Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Review: From Czechia, ‘Trường Hè, 2001’ Bridges Family Divides, Both Onscreen and in Real Life

2026-06-26T15:00:00+07:00

Summer School, 2001, directed by Czech-Vietnamese writer and director Dužan Duong, was first released last year and has received critical acclaim within the Czech Republic and Europe. Now, the film has come to Vietnam, where it is available in Galaxy, Cinestar, and Beta theaters across Saigon, Hanoi and Đà Nẵng.

Summer School, 2001 (Trường hè, 2001 / Letní škola, 2001) takes place in Cheb, a small town in the Czech Republic near the German border, where a family of Vietnamese immigrants sell cheap counterfeit goods at a local marketplace. It is the summer of 2001. After having spent the past ten years in Vietnam living with his grandparents, 17-year-old Kiên finally returns to unite with his family. He is no longer the child that his parents last saw, but now a grown young man with pierced ears and flashy red-dyed hair. That summer, Kiên and his ten-year-old younger brother Tài attend a local summer school to improve their Czech.

The movie poster.

What unfolds in the course of the film is a family drama, shaped by tensions and antagonisms between the male family members. Kiên despises his father for having sent him away to Vietnam alone, while his father feels increasingly self-conscious and ostracized within the Vietnamese community, not only due to rumors of his involvement in plans to demolish the marketplace, but also for his older son’s unapologetic and eccentric style and appearance — about whom he overhears friends making homophobic comments. The tensions between Kiên and his father also spill over to Kiên’s relationship with his brother, whose need for a hearing aid and its financial costs Kiên seems to blame for why he was sent to Vietnam.

From left to right: Dũng (Doãn Hoàng Anh), Kiên (Bùi Thế Dương), Tài (Tô Tiến Tài), and Lan (Lê Quỳnh Lan).

The film is structured in three sequences, each told from the perspective of one of the main characters: Kiên’s father Dũng, Kiên’s brother Tài, and Kiên. The film’s structure is no doubt key to its capacity to startle and stagger readers, the ways in which it continuously builds and breaks tension. Each perspective builds upon the others, bringing to light what had previously been unseen, unsaid, unfelt. Indeed, much of the family’s conflicts are fueled by miscommunication, or rather, their aversion to communication. Yet at the same time, one wonders how that could at all have been avoided following a decade of separation.

Saigoneer had the opportunity to speak with Bùi Thế Dương, the actor who play Kiên, who recounted some fascinating aspects of the coming-to-be of the film. Funnily enough, when he was cast for the role of Kiên, the director had no idea that Dương’s own story had a lot in common with Kiên’s. “I was born in Vietnam, and I lived with my parents until I was around four years old. Then they moved to the Czech Republic to work. In my real-life story, they tried to bring me there when I was five or six, but they couldn’t because it was around 2008, and there was the financial crisis and everything, so I wasn’t able to go. Then, when I was 12, they finally brought me there,” he explained. “In that way, my story is kind of similar to the main character in the movie. Of course, it’s not exactly the same as what happens in the film, especially because I arrived later, around 2015, but summer school still exists in many forms. It’s not always literally a school. It can also be a group for people who want to learn Czech. I think my life story isn’t as dramatic as the main character’s, but it’s very similar.”

Having grown up in Vietnam, Kiên finds it hard to adjust to his new life in Europe.

Dương was first cast for a teaser film meant to raise funds for the actual movie, the production of which was not guaranteed at that point. Surprisingly, before Summer School 2001, he had no acting experience, nor did he think he would pursue a career in one. Indeed, he somewhat randomly signed up for auditions after stumbling upon a Facebook post advertising auditions.

Viewers may be surprised to learn that Dương is not the only one who is new to acting in the film. With the exception of two characters — the father and his boss — all of the characters are played by individuals with no prior acting experience; according to Dương, Dužan prefers to call them “naturals” as opposed to “non-professional actors.” This is remarkable, not least of all for the fact that, speaking for myself here, at no point in the film did I ever doubt the actors’ credentials nor feel the acting to be amateurish. This is perhaps most impressive in the performance of child actor Tô Tiến Tài as Kiên’s younger brother Tài, who undertook the seemingly oxymoronic task of performing innocence — and its capacity for both anguish and jubilation.

Tài is a breakout star.

Although the film is almost entirely in Vietnamese, the original script was written entirely in Czech. Given the director’s limited Vietnamese, actors were thus given the ability to improvise and create their own lines, based on the general shape of the plot. In Dương’s case, he did not even read the script: “I saw the script, and I was like, no way.” He elaborated, “Maybe I just love being in front of the camera. I could do it somehow, and it felt natural. I don’t know. Also, Dužan helped me a lot when we were filming.”

