Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Review: 'New Wave' Documentary Is a Surprisingly Personal Dissection of 1980s Nostalgia

2026-02-23T10:00:00+07:00

Melodic synth-lines and steady electronic drums. Today, the signature sounds of new wave music feel perhaps a bit old and outdated. During its high point during the 1980s, however, new wave was hailed as music of the future.

Vietnamese new wave, or new wave for short, is a genre of music that can be best described as Vietnamese American eurodisco. Characterized by a blend of synth pop and disco beats, the music most often covers famous eurodisco hits from abroad. In fact, the term new wave had originally been a bit of a misnomer. The name stuck around when eurodisco music, especially in its burgeoning phases, was miscategorized under the label of UK New Wave in record shops across Little Saigon.

As Elizabeth Ai describes in her book New Wave: Rebellion and Reinvention in the Vietnamese Diaspora that accompanied the release of her documentary film, new wave “electrified” a whole generation of Vietnamese American teenagers during the 1980s. Specifically, new wave was revered by the so-called “1.5 generation,” referring to the generation of Vietnamese American refugees who were born in Vietnam but grew up and came of age in the US. For the 1.5 generation — lost trying to navigate a new life between America and Vietnam, neither to which they felt like they wholly belonged — new wave offered a new way of life. It was a way of rebelling and reinventing against and of expectations and identity categories of what it meant to be Vietnamese, Americans, refugees: seeking refuge from war, yes, but also from the refugee experience itself.

New wave embodies the broad-minded, quixotic, and highly individualistic spirits that guided youths from the 1980s.

Unfortunately, the popularity of new wave is now largely subdued. But those who experienced new wave during its height seem to be unable to forget the excitement, fervor, and zeal that it incited within the Vietnamese diaspora.

About the film

The documentary New Wave is directed by Elizabeth Ai, a Chinese Vietnamese American Emmy-winning producer and filmmaker. It was originally released in 2024, and has so far only been available for watching through screenings. Good news for us, starting late spring of this year, the documentary will be available for the public. Ai’s team recommended following socials for details to be released in the near future.

Interestingly, while the film project began in 2018, initially with research and outreach work and eventually moving onto filmwork, with the COVID-19 pandemic, filming unexpectedly came to an abrupt halt. While filming was on hiatus, Ai’s team started an Instagram page to crowdsource archival material. Saigoneer featured the project during this phase back in 2022, read our previous article here. Now, the instagram page has been taken over with promotional content for the film, but the montage of crowdsourced photos, depicting Vietnamese American youth during the 1980s and their stories, still remain available for public view.

The poster of New Wave the documentary.

As it should be obvious by now, new wave and its history is the central topic of Ai’s film: the origins of the music, the story of its rise in popularity amongst the Vietnamese diaspora, the ascent of its poster child Lynda Trang Đài into stardom, as well as its punk subculture scene: edgy clothes, electric hair, and late night dancing and partying. In describing her childhood memories of her aunts and uncles listening to new wave music, Ai captured the subculture of new wave succinctly.

There was this DIY, scrappy aesthetic that revolved around the music they were listening to. I think the beautiful part of it is that it's a hybrid culture they created; the youth that lost their homeland didn't quite identify as Vietnamese-only anymore, and they were so new to America, and they weren't accepted by Americans, so they had to figure out an identity all their own. I think that was what made this subculture so unique, the music was neither American or Vietnamese, and it sounded like the future with its synthesized instrumentation.

New Wave’s story is no simple periodization of the music. Instead, the film intimately follows and weaves together the lives of a few central figures to paint a lively and dynamic picture of the inner life of new wave. There is, for one, Ian Nguyen, better known as DJ BPM, a prominent new wave DJ who, as a teenager, against the disappointment of his strict father, fell in love with new wave both for its futuristic sound and its new possibilities for “cool.” Then there is Lynda Trang Đài, dubbed by some as the “Vietnamese Madonna,” who pioneered new wave and became massively popular and idolized through her appearances in Paris by Night covering popular eurodisco hits. And finally, there is Elizabeth Ai herself; as well as her aunt Myra, who took care of Ai growing up in the absence of her mother, who was too busy hustling to provide for the family. For viewers both familiar with new wave and entirely new to it, the film’s intimate documentation of the inner lives of insiders of the world of new wave is deeply captivating. Together, their lives come to form a vibrant mosaic image of the world that is new wave.

Lynda Trang Đài was a key figure in the new wave movement.

That said, compared to Ian and Lynda whose lives have long revolved around new wave, Ai’s connection to new wave is arguably far sparser, anchored primarily in childhood memories of listening to the music blasting in her teenage aunt Myra’s car. Why, then, is Ai’s personal story and history figured so prominently in the film? Ai herself could not anticipate her intimate link to the narrative when she first embarked on her project: “Initially envisioned as a documentary focused on the 1980s new wave scene, the project deepened as I explored stories and archives, which unexpectedly reopened old wounds and broadened the emotional scope of the film.” She elaborates:

During the filming journey of this documentary, I encountered a profound transformation in my relationship with the participants, which became one of the most intriguing and moving aspects of the process. Initially, I saw myself strictly as the filmmaker and viewed them as subjects, maintaining a professional distance. However, as we progressed, this distance gradually diminished. The participants, first-generation Vietnamese Americans, openly shared their traumatic experiences with me. They spoke of the heavy burdens they had carried for years: stories of displacement, loss, and resilience. As they shared, I realized that despite being a second-generation Vietnamese American, our experiences were not so different. I, too, had been carrying a significant amount of emotional baggage, perhaps unconsciously. There was a moment when it no longer felt right to merely document their stories without acknowledging my own. It seemed unfair to ask them to reveal so much without addressing the truths within myself.

In perhaps the most memorable sequence of the film, realizing she can no longer avoid confronting the painful fact of her mother’s absence during her childhood, Ai finally reaches out to reconnect with her mother, with who she has long had no contact out of anger and resentment. And in finally confronting her mother, Ai realizes that she has misunderstood much of her own mother, that she had not known much of what caused her mother to act the way she did. Thus, what began as a film about a music genre ends up transforming into something much more intimate and personal.

A confession

Admittedly, I had not ever heard of new wave before watching Ai’s documentary. And given my lack of personal connection with the topic, I anticipated that my enjoyment of the film would be limited. Beyond such expectations, however, the film was a real joy to watch — in large part due to the personal aspects of the film that transcended the narrow scope of new wave, no doubt, but also, because the film left me with much to think about.

What exactly? Perplexingly enough, a quote, written in a substantially different context from New Wave, by Tal-Nehasi Coates in his book The Message. “We have a right to our imagined traditions, to our imagined places, and those traditions and places are most powerful when we confess that they are imagined.”

Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Ai.

At one point in the film, Ian Nguyen describes his adolescent immersion in new wave, “the music was innocent, but the scene we were in was not.” The scene was not innocent in that it harbored alcohol, drugs, sex. The music was not, in that it didn’t — after all, the music was just music. It is certainly a compelling and intriguing characterization of the dichotomy of new wave, but I also think that it is one we can further complicate.

Consider, for instance, the film’s portrayal of Lynda Trang Đài. For many in the 1.5 generation, Lynda was an icon of glamor, freedom, and possibility, exemplified when Ai’s aunt Myra remarks, “She was everything I wanted to become.”

But if Lynda embodied perfection for many, the film also reveals the many ways in which Lynda’s personal life is in fact far from perfect. We see, for instance, the ways in which Lynda struggles to juggle multiple jobs (including running a sandwich shop) to financially support her extended family — all of which, at one point, causes her to miss her son’s graduation ceremony.

The irony is difficult to ignore. The star who promised escape for so many children from the dysfunction of overworked parents is herself trapped in a similar cycle. I mention all of this not to taint Lynda Trang Đài, but rather, in light of all of this, to raise the question: what, then, could innocence mean for new wave music when the craze over new wave had so often been inseparable from the craze over Lynda Trang Đài?

Vietnamese New Wave found its start in VHS and cassette tapes containing covers of trendy English-language songs of the time.

The film’s brilliance lies in this: far from simply romanticizing new wave, the film humanizes the phenomenon, from its past to its present, from its devout followers to its poster child, laying bare all its messiness and complexities. The larger picture is far from perfect, but we feel love for it all the more for it. If there is anything innocent about new wave, it is this care for it.

To return to Coates: “We have a right to our imagined traditions, to our imagined places, and those traditions and places are most powerful when we confess that they are imagined.” New Wave reminds me of these words because, in a way, the film feels like a confession of such imagining. “My truth was just a story I created to protect myself,” says Ai reflecting upon the narrative she has constructed for herself to fill in her mother’s ellipses.

The same can be said of new wave more generally too. If new wave subculture was driven by “rebellion and reinvention,” as goes the subtitle of Ai’s book, surely such reinvention also constituted a kind of imagining and reimagining. And New Wave shows us that, indeed, such imagining is most powerful when confessed because it is there, in that confession, that we can be most honest without letting go of the selves we’ve built.

