinned figure, his complexion darkened from hustling under the sun all day long. But calling him Santa Claus wouldn't be entirely inaccurate, as every time he came, he brought with him joyful and refreshing treats to share with us.

Kem đá bào (Shaved ice with syrup).

From the icebox at the back of his carriage, the uncle scooped out small balls of ice cream, placed them on crumbly waffle cones, and sprinkled some crushed peanuts and Ông Thọ condensed milk on top. There was even a house special, where three ice cream scoops were rolled into a sweet bread roll, priced at only VND2,000–5,000. In the hot Saigon noontime, a bite into these frozen sorbets felt like being transported to a distant oasis, where gentle breezes and calm blue lakes and seas awaited us urban-bound children.

Those were the years when I was in elementary school. I would pocket every bit of loose change around the house just to experience that fleeting moment of coolness and sweetness. On days when I couldn't manage to scrape together any money, I would stand by the door, peering for a long time until the shadow of the vehicle disappeared and the tinkling sound faded away, as if summer had left me behind.

By today's standards, my childhood treat is not considered fancy or even exceptionally delicious. The texture is airy rather than creamy, and as it is mostly made of ice, it melts more quickly than one could have enjoyed. The flavors were simple — strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, and if one was really lucky, taro or coconut. Sometimes, the only difference was in appearance, as they most probably all used the same flavoring agents. Food safety was also not ideal back in the day, so unexpected bowel movements were always a likelihood, a cautionary tale that the media would often warn children about to deter consumption.

Kem ống/kem que (popsicles).

The Vietnamese word for ice cream, kem (or cà rem in the Southern dialect) originated from the French word “crème” as the dish was introduced to Vietnam during the French colonial period. Crème refers to creme fraiche or fresh cream, an essential ingredient for making a true gelato as the west would define it.

Kem ốc quế, the version that I indulged in as a child, however, only constituted powdered milk and sweetener, thus lacking the rich and creamy flavor its western counterpart possessed. It was an adaptation by Vietnamese society in a period of economic hardships after Đổi Mới. Fresh milk and pure cream were still considered luxury items, and their preservation was costly. Thanks to simple, makeshift freezer boxes, children from working or middle-class families like mine could still taste the flavors of summer.

Kem bòn bon (ice pop).

I came to realize that our subsequent summers were filled with many “ice cream-like but not actually ice cream” treats similar to this. They arrived on bicycles and motorcycles, carried by tan-skinned Santas, characterized by the tinkling sound of bells, or even accompanied by a loud pre-recorded announcement from blaring speakers.

A favorite of mine was a dessert called xi rô đá bào. The vendor, with a cloth in hand, would hold a large block of ice and scrape thin ice shavings onto a cup. Colorful syrups and condensed milk were drizzled over the ice to create a sweet and fancy flavor. To add a touch of sourness, slices of fruits like oranges or limes could be sprinkled on top. The syrup, stored in a green glass container without a label, was a good indicator that it was a reliable, authentic xi rô đá bào cart.

Frozen yogurt.

Kem ống emerged as an upgrade from kem ốc quế, featuring a wider variety of flavors like mung bean, black bean, or jackfruit. In a stainless steel container, each ice cream stick was placed in a long, pointed iron tube. The pre-mixed powdered milk was poured into the tubes, which were then shaken, rotated, and sealed. Inside the container were large trays of ice covered with salt to ensure maximum coldness. After a few minutes, the liquid had frozen, and each ice cream stick emitted a plume of smoke when placed in my hand.

Later on, as household appliances became more affordable, even the neighbors in my community could participate in the homemade ice cream industry. I no longer had to wait for the tinkling sound of bells at the end of the alley. I could simply visit the local tạp hóa whenever I craved bòn bon, ya-ua, or kem chuối.

Bòn bon was made with fruit-flavored syrup poured into plastic tubes, while ya-ua was frozen in pouches, and kem chuối was a mixture of coconut milk, condensed milk, and mashed plantains. My joy during summer days revolved around standing in front of the freezer section, feeling lightheaded from the cool air, and carefully selecting the largest ice cream bars or pouches, just like how my mother picked vegetables at the market.

Kem chuối (banana pops).

I have since grown up and ventured far from the old alley. The sound of bells rarely echoes in the city, and I don't know where to find many of the old-fashioned ice cream flavors anymore. Rapid economic development has allowed people to enjoy ice cream made from actual dairy and fruits, of various flavors and origins. On a scorching summer day, I can treat myself to an organic Italian gelato, an avocado frozen treat from Đà Lạt, or a bowl of Korean bingsu. And yet, a taste of childhood lingers in the back of my mind: that powdery, artificial sweetness that made the hot noons less oppressive, enough to make one feel instantly like a child again upon hearing the fleeting sound of bells passing by on a summer day.

This article was originally published in 2023.