The movie also explores Kiên's romantic connection too.

The reception of the film in the Czech Republic has been overwhelmingly positive. The film received eight nominations at the 2025 Czech Lion Awards and was nominated this year for two Czech Film Critics’ Awards. The film’s director Dužan attributes the Czech support and enthusiasm for the film to the fact that it offered an avenue for the Czech public to get a glimpse into the inner life of the Czech-Viet community, who are relied upon for mini-markets that are open all the time, as well as for delicious Vietnamese food, which has become a staple in the Czech food landscape. The beginnings of the Vietnamese population in the Czech Republic roots back to when Vietnam began sending students and workers to what was formerly Czechoslovakia as part of a framework of workforce exchange programs between communist countries. Summer School, 2001 is notable in that it is the first Czech-Vietnamese film with meaningful Vietnamese representation to have been shown in mainstream cinemas in the Czech Republic.

“When we brought the film to cinemas in the Czech Republic,” Dương remarked, “a lot of people told us, ‘This is the first time I’ve brought my parents to the cinema.’ Before, their parents didn’t speak Czech, so going to the cinema wasn’t really something they did.” And in fact, that was precisely the experience of Dương’s own family with the film. He recalled the experience: “Afterward, they were all crying. They came to me, hugged me, and I felt so grateful to have been part of the movie. Actually, I think maybe we broke through a thin wall between us. As I said, I didn’t live with them throughout my childhood, so for some periods we didn’t get along very well. The movie gave us a chance to sit down and really talk to each other.”

Childhood and family connection are two main themes of Summer School, 2001.

Of course, the film will inevitably carry different meanings for audiences in Vietnam and the Czech Republic. But for Dương, at its core, the message of the film remains the same. “The film is actually about a family struggling with a lack of communication and connection, and in the end, they find their way back to each other. That was something I also talked about in the Czech Republic, because a lot of parents there don’t have enough time for their kids. I think it’s similar in Vietnam, too. Usually, parents go out to work while the kids are at school or home alone. I wouldn’t say that breaks the relationship, but it can make it harder to build a strong connection… Their love language is often, ‘I’m taking care of you.’ But kids also need emotional connection and family bonding. I hope people can become closer to each other, or maybe talk more, after watching the movie. Yeah, that’s the whole point of the film.”

Images courtesy of Spring Auteurs.

Family-Friendly Summer Vacations Made Easy at Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay

2026-06-26T09:41:00+07:00

The ripening of sweet jackfruit, mangosteen and mangos; hammocks swinging gently in patches of cool shade; and evenings that stretch on with the comfort of knowing there is no alarm clock waiting the next morning: summer arrives as opportunity. When school holidays begin, families scramble to adjust schedules and secure care and activities, creating the potential to carve out some time for a vacation to savor fresh air, explore thrills, and simply bond as a family in a beautiful destination.

Intended to rejuvenate and reduce stress, if not considered carefully, vacations have the potential to be an onerous undertaking rife with planning chores and the challenges of satisfying all members of a large, diverse group. You could spend more time searching websites, creating itineraries and fretting over people’s comfort than actually relaxing. Instead, to ensure a trip where a warm and carefree atmosphere fosters wholesome togetherness, many families select a destination built for such activities.

Phú Quốc long ago shook off its sleepy fishing village and colonial turtle harvesting reputation to position itself as one of Vietnam’s leading spots for clean beaches, crystal-clear water, fresh air, and an abundance of family-friendly activities. An expanded airport, theatre, conference center and infrastructure developments ahead of the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Summit next year, combined with measures to protect tourists, all underscore the nation’s commitment to establishing Phú Quốc as one of the nation’s premier vacation destinations.

First-time visitors to Phú Quốc are often surprised at its size. At 575 square kilometers, the island is large enough for different areas to have developed particular priorities, and selecting a location that best suits your family’s interests is essential. Positioned on the northwestern side of the island, famed for its sunsets, Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay, is suited to parents who want to avoid tiresome planning and the rambunctious travelers that stay closer to the town in the south. Simply pack comfortable clothes and sunscreen and then, from days at the theme parks to restaurants with a wide selection of meals for all preferences, the destination makes everything else seamless.

Staying on the northern part of the island places you just minutes away from a multitude of local attractions, including the safari, theme parks, and Grand World night market. For fresh air and a touch of nature, sim, pepper and bee farms are nearby as is the national park. Such accessibility makes vacation days particularly easy; just decide what time you want to wake up for a delicious, complimentary buffet breakfast and then head out for a day of unfettered smiles and giggles.