Every Bánh Chưng Season, Vietnam’s Lá Dong Capital Comes Alive With Harvest Frenzy

2026-02-13T12:00:00+07:00

On the patches of sandy soil by the river in Kim An Commune, Thanh Oai District, Hanoi, there’s a tiny village named Tràng Cát, where dong leaves have been embedded in local history, memory, and economy for centuries. Right in local courtyard, these broad green leaves were transformed into bánh chưng, ready for Tết feasts across the country.

For about 600 years until now, generations of Tràng Cát villagers have grown up amongst emerald fields of dong. Dong (Stachyphrynium placentarium) is a grass-like plant that’s closely related to ginger. The leaves are bright green, wide, and durable, and thus are very suitable to wrap food in traditional dishes, especially bánh chưng. In Tràng Cát, dong grows thick in yards, alongside old brick walls and village paths where farmers and children tread every day to go to work and school.

Tràng Cát Village in suburban Hanoi.

According to several village household’s genealogical documents, right when the community was first established in the 16th–17th century, locals were already clearing land to cultivate dong. Back then, only the prettiest, most flawless leaves were used to make bánh chưng to offer to emperors. Initially, the plant was only grown at home, but gradually, land plots not fertile enough for other cash drops were all turned to dong fields. Today, the village’s 500 households all cultivate this special leaf.

Tràng Cát has about 30 hectares of dong fields.

About 30 hectares of dong fields now span everywhere in the commune. Irrigated by the Đáy River, Kim An’s sandy soil is particularly nourishing to dong, thus Tràng Cát’s leaves are nationally famous for their broadness, waxy surfaces, and bright colors. When wrapped and cooked, bánh chưng here carries an appealing shade of green and gentle leafy aroma. It’s not a coincidence that, even though dong can grow anywhere, many bánh chưng makers still seek out Tràng Cat leaves.

Tràng Cát’s leaves are nationally famous for their broadness, waxy surfaces, and bright colors

Leaves are harvested year-round in the village, but the volume only really balloons when Tết nears. From the 10th to 25th day of the last lunar month, the entire village enters crunch mode for the busiest time of the year. Harvesters meander in between tall dong shoots to pick the best leaves. Then, they carefully slice off right above the node to prevent tearing or breaking the stalk, while ensuring that the plant could bud out new leaves after Tết.

Dong leaves are sliced off carefully.

Tall dong plants grow close to one another.

During peak periods, each household could gather up to 10,000 leaves a day. Once cut off, they are washed and tied into bundles of 100, before being separated into tiers depending on purposes. Smaller leaves are reserved for bánh tét while medium-sized ones are for bánh chưng wrapped using molds. Only the biggest, prettiest leaves are used for traditional hand-wrapped bánh chưng. Each bundle could fetch VND60,000–250,000 depending on the tier.

Arranging leaves after harvest.

To dong farmers like Phạm Thị Tuyết, growing this leaf is both more familiar and less strenuous than rice or other cash crops. Dong can be harvested all year, not just for Tết, yielding 3–4 batches. The plant is also quite low-maintenance: just water regularly and the leaves would pop out again. Her working schedule during Tết seasons often starts at 7am and ends at 5pm with around three hours of lunch break. “Before Tết, every person in the family must work together to cut and pack the leaves,” Tuyết explains.

Tâm, a local, washes the leaves.

The leaves are washed before being packed.

“Dong is very easy-going and accommodating. They’ll sprout new leaves when one is cut, so we can do this year round. A few previous storms knocked them down, but they still lived and gave us new leaves,” Tâm, a leaf harvester, shares.

Harvested leaves are grouped by size and appearance.

Tràng Cát’s leaves are shipped to every corner of the country.

When the leaves are gathered, farmers focus on sorting and packing: one person cuts, one person counts, one person washes, and one person categorizes. I left the village, but couldn’t stop thinking about the incredible vigor of the dong plant — it won’t stop growing, no matter how many times its leaves were cut off.

On the Cusp of a Modern New Year, Reflections on a Simpler Tết Past

2026-02-13T10:00:00+07:00

Every year, as the pages from my block calendar peel off, bringing me towards another Vietnamese New Year, my mind once again fills with nostalgia about an old Tết. Tết in my memory begins with my childhood in a small house nestled under a coconut grove on the outskirts of Bạc Liêu in the Mekong Delta. Those were days of hardship, yet my parents worked hard so that Tết could bloom magnificently for all of us.

Born into the Year of the Buffalo (1973), I grew up during a time when poverty was common among Vietnamese people. Those who survived the war struggled to make ends meet. Everyone I knew didn’t have much to eat all year round, and children had to do all types of odd jobs to help put food on the table. Like all my friends, for the entire year I looked forward to Tết because it was the only time when we could eat good food and receive a new set of clothes, and even some lucky money.

A time to shed old leaves and apply new paint

In my memory, Tết preparations started months before the lunar year’s end. In September, my father tended our pond to make sure that our fish would be ready for Tết. We planted chilies, onions, cabbages and leafy vegetables, which my mother and I would bring to the market to sell in order to buy the many necessities for our celebrations: pork, dried green peas, sticky rice, dried shrimp, fruit, firecrackers, and offerings for the ancestors’ altar. If we were lucky, there would be enough money left for my parents to buy each of us — their three children — a new set of clothing.

A few weeks before Tết came, my father studied the weather patterns, talked to his friends and decided on the day to pluck the leaves of our apricot tree, mai. I watched in amazement as the barren tree started to sprout countless green buds which grew fuller and fuller as Tết drew nearer. My father monitored the watering and fertilizing of his tree every day to ensure they bloomed at the exact right time. As was true of the peach flowers we used to have in the north, if our mai blossoms bloomed brilliantly during the first day of Tết, our family would be blessed for that entire new year.

Regardless of how poor we were, Tết was the time to look and feel good, so every year, about two weeks before it arrived, we scrubbed and painted our house. My brothers and I moved our wooden and bamboo furniture out to the front yard and gave it a good wash, splashing water at each other while we worked. We then crawled into our most tattered clothes and covered our walls with a white paint we mixed ourselves using limestone powder and water. We laughed and joked while we worked, feeling happy as the gleaming white spread under our hands.

A family in Sa Đéc in the Mekong Delta with rows of apricot trees that are stripped off old leaves. Photo by Andy Ip.

After the house was scrubbed and cleaned, I spent hours helping my mother prepare a special pickled dish using onions and scallions we bought at the market. They had to be fresh, still attached to their leaves and roots. More importantly, they had to be bite-size. Bringing them home, we washed any dirt and mud away, then soaked them overnight in water diluted with ash I collected from our cooking stove (we cooked mostly with rice straw or tree branches during those days). The ashy water helped tame the onions and scallions so that the next morning they no longer made my eyes weep when I peeled off their outer layers to reveal their glistening whiteness. Sitting side-by-side with my mother in our front yard, I talked to her about our plans for the New Year, about the food we would cook, and whom my parents had chosen to be the first person to step into our house on the first day of Tết.

Many hours of squatting on low stools to prepare our pickled dish always made our backs sore, but as we spread the peeled onions and scallions out on thin tin trays to dry them in the sun, we felt happy to watch the white alliums grin back at us. They looked like flowers that had sprung up from the earth, like the purest type of beauty. While waiting for them to dry, I gathered small twigs to start a fire in our kitchen while my mother measured and mixed vinegar, sugar and salt into a pot.

Once it cooled, we poured the pickling liquid over our onions and scallions, which we had arranged artistically into glass jars. From time to time, I would help my mother carry these jars out to the sun, to make sure that our pickled onions and scallions would "ripen" in time for Tết. They always made the perfect side dish, to be savored with dried shrimp, sticky rice cakes, and boiled or stewed meat; their fragrant sour-sweetness melting in our mouths.

The week before Tết was the busiest, but also the happiest. One of the most exciting events was to drain our pond to harvest our fish. We had no motorized pump back then, only a bamboo bucket we connected to two strong ropes and took turns swinging to get the water out of the pond. Our hands would grow tired and hours passed before we saw fish jumping up and down, trying to escape the increasingly shallow water. Our pond was not large, but large enough to reveal different secrets each year. Besides the tilapia fish my father farmed, we also often found mullet, catfish and perch.

For quite a few years, I was not allowed to go into the drained pond to catch fish with my two elder brothers. Standing on the pond’s bank, I burned with jealousy as I watched my brothers jump around in the mud; their faces blackened, their teeth gleaming in the sunlight as they cheered and laughed. Each time a fish was captured they would scream with excitement, lift it high into the air while it wiggled madly, and then throw it on the floor.

My job was to scoop the jumping fish into a bamboo basket and release it into a large tin bucket filled with water. Sensing that I was unhappy, my parents would tell me that catching fish with your bare hands was not a task for a small girl like me. Of course, they were right. My brothers’ hands were often injured. One year, a catfish pierced its sharp thorn into my brother’s finger. He ran into the house and when I found him half an hour later, he was under his bed, clutching his hand to his chest, crying like a baby. I laughed at him so hard, but a few months later, I too was stung by a catfish’s thorn. The pain pierced into my bones, so hot, deep and searing, that I could not help but crawl under our bed and bawl like a newborn as well.

Candied coconut by any other name

Tết would not be fully ready without mứt dừa, a type of candied coconut ribbon. As someone with "monkey genes" who could climb well, I was tasked with the responsibility of picking several fresh coconuts from our trees. Our small garden was filled with fruit trees, and my favorite were the coconut trees that spread their protective arms over our house, singing us lullabies by rustling their green leaves against our tin roof. These coconut trees bore plenty of fruit all year round. I quickly got up to the top of a tree, leaned my body against the biggest leaf and selected the coconuts which gleamed with several golden stripes on their dark green skin. The flesh of these coconuts would be perfect: not too thin and not too crunchy. Hanging on to the tree with one hand, my other hand would swing a sharp knife to chop the chosen coconuts from their stems. They made happy thumping noise as they kissed the ground.

Just like catching fish for Tết, preparing candied coconut ribbons was a joyous family event. My father and brothers chopped and then peeled away the thick outer layers of the coconuts. We then drilled holes through the hard shells, tilting the fragrant juice into a large bowl. Later, my mother would reward each of us with a glass of delicious coconut water. The rest we would be put aside to make thịt kho trứng — pork and eggs stewed in coconut juice — an essential Tết dish that's common in the Mekong Delta.

Braised pork and bittergourd soup are two popular Tết dishes. Illustration by KAA Illustration via Behance.

Making candied coconut ribbons was fun, but it was also a test of our skills and patience. After separating the white coconut flesh from its hard shell, we peeled the brown, inner-skin away, then shaved the coconut flesh into thin, long ribbons that we dipped into hot water. After draining them, we mixed them with white sugar. Our neighbors often added food coloring to make red, pink and even green coconut ribbons, but we preferred ours to be white and natural.

After a few hours, when the sugar had completely dissolved into the ribbons, I would make a low fire in the kitchen for my mother to cook the coconut ribbons in a large frying pan. To help the sugar crystallize, she occasionally stirred the ribbons with a long pair of chopsticks, giving them an equal amount of heat while not breaking them. My job was to keep the fire very low, so as not to burn my favorite Tết dish. It was the most delicious job as I only needed to put out my tongue to taste the sweetness of Tết in the air. About an hour later, we would have a basket full of long, curly coconut ribbons, crystallized in their fragrance.

The craft behind bánh chưng

As the mai tree’s golden flowers started to bloom, a breeze would sweep across nearby rice fields and waft to my nose, whispering that Tết was about to knock on our door. With this aroma in the air, we made traditional sticky rice cakes, or bánh chưng. Bánh chưng is a must-have for northern Vietnamese during Tết. My parents, who had uprooted themselves from the north and planted themselves into the soil of southern Vietnam during the late 1970s, embraced their northern heritage by making bánh chưng every year while our southern neighbors prepared bánh tết.

Both of these sticky rice cakes use the same ingredients, including sticky rice, dried green peas and pork. However, bánh chưng is wrapped with lá dong (phrynium leaves), which grow abundantly in the north, while bánh tết is wrapped with lá chuối (banana leaves) which you can find anywhere in the south. In addition, bánh chưng is square and thick, while bánh tết is long and round. Lastly, while bánh tết can have a “sweet” version (made with sweetened bananas), bánh chưng only has a savory version that includes pork and green peas.

The night before the important day of making our bánh chưng, I helped my mother soak dried green peas overnight to remove their skin. We also soaked sticky rice and separated good grains from the brown and yellowish ones. My brothers squatted in the yard as they helped my father split bamboo stalks into thin, flat strings. These strings would be used to tie the leaves around our cakes. My mother explained that bánh chưng needed to be boiled for hours, so plastic or nylon strings would not be healthy.

Once these tasks were complete, my father would ask me to help him cut down lá dong leaves from our garden. When we moved south, he searched all over for dong plants, which were hard to find and harder to grow in the tropical climate. With these plants growing in our garden, we felt we had brought with us a part of our ancestors’ village. We cut the precious leaves from their stems, piled them up gently, and brought them to our yard to wash away any dirt and insects. We took care so that no leaf was torn. Softening them under the sun or over hot coal, we set them aside.

On a large working area, my mother spread out a clean, large straw mat. Onto the center of the mat we placed the dong leaves, bamboo strings, bowls of the drained sticky rice, dried green peas and marinated pork. As we had no fridge, my mother had to wake up at five that morning to go to the local market to buy the best pork available. It needed to be fresh, with a precise balance of lean meat and fat. Bringing it home, my mother washed and cut the pork into large pieces, then marinated it with freshly ground pepper, fish sauce and salt.

One of the extraordinary things about my father is that except for boiled or fried eggs, he can’t cook, yet is a master at making bánh chưng. While my mother, brothers and I struggled to form our bánh chưng into square shapes, using wooden molds to guide us, all my father needed was his bare hands.

He started by arranging several lá dong leaves on to the mat and placing a layer of sticky rice, green peas and marinated pork on top, which he then covered with another layer of green peas and sticky rice. Covering his artwork with several more lá dong leaves, he folded the four sides, tugging the leaves into each other so that they made a perfect square. He then tied the square cake with the bamboo strings he had made with my brothers.

Tranh Khúc Village in Hanoi is known for their special bánh chưng.

My father explained that the strings had to give space for the rice and dried green peas to expand when they cooked. Yet they had to be tight enough for the rice not to spill out. He said that in northern Vietnam, where the weather was cold around Tết and families didn’t have refrigerators, bánh chưng would be released immediately into deep wells after they were cooked. Resins from the lá dong leaves, once meeting the cold water, would form a thick protective layer over the cakes. The wells would act as refrigerators, keeping the cakes fresh for weeks.

My father was so famous for his bánh chưng-making skills that many of our relatives and friends often asked us to make bánh chưng for them. While there was a lot of work involved, we did not mind since it would be more economical to make and boil over 30 bánh chưng at one time, sufficient for seven families and for the entire duration of Tết.

After we were done with wrapping the bánh chưng, my mother took out a gigantic pot that she had borrowed from our rich neighbor. The pot was large and expensive, thus in our whole neighborhood, there was only one family who could afford it. Families took turns borrowing the pot to boil their bánh chưng and bánh tết. The owner was happy to lend it because although we were financially poor, we were rich with generosity towards each other.

For the boiling of bánh chưng, my brothers dug a hole in a corner of our garden and my father started a fire with the biggest logs he could find. It takes up to 10 hours for the bánh chưng to cook, and therefore, this was the only time all year that my brothers and I were allowed to stay up all night to look after the fire. We huddled against each other in the dark, telling scary ghost stories that made us giggle and huddle even closer to each other. In the early morning, we scooped out the small bánh chưng, which we wrapped ourselves, and had them for breakfast. They tasted delicious, even though they looked shameful compared to my father’s perfectly square cakes.

The last night of the year

My father knew a lot about bánh chưng because he is the eldest son of my grandparents. He also knows a lot about the rituals of worshiping ancestors because Vietnamese ancestors are believed to "follow" the eldest son from north to south. On the last day of the old year, my father carefully cleaned the family altar and arranged a special display, which included an incense bowl, a pair of bánh chưng, fresh flowers, a bottle of homemade rice liquor, and fruits of many colors. My mother and I cooked special Tết dishes, such as boiled chicken, glass noodle soup, steamed fish, stewed pork and eggs, fried vegetables, and orange gấc sticky rice.

We offered our food to our ancestors around 5pm on the family altar, and after allowing our ancestors to "eat" this sumptuous meal for several hours, we gathered and enjoyed the best food of the year. The cutting of my father’s bánh chưng was a ceremony by itself; after untying the bamboo strings and peeling away the outer leaves, we arranged the strings across the cake’s green surface. Turning the cake upside down, we held the two ends of each string, pulling them towards each other, thus cutting the bánh chưng into square or triangle pieces. The taste of my father’s bánh chưng still remains in my mouth today; fragrant and savory. It tasted perfect, together with the pickled onions and scallions which my mother and I had prepared.

After cleaning up, I would clutch my mother’s hand as we walked to a nearby pagoda. Holding burning incense in front of my chest, my eyes closed, I would pray to Buddha to bless me with lots of lucky money that year. As I was never given any pocket money during the rest of the year, Tết was my only chance to gather savings, which I kept in a clay pig on my bookshelf. If I had enough lucky money, I would be able to buy a new book.

Returning home from the pagoda, I would see that my brothers had hung our firecrackers on our front door, anxiously waiting for the time to set them on fire. I wish I had joined them then, because firecrackers would be banned a few years later, hence the disappearance of this long and special tradition. But at that time, I helped my mother as she hurried to set up a tray of offerings, laden with fruit, flowers, liquor and incense. I carried the tray with her to our front yard and lit the incense. Watching how long my mother prayed to heaven, I sensed how important this ceremony was to her and to our family. I felt that all the gods were coming to join us, and my ancestors were also present.

Chúc mừng năm mới

Finally, the New Year approached with the faint sounds of firecrackers from far away, then moving closer and louder towards us. My two brothers would fight for the right to ignite the firecrackers, while I stood, frozen in fear, my hands over my ears.