Of course, you don’t need to leave the resort to ensure you make the most of your vacation. Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay features many kid-friendly activities on-site, including indoor and outdoor kids clubs, workshops, outdoor games, and a cozy game room for the warmest hours of the day. While children are busy making the most of their unencumbered youths, parents can also enjoy days without meetings, tasks, and deadlines by visiting the Hoa Sim spa, 24-hour gym or library corner as well as head off to the nearby golf course.

The most enticing attraction of all at Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay is obvious: the ocean. Seen from the beachfront resort’s spacious balconies and large windows, the sea is a shimmering skein of impermanence, its waves wistful reminders of the preciousness of each lifespan. But crossing the private beach’s soft sand and diving into its subtle currents transforms the sea from an imposing metaphor to a place for splashing, floating, and playing. The pleasures of cool water on hot days don’t require the ocean, however. Outdoor pools, including one designated for children, offer the joys of swimming while hearing the soft crash of waves, without the sand, salt, and undertows.

Whether you spend your day at an amusement park, lounging on the beach, or sitting at a table playing board games with your family, you are certain to work up an appetite. Another particular joy of vacation is not having to cook and wash dishes, and Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay makes it even easier via its range of dining options that satisfy different moods and preferences. To truly feel like you are at the beach, you will surely desire something caught fresh from the ocean. The Horizons Restaurant & Bar, a cozy, refined setting for intimate dining and small celebrations, offers a rotating semi-buffet dinner that showcases the flavors of Vietnam, Korea, Japan, France, and Italy, with each evening presenting a thoughtful selection of dishes inspired by each cuisine. Meanwhile, the Amber Sands Beach Club serves fresh, locally sourced Vietnamese seafood in a relaxed atmosphere with a beachfront view. A private BBQ dinner can be arranged in your villa to add another layer of specialness and inclusion to your family vacation experience.

Summers, like childhoods, are short and vacations are rare. Selecting a family resort in Phú Quốc ensures one makes the absolute most of the privilege. Thanks to Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay’s comfortable, spacious rooms, stunning sunset views of a private beach, easy access to kid-friendly activities, an inviting spa, and delicious food, staying at the resort is like approaching the holiday on “easy mode.” All you need to worry about is taking a lot of photos to remember the joyous occasion.

Summer in Phú Quốc awaits with Room Offers at Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc

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Crowne Plaza Phu Quoc Starbay, Bai Dai Area, Phú Quốc, An Giang, Vietnam

In Suburban Hanoi, With Summer Comes the Red-Purple Cascade of Mulberries

2026-06-24T12:30:00+07:00

In suburban Hanoi, this is the season when mulberry branches heavy with bright red fruits dangle in the summer wind.

The sunshine of April arrived with blasts of sweltering heat, dispelling the waterlogged curtain of March’s humidity. It was officially summer in Hanoi, a time for countless types of fresh fruits to showcase their vivid ripeness on the streets in town, competing with the mauve of jacaranda and the golden yellow of hoàng yến.

Ripe mulberries are a harbinger of summer.

Compared to the season’s usual players like pineapple, lychee, longan and mận hậu, mulberry’s entrance to the capital’s fruit shops and traditional markets has been quicker than most. Northern Vietnam’s mulberry season spans not even a month from the end of March to the beginning of April. Mulberry ripens fast, and falls and bruises easily, so its shelf-life is short. Each day’s mulberry harvest must be shipped off within a few hours. Mulberries are juicy, refreshing, and full of good vitamins, so families often process them into preserves and syrups to increase their life spans. Ice-cold, sweet-and-sour glasses of purple mulberry juice are a popular way for Hanoians to soothe their parched throats in the summer, dispelling the heat and stuffiness of weather changes.

Mulberry juice is a fantastic third-quencher.

Behind the flashy appearance of mulberries at mobile vendors is throngs of farmers hard at work at their plantations just 30 kilometers from central Hanoi. In patches of land by the Đáy River such as Dương Liễu Commune (Hoài Đức District) and Hiệp Thuận Commune (Phúc Thọ District), mulberry plantations pour greenness towards the horizon. The quietude of the countryside poses a stark contrast with the chaotic traffic and people of inner Hanoi. Amidst the vastness of the land, one can only hear the buzz of cicadas, the soft hum of the wind, and the occasional call of farmers on the fields.

The banks of the Đáy River are the home of Hanoi's major mulberry plantations.