We woke up very early the next morning, with yellow mai flowers brightening our living room. Smoldering incense filled my senses, and my happiness soared. Firecracker remnants rested like a blanket of pink and red on our front yard. We were not allowed to sweep anything away during the entire first day of the New Year, so as not to chase our luck away. I admired this red and pink carpet all day as it was twirled up by a dancing wind or rested peacefully under the gold, yellow and white chrysanthemum and mai flowers.

I put on my new set of clothes for Tết that I had wanted all year long, while my brothers burned left-over firecrackers in our front yard. When my parents were ready, they called us into the house, handing each of us a red envelope containing our lucky money. We would bow our heads, wishing them health, luck, success and happiness, before busting out of the house, waving the red envelopes on our hands.

But we were not allowed to go into any neighbor’s home unless we were specially invited. One's luck for the whole year depended on the fortune and character of the first person to enter one's home on the first day of the New Year. My father often chose a senior neighbor whose children were successful and who had a gentle and cheerful personality. The neighbor would often come before 7am on the first day of Tết, bringing my parents lots of good wishes and a red envelope for me, since I was the youngest member of the family.

During Tết, families in Saigon gather at flower markets to pose for photos, buy new plants for their home, or just simply to soak in the festive ambiance.

Around noon our house would be filled with greetings from relatives and neighbors. Everyone visited the house of everyone else in the neighborhood. We served our visitors green tea and candied coconut ribbons. Our family members took turns visiting the houses of relatives and friends, making sure that someone was always home to greet and take care of unexpected visitors. Snacks and food were served around the clock.

All the food my mother and I had spent many hours preparing came in handy; even though we were discouraged by traditions from cooking during the first day of the New Year, we could always serve our guests a good meal with our bánh chưng, stewed pork in coconut, as well as pickled onions and scallions. When the cooking resumed on the second or third day of Tết, we would make sweet and sour soup with our fresh fish, and serve our guests the ripest vegetables from our garden. From our home flowed an endless river of chatter and laughter, while I would occasionally sneak into my parents’ bedroom to count how much lucky money I had received.

Thinking back, I realize that my parents were very strict in raising me and hardly ever showed their emotions during our daily lives. It was only during Tết that I saw their tender sides. Tết also allowed me to be a bit naughty and not be scolded or punished, and it allowed me the rare privilege of accompanying my parents whenever they visited their friends.

Many Tếts have gone by, though my memories from one particular Tết remain vivid. My mother had taken me to visit one of her good friends who lived on the other side of the rice fields from us. I remember the vast rice fields spreading their green arms out towards the horizon as we walked. The sun was setting, tilting light onto my mother’s long, black hair. Flocks of white cranes rose up, dotting the blue sky with their flapping wings. We walked among the singing of rice plants and the perfume of a spring that embraced us from all directions. I wished then that I could go on like that forever and ever beside my mother.

These days most Vietnamese families, including my own, no longer celebrate Tết the traditional ways due to all the demands of modern life. Still, regardless of how busy we are, we set aside time to enjoy Tết with our loved ones. Families are united for Tết, and friends who may not see each other for the rest of the year will meet and enjoy a meal together. Perhaps Tết is important for all Vietnamese because it reminds us of how happiness can derive from our cultural heritage, and how wonderful it is to stop running after our material desires, at least for a few days, and enjoy what we already have.

This article was originally published in 2020.

Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai is the internationally best-selling author of The Mountains Sing and Dust Child. She has received many literary awards in Việt Nam and internationally, including the Lannan Literary Awards Fellowship for a work of exceptional quality and for its contribution to peace and reconciliation. A version of this article was originally published in Vietnam Heritage.

A Damaged Masterpiece Reveals How Much We Take Our Cultural Heritage for Granted

2026-02-12T11:00:00+07:00

A once-damaged national treasure remains on view as if nothing had happened, while other works are displayed with little context — what does this tell us about how art museums preserve Vietnam's cultural heritage and shape our art history narratives today?

A few weeks before the Tết holiday, the Hồ Chí Minh City Fine Arts Museum feels much more lively than usual, as it does every year. From the entrance and spiral staircases of the almost 100-year-old heritage building, young local visitors pose in áo dài for new year photoshoots, while foreign visitors pose in nearly every corner. Only a few pause to look closely at the artworks scattered across different rooms of the main building, which house a collection of modern artworks by mostly southern artists before and after 1975.

Washing a lacquer masterpiece with dish soap

Passing the central hall with sculpture on the second floor, visitors turn left into a dim corridor that leads to one of the museum’s national treasures: the renowned 1989 lacquer masterpiece ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ (Central, Southern and Northern Spring Gardens) attached on a wall in its own separate air-conditioned room dedicated to maestro painter Nguyễn Gia Trí (1908–1993).

Nguyễn Gia Trí (1908–1993). Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc (Central, Southern and Northern Spring Gardens), 1989. Lacquer on board. 200 x 540 cm. Collection of Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum.

Opposite to the masterpiece, the late painter’s tools and materials are displayed behind glass, alongside some pencil and watercolor sketches. Yet, no context is provided to explain the significance of the materials and techniques of this masterpiece. In the painting itself, twenty women dressed in their own traditional outfits and áo dài across the country’s three regions gather to celebrate the spring festival at a temple, surrounded by nature and a lively atmosphere of peaceful time. Signature red lacquer dominates the composition; eggshell inlay and gilded gold are integral to the whole painting’s surface. Nguyễn Gia Trí spent nearly 20 years completing the work with the assistance of his students: from 1969 when the country was still in the midst of war, to 1989, during the country’s transition through the Đổi Mới (Reformation) period.

Nguyễn Gia Trí’s personal items and painting tools at Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum.

The first impression from most visitors entering the room was amazement. Someone paused and asked: “Nguyễn Gia Trí… you mean, the old D2 street?” before proceeding to pose for photos from different angles. Other visitors, especially foreigners, walked back and forth in front of the work, squinting at the wall text, only to find a few lines of artwork description and the artist’s biography. Despite initial admiration, some began to express slight confusion while sensing that something was off about the national treasure. In certain areas, layers of black lacquer appeared worn, the gilded gold darkened or worn out, and the eggshell inlay looked fragmented, disrupting the fluidity of the details. Importantly, despite the dominant lively red tones, some colors in the details had undeniably faded.

“This painting must have been damaged once before. Look at this layer of paint over there. It’s already worn out, and the colors are so dark and pale now,” a Vietnamese visitor said to his group of friends after carefully viewing the artwork. The masterpiece remains on the wall, celebrating spring as prayer for the country to endure war and move towards reunification. Yet, a sense of quiet conflicted feeling emerges. Something feels off, and no one seems to know, or remember, the damage that had changed the work permanently.

Details of Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc (Central, Southern and Northern Spring Gardens) at Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum.

‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ made major news headlines in early 2019, after it was found to have suffered major damage after being taken off for cleaning in December 2018. It was later revealed that the damage had been treated with sandpaper, bột chu (a polishing powder) and even… dish soap — perhaps the last material that one would expect in artwork conservation. The incident sparked outrage among the art community and authorities, with many online articles calling out the carelessness and lack of accountability, and an urgent demand for the national treasure to be repaired with special care.

According to painter Nguyễn Xuân Việt, one of Nguyễn Gia Trí’s few students who understands the master painter’s techniques well, the reinforcement work could only restore about 80% of the painting. The damage done to the materials on the surface, however, cannot fully be reversed. In other words, while the painting survives materially, the original spirit has been lost. Nearly seven years later, now in 2026, the partially repaired work has returned to public view, as if nothing had happened. Visitors are left with no choice but to accept this reality of an artwork that has once been damaged, with little acknowledgement of what was lost, with minimal context beyond the familiar narratives of national pride and historical symbolism.

Visitors pose with artworks.

Beyond one damaged painting

Leaving the room for the artwork and heading back through the corridor, one would notice the contrast is quite intriguing: while 20 female figures celebrate spring within the ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ masterpiece, young visitors rush to take their pre-Tết photoshoot with camera equipment, tripods, and even reflector boards filling the balconies and spiral staircases. Some film TikTok videos along the balconies, some even fall asleep on the benches, while foreign visitors navigate through the crowd, trying to understand the paintings with little context.

Perhaps, the national treasure lost its soul due to the damage caused by a lack of accountability, just as the museum’s function also seems to be fading. Much of the collection has become a secondary background to most visitors, shaped by an incohesive narrative and absence of context that discourages deeper engagements, or even minimal attention, towards the artworks and their historical significance. While it is rather unfortunate that most guests only connect with the venue on a surface level, one could attribute this visitor behavior both to individual apathy towards the arts and the current conditions of a national-level institution, where conservation has been treated lightly, and artworks are bound to a one-sided narrative without sufficient explanation.

The museum interior and Tết photoshoots.

This raised further questions about the state of other artworks in the museum: limited government funding for acquisition, conservation and daily operations; the high temperatures and humidity of Vietnam's climate; and architectural and spatial challenges. This does not take into account the fact that the plot where the museum sits is at risk of sinking due to the construction of a high-rise next door.

At this moment, the concern is no longer solely about why and how an artwork was damaged. It projects a bigger picture about the current state of cultural heritage preservation in Vietnam, as well as the key players' struggle to foster awareness and create meaningful narratives that accurately represent Vietnam’s art history and cultural heritage in Saigon, as it’s difficult to move beyond the nostalgic “time capsule” of the turbulent past amidst changing times. This feels especially urgent in the age of cultural tourism and social media, when the demand for art consumption among the younger generations is increasing, alongside the growing number of tourists visiting the country.

The looming construction project next door once caused the collapse of the museum's northern gate due to subsidence.

A state-owned art museum serves the role of researching, preserving, and presenting artworks that reflect a nation’s cultural heritage and collective memory, reflecting the development of techniques, aesthetics, and art education — more than just holding what remains and survives from the past. In post-colonial and independent Vietnam, museums have played a central role in nation-building narrative, through a constructed national (art) history that features revolutionary artists. Still, the decisions that shape these narratives are not within the public’s control, but with institutions and authorities. What remains in our control, however, is how we acknowledge and respond to the limitations in how our culture and history art is treated and presented, how we engage critically with art history, and continue shaping our own narratives in the present and future, beyond the museum walls and across different platforms.

Supporting our local art museum does not simply mean purchasing a one-day ticket to briefly view the works, then move on with photo ops. It also means showing up with awareness: asking why our institutions and art ecosystem still remain underdeveloped, whether we are truly comfortable with how the narratives are framed, and how we appreciate our history and the masterpieces left behind by those before us. The costly lesson of a damaged national treasure, perhaps one among others yet unnoticed, reveals structural issues that remain unresolved. Still, the growing interest in traditions, art, and culture suggests that there is still hope for public engagement and discourse.

Hidden within the wall text in front of ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc,’ a line from Nguyễn Gia Trí in 1979 reads: “Sáng tác ví như một bát nước, ta đổ tràn đầy, rồi những gì còn lại, ta giữ và phát triển / Painting and creating can be compared with the brim-full bowl of water, one retains all that remains and develops it.”

What remains after the damage and partial restoration is not the physical artwork itself, but the responsibility of those involved, and how we remember, question, and preserve what is left.

Recognized as a national treasure in 2013, ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ is now on view in the permanent collection of Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum. More information about the masterpiece and museum admission can be found on this website.

In 'Đêm Giao Thừa' EP, a Đàn Tranh Artist Offers Novel Twists on Nostalgic Tết Sounds

2026-02-10T11:00:00+07:00

Indie đàn tranh artist Brian Bùi has just released Đêm Giao Thừa, an EP containing energetic covers of three classic Tết songs and an original track that pays homage to styles from the 1960s and 1970s.

Layering elements of bolero, psychedelic cumbia, samba rock, and cha-cha-chá, the 13-minute extended play blends nostalgic sounds and rhythms with fresh perspective to create a new feeling for the season. “While the EP draws from the past, I also experimented with guitar effects on the đàn tranh and introduced South American genres that hadn’t yet been popularized in Vietnam during that era. Đêm Giao Thừa celebrates the start of a new year, as well as a new direction for my music that represents who I am in this moment,” he explained on the project's page.

Video via Brian Bùi's YouTube.

Brian switched from the violin to the đàn tranh as part of his exploration of traditional music, a way to connect with his cultural heritage. He studied the đàn tranh with Vân-Ánh “Vanessa” Võ while pursuing a degree in music composition at the University of the Pacific and later with NSƯT Nguyễn Thị Hải Phượng as part of the Master of Arts degree he is currently pursuing at Berklee Online.

Photo by Chiron Dương.

Đêm Giao Thừa is is currently available on all major streaming apps, and he is touring in support of it in the United States through March.

This Tết, Learn to Wrap Bánh Chưng in One of Hanoi's Oldest Villages

2026-02-09T08:00:00+07:00

Much like the peach blossom or the lucky money envelope, bánh chưng is a staple part of Tết.

It is a Vietnamese tradition for families to wrap and cook their own bánh chưng, a tradition that I have never experienced. I have no idea how to make a bánh chưng, and so this year, I want to change that.

My wife hails from làng Hồ Khẩu, one of Hanoi's oldest villages. Situated where the Tô Lịch River once met Hồ Tây, the village used to be famous for its paper. Now, the river is covered and the water is polluted, so the paper craft is lost. Lucky for me, the art of bánh chưng still survives here.

Deep in the twisting alleys of the village, I come to the house of Đinh Thị Hòa. Her family has been making bánh chưng for almost two decades now, and she was happy to have me for a lesson.

Hòa just passed her middle age, yet her spirit is as young and jovial as anyone. Every other sentence of hers is accompanied by laughter. She learned how to make bánh chưng from her parents, who used to tell her: “If you don't make it, then you won't have anything to eat.”

Now she supplies bánh chưng for the village. “I do it to serve the community,” she laughs. “Now every house is so cramped, nobody has the space to do it. I see people's need and I try to help them.” A bánh chưng operation can take a lot of space. And not only does Hòa's house has a yard, hers is big enough for two fruit trees, one rose apple and one lêkima.

Under the lêkima's shade, Hòa arranges various buckets and basins. A huge water tank stands nearby, filling two concrete barrels that were once personal bomb shelters. Here is the first workstation I see from the gate: a wet kitchen where all bánh chưng's components are prepared before wrapping.

A typical bánh chưng is made up of five components: dong leaf, rice, mung bean, pork, and bamboo strings; each component is meticulously prepared. The leaves have to be soaked for three days then scrubbed clean to prevent mold. The rice and beans are also soaked and washed with multiple waters. Hòa's motto is: “We only sell things we would eat at home.”

Once the rice is cleaned, it is mixed with salt to add flavor. Mung beans are steamed then set before a fan to cool. “The beans must be cooled before wrapping,” Hòa explains, “otherwise they will sour everything.”

The beans fresh out of the steam pot are darker (left) than the cooled ones (right).

The wrapping station is inside the house, where Hoàng Thanh Thái, Hòa's sister-in-law, is in charge. Thái has also been making bánh chưng since she was a kid, she is so adroit that each bánh only takes a few moments to be wrapped. I have to ask her to slow down so I can take a picture of each step of the process.

First she lays down two leaves as the outer layer, on top of which goes a square mold. Then she lines the sides and the bottom of the square with leaves, the greener side facing inward. Then she puts in one bowl of rice as the first layer, next is a scoop of beans, then a piece of pork, another scoop of beans to cover the meat, and one more bowl of rice on top. Afterward she folds the inner leaves to a tight square, then the outer layer is wrapped and tied with the bamboo strings.

Afterward, fold the inner leaves to a tight square, then wrap the outer layer and tie it with bamboo strings.

Thái is gracious to let me try. I'm surprised to learn how much force it takes to wrap everything tightly, I also fumble with the strings and have to ask Thái for help. She ties the knots with one hand.

I ask Thái what is the secret to a good bánh chưng. “Oh that's hard,” she laughs. “I think there's no secret. We just choose good rice, good beans, and good meat.” For rice, her family uses the famous nếp cái hoa vàng cultivar. The beans must be crumbly after steaming, and the ideal pork for bánh chưng comes from the pig's belly, which has both lean and fatty parts.

The leaves are important, too. Thái's family uses leaves from dong, a plant similar to banana but is found mostly in the forest. The leaves must be of the right age, not too old and not too young, in order to give the bánh chưng its signature color. Her family is making 400 bánh chưng this year, which need 2,000 leaves.

“Every other year I make a lot more, but my husband just passed away this year so I make fewer now,” Thái shares. Her husband, Hòa's little brother, was in charge of the third station — boiling — and without him the family can't handle the usual 800–1000 orders.

The family boils bánh chưng with firewood, the good old-fashioned way to make bánh chưng dền, which means “supple and delicious.” Under the rose apple tree, Thái's son lays down some bricks for a makeshift fire pit, then he puts a huge pot on top. The pot can hold 60–70 bánh chưng at a time. After stacking the bánh, he fills it with water then his aunt, Hòa, lights the fire.

There are three phases to the boiling process. First, the fire must be roaring to bring the pot to a boil. Then, a stable and constant flame is needed for the pot to simmer for 12 hours. Finally, toward the 10^th or 11^th hour, the fire is reduced to a smolder.

While the fire crackles merrily, I ask Hòa about Thắng, her little brother. Before, each person in the family was in charge of a part of the process: Hòa prepared the ingredients, Thái wrapped, and Thắng boiled. But this year, Thắng had a stroke and spent two weeks in the hospital before he was gone. “It's very sad,” Hòa says, her cheerfulness dampens. “This year we keep making bánh chưng for some comfort, otherwise it's just too sad.”

Thái is determined to keep the tradition, too. “I will do this for as long as I can,” she says, “if it's only me then I'd only make one pot.” To fulfill the orders, this year, her family will need to boil seven pots, it is 4pm when the first one begins. I leave the house and return at 6am the following morning to see the final part of the process.

After 12 hours of simmering, the bánh absorbed a lot of water. When they are taken out, they must be cleaned then pressed to force the excess water out. Thái arranges the bánh chưng on a table then sets three water jugs on top; they would remain like that for another six hours before delivery. Thái leaves the house to buy more meat for the next batch, another pot is already on the fire.

The family has only three days to finish all the orders before the new year; everybody is catching a moment of rest before continuing this marathon. The sky is still dark, all is quiet, the sweet aroma that is distinctive of bánh chưng fills the air. As I sit there watching the fire, a thought — a feeling — swirls in me: Tết is here.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2022.

A Brief History of Ngựa, a Non-Native Animal Vietnam Has Made Its Own

2026-02-08T15:00:00+07:00

Are horses a Vietnamese animal?

In terms of whether horses are part of Vietnamese culture, just look around. While examples might not tumble to the forefront of your mind, once you start looking for them, you’ll notice horses everywhere.

Thánh Gióng Statue at Ngã Sáu Sài Gòn. Photo by Shing Chan.

Trần Nguyên Hãn Statue. Photo via SGCP.

Thánh Gióng, the legendary boy who vanquished invading Chinese troops, did so atop a metal horse. He is honored along with his majestic steed by a statue at Phù Đổng Roundabout. Similarly, 15^th-century General Trần Nguyên Hãn, was depicted on horseback in Quách Thị Trang Square. The statue was removed when the public space was dismantled for the metro construction, though there have been plans to reinstall a new version, which will again place a horse front and center in the city.

‘Ethereal Horse,’ lithograph, Lebedang. Image via Mutual Art.

Horses are not just for public display, as many people, or their grandparents at least, have paintings of a herd of horses triumphantly running across a river hanging above their living room couches. Meanwhile, a trip to any gallery or museum reveals that horses provide inspiration to visual artists across styles and time periods, as underscored by “The Horse in Visual Art,” an exhibition with more than 60 pieces that opened this year at the Hanoi Fine Arts Museum. Artists like Lebedang are said to be drawn to them because of the animals' innate desire for freedom as well as their ability to endure arduous labor alongside humans. The most circulated artwork to feature them in Vietnam was surely on the back of now-defunct currency.

Image via Smithwick Numismatics.

You’ll also discover horses in humble domestic spaces. If you snoop around bathroom medicine cabinets, you might notice them on a variety of men’s health and virility products owing to horses’ perceived strength and stamina. And, while no major Vietnamese fashion brand or corporation uses them as a logo, the Year of the Horse has ushered in a plethora of brands to use them in advertisements, promotions, packagings and promotions.

Products for energy and virility utilizing horse imagery. Photos via Central Pharmacy and Lazada.

Horses have made their linguistic mark here as well, particularly in idioms such as “cưỡi ngựa xem hoa,” (riding a horse to admire flowers); “một con ngựa đau, cả tàu bỏ cỏ” (one sick horse, the whole stable refuses grass), and "đường dài mới biết ngựa hay” (only a long journey reveals how strong the horse really is). Horses are also popular in songs, be they nostalgic movie soundtrack hits or ballads like ‘Lý Ngựa Ô,’ that a miền Tây uncle might pick out for karaoke.

A horse employed in the 1960s. Photo by Thomas W. Johnson.

A horse-drawn carriage outside Bến Thành Market in 1938. Photo by Eli Lotar.

Even though you can easily spot depictions of and references to horses in your daily life, it's rare to encounter the living animal here. This wasn’t always the case. Not too long ago, horses were an important part of the economy. In colonial times they were used as pack animals and for transportation. Even after the advent of motorized vehicles, they were a practical and more affordable means of delivering materials and people.

A horse pulling an advertisement for a movie showing. Photo via 2Saigon.

If you spend any time in photo archives, you’ll see horses pulling carts laden with construction goods, city dwellers, and even roaming through the city to advertise products and theatre performances. And while their days of pulling carts in Saigon have long since passed, they continue to do so in parts of the Mekong Delta, especially within Khmer communities. While certainly in their last days as a functional replacement for trucks or motorbikes, there are hopes that horse carriages can serve tourism purposes. The lullaby-esque clop-clop-clop of horses pulling carriages with colorful curtains in the countryside can provide a romantic nostalgia to citydwellers.

Horses used in An Giang in 2020. Photos via Tuổi Trẻ.

In addition to practical cogs in the urban machine, horses have been sources of entertainment in Vietnam as well. Particularly, District 11’s Phú Thọ Horse Racing Ground was a popular place for gambling and high society fraternizing since its construction by the French in 1923. Still recognizable on maps after its 2011 shuttering, the race track was amongst the largest in Southeast Asia. While horse racing may be gone, a niche community of equestrians around the country keeps and rides horses, often in accordance with the international prestige accompanying the expensive hobby.

Phú Thọ Horse Racing Ground between 1964 and 1969. Photos via Flickr user manhhai.

Taking all of that into account, I think we can indeed consider horses to be part of Vietnamese culture. But are they from Vietnam? Short answer: no. All domestic horses are believed to descend from populations in the western Eurasian steppe in modern-day Russia 4,000 years ago. Breeds changed and adapted as they spread across the world, including those used in military campaigns by people from Mongolia and Southern China. Researchers believe that is how horses first entered Vietnam about 800 years ago, resulting in the development of the ngựa Bắc Hà breed found in Northern Vietnam today. This small squat variety is well-adapted to rugged terrain and agrarian labor. Easily recognizable by their diminutive stature, they recently caused a stir online when used by police in parades.

Vietnamese police atop Bắc Hà horses in 2020. Photo via Chào Hanoi.

For hundreds of years, these horses were integrated into Vietnam’s militaries. During the Lê Dynasty, for example, an emperor in southern Hanoi ordered all the children of mandarins and nobelmen be skilled at horse-mounted archery, with cavalry proving critical for battles against Song China, Champa, and Khmer kingdoms. War horses were also relied upon by the later Nguyễn dynasty. You can observe remnants of the culture that surrounded these horses today in the form of statues in Huế and a particular style of hat, nón ngựa, produced in Bình Định that was sturdy enough to wear while riding and also fashionably designed for aristocrats.

Horses were used during the Nguyễn Dynasty, including as royal messengers, as pictured above. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Horses may roam in the memories and relative margins of Kinh society, but within northern mountainous communities, they occupy a far more central position. The regional spring markets that operate for H'Mông, Tày, Nùng, and Dao communities to gather, celebrate the new year, and buy and sell goods, including horses, evolved organically to include horse racing exhibitions. Over time, these smaller races, which, for a while, included rifle shooting elements, became centralized and organized as a tourism product and a means of preserving culture. Authorities have designated the Bắc Hà Horse Racing Festival in Lào Cai as a National Intangible Cultural Heritage. These festivals provide visitors with an opportunity to enjoy thắng cố, a H'Mông horsemeat stew that incorporates all parts of the animal along with mountain herbs and aromatics.

The Bắc Hà horse race. Photo by Xuân Phương for Vietnam Coracle.

For H'Mông communities, horses are more than race animals, sources of labor and food. They play a role in spiritual beliefs as well. Death is frequently understood as a white horse that comes to bring a person to the afterlife when it's their time. For this reason, a wooden horse is traditionally buried with a person who has passed. Horse statues are also seen on the tombs of people from H'Mông and other highland communities.

For festivals, ethnic communities adorn their horses with traditional costumes. Photo via Du Lịch Bắc Hà.

So, can we consider horses to be a Vietnamese animal? Wild horses are essentially extinct, with a single very small population of reintroduced horses surviving in Mongolia. If you ever see a herd of horses living freely in nature, it is not really wild, but rather a feral group descended from a domesticated breed. Thus, all horses as we know them exist because of humanity’s collective efforts and activities. Perhaps any society or nation that has developed a unique culture with and in response to them should be able to claim them.

A Bắc Hà horse in Lào Cai used by the H'Mông community. Photo by Flickr user Manfred Sommer.

Unraveling the Mystery Behind the 'Mùi Việt Kiều' of My Childhood

2026-02-08T14:00:00+07:00

My favorite candy used to be Hershey’s Kisses. Wrapped in colorful, sparkling foil, these little nubs of decadence made me feel special as a child, not just because of their sugary sweetness, but also because, for much of Vietnam’s contemporary history, you could only enjoy them if you have relatives abroad.

The last war that plagued Vietnam severely fragmented the country in more ways than one, broke up families and eventually resulted in Vietnamese becoming one of the largest diasporic communities in many western societies, known as Việt Kiều in the Vietnamese language. As a kid, I couldn’t fully grasp the complexities behind the term, I just knew that my aunt was one, and she often gave me Hershey’s Kisses when she came to stay with us, so her visits were always a highly anticipated occasion of my formative years.

The first evening on the day she landed, after a family meal, we would gather around the big suitcase as she gave out carefully labelled bags of presents for each person. Over the years, her visits have blurred into one amorphous blob in my memory, so I struggle to remember what I received. I remember the diverse range of Kisses colors, but mostly what remains ingrained in my mind is the fragrance of her luggage — it is a distinctive yet malleable aroma, or even amalgam of aromas that’s hard to put into words, a mystifying mùi Việt Kiều.

Hershey's Kisses once felt like an exclusive treat for Vietnamese kids with relatives abroad. Photo via Tasting Table.

Mùi Việt Kiều, in my memory, was neither a perfume nor from any recognizable artificial smell genres like floral, herb, or fruit. It wasn’t detergent- or food-forward, it just was. As an adult, I’ve forgotten about it, until a few weeks ago, a curious TikTok video popped up on my feed, advertising a bottle of laundry essential oil with “authentic hương Việt Kiều.” It was astonishing because, for the longest time, I’ve always assumed I was alone in noticing its existence, but someone out there has not only identified it but also commercialized it?

I’ve shared my observations with friends and colleagues, and while everybody confirmed they too have sensed mùi Việt Kiều, no one can pinpoint what it is exactly, apart from vague claims like “I’ll know it when I smell it.” The comment section beneath the laundry oil video was much more illuminating and helpful; someone claims it’s the smell of Irish Spring soaps, while others are sure that it comes from Bounce dryer sheets and Aquafresh toothpaste. Energized by possibilities, I made the next best decision: obtain every suggested item in the theories and did smell tests.

The dubious fragrance as advertised on Shopee.

This is the point where I have to admit that there’s no closure at the end of this journey. None of them smells as good as my aunt’s luggage, even though at various points over the years, it too was filled with Irish Spring and Aquafresh. It is entirely possible that they have recently changed their scenting formulae or that my childhood memories have gotten too murky, but perhaps, the most likely scenario is that there’s no definitive mùi Việt Kiều. Each luggage during each visit smelled ever slightly different depending on what it encompassed: a little bit of Hershey, a whiff of Ocean Spray dry cranberries, a touch of Kirkland multivitamins, etc — all piecing together a little smellscape of America that appeared so exotic and quasi-mythological to little me.

Today, globalization, cultural exchange and advancements in logistics have all but dismantled the myth of American products in Vietnam. How I could very easily procure all the scented items for my smell tests from local shops and online platforms is a testament to this shifting dynamic. Hershey is now readily available, but Vietnam’s progress has also given rise to a plethora of local chocolates so excellent I haven’t touched Kisses since. When we didn’t have much, every little thing was so special and treasured.

The most memorable (and tasty) source of mùi Việt Nam. Photo by Hoàng Vũ via Thanh Niên.

Back in the day, as my aunt’s visits inched to a close, her empty suitcase would gradually fill up again — this time chock-full of distinctively Vietnam items to stock up her pantry and to be given out as gifts on the other shore: dried shrimps, coffee beans, lacquer combs, silk áo dài, Thái Nguyên tea, lotus hearts, and a sizable and eclectic collection of various mắm. Sometimes I wonder about that moment, when, after flying halfway across the globe, she would arrive at home and unzip that suitcase. Does it give out a distinctive smell, too? A mystifying mùi Việt Nam that’s hard to put into words.

Hẻm Gems: In Đà Nẵng, Góc Nhà Tụi Mình Is Where Tea Time Feels Like Home

2026-02-06T10:00:00+07:00

As a Đà Nẵng native, I often get asked where and what to eat and drink by friends who are in town. The tried-and-true list of places in my mind always includes Góc Nhà Tụi Mình, which I’ve frequented nearly constantly for the past six years.

Góc Nhà Tụi Mình, which translates to “our home nook,” is right by Phan Châu Trinh, Đà Nẵng’s largest high school, and my alma mater. It’s always been a crucial anchor centering my formative years spent at school and in the quaint tea shop.

I found Góc Nhà Tụi Mình the natural way that kindred spirits gravitate towards one another. Here, there’s a tree-filled deck awash in green hues, the fragrance of freshly brewed tea, and nostalgic tunes by Trịnh Công Sơn or Ngô Thụy Miên. Amid the invasion of bubble tea in 2017 Đà Nẵng, discovering Góc Nhà Tụi Mình was a personal achievement.

Góc Nhà shares many wistful traits with other drink hangouts in the city, but what draws people here is not interior design, its list of lovingly curated drinks and an intimate, familiar ambiance true to its name. The shop’s signature selling point is over 10 types of Vietnamese tea, such as milk oolong from Bảo Lộc, Shan Show tea from Hà Giang, and peppermint tea from Sapa. Besides, the menu also offers local liqueurs like Điện Biên wild apricot wine, or housemade mulberry wine; and other mainstays like coffee and fruit teas.

Setting foot into the place, guests are greeted by a trà nương — a tea hostess with knowledge of tea and the menu — who will help them find the flavor profiles and, consequently, the types of tea that fit their palate. She will also provide a crash course on tea ceremony and how to treat different kinds of tea leaves, like how jujube goji berry tea will not cause insomnia and has mood-calming effects, or how certain types of oolong will “burn” when in contact with boiling-hot water, so one needs to be careful with temperatures.

I used to believe that tea is just a bitter liquid that only old people drink, and that tea leaves everywhere come from the same Thái Nguyên tea packets one can buy at supermarkets. But thanks to Góc Nhà’s teachings, I realized that the universe of tea is much more diverse and multi-faceted. My favorite order is milk oolong, a surprisingly milky brew thanks to the teahouse’s painstaking scenting techniques. There’s no actual milk in the drink, but it has a richness that evokes dairy.

I think I’m not the only one in Vietnam who harbors such notions about our tea, like how it’s an old people’s beverage or how it’s too fancy for our taste buds. Often when I broach the subject of going out for a tea together with my peers, they would immediately chime in with: “Yes, milk tea! Which location?” More often than not, we prefer the sweet and easy-to-drink tastes of milk teas and fruit teas over tea in its purest form, so when actual tea comes into the conversation, we become confused and hesitant.

Thankfully, today, tea culture has grown in popularity and is no longer unfamiliar to Vietnamese youths. To think that just a few years ago, I had overheard on a few different occasions newcomers expressing shock at the fact that a teahouse sells other tea drinks apart from milk teas.

Knowing the context behind this welcoming development in the appreciation for Vietnamese tea, I gradually fell in love with the tea culture that Góc Nhà has always tried to cultivate with every cup. Huy Hùng and Ái Tầm, the founders behind Góc Nhà, once shared with me:

“When we first built this teahouse, everybody thought we were out of our minds,” they reminisced. “We barely had any guests in the first six months, to the point that our friends felt bad for us and camped out at the shop when they had a chance, just to convince us not to close it. It was really a risky and crazy move, because loving tea is one thing, selling tea successfully is a whole other story. In the F&B field, everybody wants more patrons, so a good turnover rate is key. But with tea, we want to get customers to visit and sit down for as long as they can. How to be profitable like that?”

Tầm added: “Still, the more we travel, the more we discover that our local teas are so distinct and valuable. When you ask 10 people about tea, eight or nine responders are not aware of these values. So I really hope to spread our tea culture to young people. Any time I have a moment, I make a point to talk to our guests about tea, introduce its origin, and teach them how to best enjoy it — this is something foreign tourists appreciate, but in Vietnam, it’s not there yet.”

After six years of constantly seeing my face in their teahouse, Hùng and Tầm started to actively teach me so many cool things about tea, not that much different from how they train their own tea hostess. In the local tea hierarchy, each variety and its price are classified based on altitude, the higher the altitude of cultivation, the more valuable the leaves are — from lowest to highest in Thái Nguyên Province’s local names: trà móc câu, trà nõn tôm, and trà đinh.

When we first built this teahouse, everybody thought we were out of our minds. We barely had any guests in the first six months, to the point that our friends felt bad for us and camped out at the shop when they had a chance, just to convince us not to close it.

At the moment, Góc Nhà mainly serves trà nõn tôm and trà đinh to promote the flavors of these signature Thái Nguyên varieties. Trà đinh means that only the terminal buds of tea bushes were collected while trà nõn tôm includes both the buds and one to two unfurled young leaves. Some types of tea require the caretaker to climb up a heritage tea tree before sunrise to pluck out buds, but it’s so rare that even a large tree only yields up to 2 kilograms of harvest. Then, farmers bring the buds back home to dry and hand-roast to ensure the quality of the product.

“Once I got to see this level of effort, I stopped wasting tea, not even a strand,” Tầm told me. Therefore, Góc Nhà always encourages customers to refill at least three times before finishing a pot to not waste precious tea.

I feel that this is as good a time as any to admit that Góc Nhà is always the hangout of choice during days when money is tight for me and my friends. A two-person teapot costs VND60,000–70,000 with complimentary mung bean snacks. An additional person only incurs a surcharge of VND10,000. So, my three-person friend group can enjoy as much tea as our stomach can contain for just VND25,000. During my travels from north to south, I’ve never encountered a place with such a hospitable policy to get its guests to stay.

Most trà nương at Góc Nhà are college students, but the training process involves more tea knowledge than a typical milk tea or neighborhood cafe. Staff members must learn the names of every tea on offer, as well as how to brew and keep tea to produce the best quality. Hùng told me that it often takes newcomers from 1.5 to 2 months to get used to the position. Once they eventually depart the teahouse to follow other life endeavors, they also carry with them a deep appreciation for tea and Góc Nhà.

Tầm told me the stories of her past employees who went on to study abroad, but still brought along tea leaves to drink, to the amazement of foreign friends. Some incorporate tea time as a daily routine and thus bringing Vietnamese tea culture to every nation they set foot in. Gradually, the common notion that tea is just confined to the free beverage on offer at food stalls has become less common, replaced by the confident and impassioned orders of young Vietnamese who are well-versed in their own tea heritage. Perhaps, this is the sanguine change that Hùng and Tầm have been chasing since their humble beginning.

During the first few visits here, I honestly didn’t pay too much attention to what I was drinking, because I was occupied by my own problems. I made an attempt later to approach tea drinking as an exercise in honing patience and leaving behind daily struggles, because “tea can be both fast and slow,” as Hùng shared with me. To get the most out of tea leaves, one needs to learn the virtue of temperance. If one tries to rush the process, the tea won’t have time to cool off, and the drinker ends up with burns and breakages. If left out too long, the tea gets stale and no longer tastes the best. One day, maybe I’ll learn to apply temperance to my own life too, the way I’ve always done with tea.

Góc Nhà Tụi Mình is open from 7am to 10pm every day.

This article was originally published in 2023.

To sum up:

Taste: 5/5
Price: 5/5
Atmosphere: 5/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 5/5

Góc Nhà Tụi Mình

36 Lê Duẩn, Hải Châu 1, Hải Châu, Đà Nẵng

Bánh Thuẫn Anchors Central Vietnam Kids' Tết Anticipation and Childhood Joy

2026-02-05T14:00:00+07:00

Bánh chưng and bánh tét are the two reigning monarchs of Tết food, representing the north and south of Vietnam. Still, not many know that in Central Vietnam, there are a plethora of Tết treats that are just as iconic, such as bánh thuẫn. To celebrate the new year, central families display a plate of bánh thuẫn in the living room to honor ancestors, entice visitors, and reward kids for their good behaviors.

It’s the last month of the lunar calendar, the most joyous time of the year. Everywhere in Central Vietnam, kitchens are constantly baking. The neighborhood smells of burning charcoal, gingery caramel, sticky rice paste, and mung beans; the air is filled with the sounds of excited banters, clinking pots and pans, sizzling batter, and the pops of firewood stoves — everything becomes a harmonious background in a timeless Tết musical special.

Bánh thuẫn somewhat mirrors the shape of an apricot blossom. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

Bánh thuẫn takes the form of a golden five-petal apricot blossom, so our ancestors saw it as a symbol of good fortune, luck, and prosperity in a new year. Central Vietnam tends to call things for what they are: the molds to make this pastry is oval-shaped, also known as “thuẫn-shaped” in Vietnamese, so the thing that comes out of them is called bánh thuẫn.

Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

The typical ingredients include arrowroot flour (bột bình tinh), chicken or duck eggs, sugar, and ginger. People often call it “the pastry that comes straight from the garden” because a shopping trip is not necessary to procure the key components to make it.

You get the flour from pulverizing the bình tinh tuber (Maranta arundinacea). The plant grows in thick clumps, producing white elongated rhizomes. Arrowroot flour is not just a baking ingredient, but also a coating powder for deep-frying, and a thickening agent in desserts. It is the heart of bánh thuẫn and the deciding factor whether the resulting product can fluff up or not.

Bánh thuẫn “rises” into petals. Photo via Quảng Nam Online Portal.

Preparing the batter is both fun and time-consuming. Before, every step required human labor instead of appliances like today, so the process consumed more time and effort. But being there from start to finish also created fond memories for everyone involved, no matter how old they get or how far they’ve traveled from home. First, whip the eggs until the mixture turns spongy and as light as cotton. During whisk-less times, people had a secret homemade “weapon”: bundles of chopsticks. Ten in each hand, they form a powerful tool to aerate the eggs. Once the texture is ideal, add the flour, sugar and ginger. More whipping is needed until the batter comes out viscous, golden, and uniform.

Bánh thuẫn is baked on firewood stoves. Photo via Pexel.

Finally, the baking begins. I think the tastiest bánh thuẫn hails from firewood stoves. Bánh thuẫn molds are often made of cast iron, with a thick bottom and 8 or 16 hollow segments on top. Grease the surface with a thin layer of peanut oil and then ladle the batter into the holes. Put the lid back on and then weigh the entire thing down with hot coals.

The dual heat from below and above makes quick work of the eggy batter. A special feeling swelled in me whenever it was time to take the lid off. The kids gather around the stove, whispering to one another: “Why do I feel so nervous? I don’t know if mom’s batter will fluff or become deflated like Aunt Sáu’s.”

Bánh thuẫn encapsulates the Tết joy of Central Vietnam kids. Illustration by Ngọc Tạ.

Children in Central Vietnam have a unique hobby that takes place during the last month of the lunar calendar: going door-to-door to watch bánh thuẫn baking — The Great Miền Trung Bake Off, if you will. Which family's batter is lumpy, which family's pastry is half-baked, which family produces the prettiest dough, the kids have the receipts.

Naturally, the unlidding is a moment that rouses them the most. One would cover her eyes, one can’t stop giving commentary, one has to hold his breath, and, once the lid’s off, they burst into cheers and hugs like football fanatics celebrating a goal. “It’s risen! It’s risen,” they chant. They watch the batter rise with the same anticipation of a plant lover waiting for the first mai blossom to unfurl on the first day of Tết.

Bánh thuẫn is inherently a dry pastry. Photo via Người Lao Động.

A freshly baked bánh thuẫn is called a wet bánh thuẫn, with a texture as soft as sponge cake. Alas, the wet version will spoil easily, so it’s often dehydrated to increase the shelf life. Fresh pastries are arranged on a large bamboo tray and put on top of a low charcoal fire. They slowly dry out and become desiccated — dry bánh thuẫn. I remember my first encounter with them, a gift from my grandma. I thought this batch was spoiled. They look like little sponge cakes, but also arid. The first bite was crumbly and dry, but tasted magical.

The pastry melted in my mouth, alerting every taste bud of the flavor of egg, sugar, and a little zesty ginger. The aroma stayed at the tip of the tongue as the sweetness traveled down my throat. I devoured one, then a second one, and then a fourth and a fifth in the blink of an eye. Adults often enjoy dry bánh thuẫn with hot tea, but for children, washing them down with just tap water is enough.

Bánh thuẫn on sale at Bà Hoa Market in Tân Bình, HCMC. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Living far away from home, I think of the bags of bánh thuẫn as emotional triggers for my homesickness. I miss my grandma and my mom, who work all day to make the batter and bake the bánh. I miss the memories of my childhood, when I too was part of its making, an experience both tiring and exciting. Our Tết joys were simpler back then: wearing pretty clothes, going out of the house, and eating tasty pastry.

Sometimes when I have a sudden craving for bánh thuẫn, I would drive to Bà Hoa Market, Saigon’s famous corner of Central Vietnam treats. It might not taste exactly like my hometown’s version, but it helps abate the missing.

The First Asian in Space Was Vietnamese. He’s Still Alive Today.

2026-02-03T12:00:00+07:00

Most Vietnamese schoolkids grew up learning about Phạm Tuân as the first Vietnamese in space, but few know that he was also the first Asian person to clinch the honor.

Born in 1947 in Thái Bình, Phạm Tuân joined the air force and graduated from the Krasnodar Flight School in the Soviet Union as a MiG-17 pilot in 1967. He became a lieutenant colonel before being sent to the USSR-Vietnamese joint space program to train as a research cosmonaut.

In 1979, he was chosen as a crew member of the 6^th international spaceflight as part of the Interkosmos (Интеркосмос) program. On July 23, 1980, Phạm Tuân and Soviet cosmonaut Viktor Gorbatko were launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome (Kazakhstan) on board the Soyuz 37 mission.

Soviet cosmonaut Valery Ryumin (left) welcomes Tuân (middle) and Gorbatko (right) to Salyut.

They successfully docked at the Salyut 6 space station, stayed for seven days, and returned on July 31, making Tuân the first Asian and Vietnamese to travel into space.

Interkosmos, founded in 1967 at the peak of the Cold War-era “Space Race” between the US and the USSR, was established by the Union to promote cooperation among socialist countries in space exploration and research.

As part of Interkosmos, USSR cosmonauts accompanied non-Soviet companions on routine crew missions. Participants were selected from members of the Eastern Bloc and countries of the Non-Aligned Movement. Under the initiative, many early milestones in space travel were recorded, such as the first non-US/USSR person in space (Vladimír Remek of Czechoslovakia), the first black-Hispanic person in space (Arnaldo Tamayo Méndez of Cuba), and Phạm Tuân as the first Asian.

The pair being interviewed by Soviet reporters after returning.

While in the orbiting facility, Tuân conducted scientific experiments on mineral melting in microgravity; studied azolla, an aquatic fern; and photographed Vietnam from space for cartography.

Before retiring in 2008, Tuân held the rank of Lieutenant General. He lives in Hanoi with his wife and two children. He’s shared in interviews that he still keeps a close friendship with his Russian cosmonaut friends and travels to meet them every year.

An archive photo of the pair in 1980 with their autographs.

To date, only three people of Vietnamese descent have been to space: Phạm Tuân (1980), American biochemist Eugene Huu-Chau Trinh (1992), and most recently, American activist Amanda Nguyen (2025).

Photos via khoahoc.tv.