Here, farmland is irrigated year-round by the placid Đáy River. The riverside delta is home to Hanoi’s sought-after mulberries, believed to be juicier and sweeter than anywhere else. As one walks farther into the plantations, the air is thick with the aroma of ripe berries, natural vegetation, and toasty summer sunlight. Rows of mulberry trees are planted neatly, though they barely exceed the average human height. Ripening fruits hug the branch in scarlet clusters. From the main trunck, small offshoots meander over the ground, interweaving like red garlands.

Pickers must hurry to race against the mulberries' delicate constitution.

Each mulberry is just a few knuckles long; the smallest is as tiny as the pinky finger, while the biggest can reach the size of the middle finger. How productive the trees are highly depends on the weather. Sunnier years will yield sweeter, juicer harvest than those when rain is the prevailing weather pattern. In between picking sessions, I can see the bright smiles of the berry pickers when they get to reap the sweet rewards of their labor.

Ripe berries cover every branch.

Mulberry is easy to grow and to care for.

Only after I managed to pay a visit to the hometown of Hanoi’s mulberries could I bear witness to the urgency in the farmers’ work in order to beat the ripening rate of the berries. Paying no mind to the searing sun, they can’t waste any moment, toiling in the plantation from 6am to 6pm to pick berries. Larger gardens might need additional workers to catch up, even with a picking speed of 20–30 kilograms per day. Their fingers nimbly maneuver in between branches to pluck out the mulberries, careful not to bruise them before they get into boxes. Every palm is painted with the intense red-purple of mulberry juice. The fruits are boxed up immediately to catch the next bus trip to the city. Each mulberry tree can provide around 80 kilograms of fruit per season. “Picking mulberries is not difficult, but you must be really delicate so they get to consumers when they’re still fresh,” Vân, a picker, told me.

Harvesting the berries is not tough but the fruits bruise easily.

“Mulberry is the only fruit that’s immediately polished off the moment we finish picking. I’m never afraid nobody would buy them. People take these home to make preserves and syrup. Some manufacturers of canned drinks and fruit wines also buy straight from the plantation,” the farmers shared as they were weighing their harvest. Thanks to suitable weather, this year’s yield is 1.5 that of last year.

Freshly picked berries are immediately bought by wholesalers.

Mulberry likes humidity, sun, and heat, so trees are often cultivated next to rivers. It’s also easy to care for with relatively low costs involved. The delta by the Đáy River has been the most major birthing ground of Hanoi’s mulberries. Here, traditionally, farmers merely grew mulberries to collect their leaves to feed silkworms; planting them for fruits has only been around for the past 15 years. This experiment has been fruitful in both meanings of the word. Since then, Dương Liễu and Hiệp Thuận berries have traveled all over Hanoi and even southwards. Mulberries emerging from the Đáy River delta not only lend their sweet taste to the northern summer, but also contribute greatly to the local economy.

Each plant yields about 80 kilograms per season.

After a fruiting season, heritage mulberry trees are pruned to help them preserve energy for next year’s summer. The cycle continues every year: with summer comes the verdant green of mulberry plantations, and then the striking red shade of ripening berries. Mulberry season goes away as quickly as it comes, leaving fans yearning for a taste for the rest of the year.

This article was originally published in 2024.

This Wedding Is Too Boring to Nhậu, Let's Put on Some Miền Tây Remix

2026-06-24T11:55:47+07:00

While phasing in and out of sleep on a coach in the Mekong Delta, have you ever been jolted awake by the bouncing beats of a Vinahouse version of ‘Quê em mùa nước lũ’ (Flooding Season in My Hometown)? Or, a mindless TikTok scroll would bring up the catchy tune of ‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ (Pass Me the Sewing Needle) that’s trending nationwide.

As an emerging genre, miền Tây remix has seeped everywhere in our daily life, from nhậu spots to wedding receptions, from street karaoke to social media charts. The thunderous bass is accompanied by a dulcet vocalist crooning about the colorful life along the Mekong Delta and making everyone curious about the southern way of life. How has miền Tây remix managed to charm even segments of the society that are usually indifferent to it?

Image via YouTube channel Miền Tây Remix.

Miền Tây, but not remixed, yet

Đờn ca tài tử is perhaps the most recognized art form to come out of the rich musical landscape of the Mekong Delta through history. The genre attracts listeners thanks to its layered instrumentation and distinctive singing style. Musical instruments like đàn kìm, đàn cò, đàn tranh and đàn bầu often accompany đờn ca tài tử performances using the pentatonic scale (hò xự xang xê cống).

It’s also important to note that, right from its early days, đờn ca tài tử has never been confined to stuffy amphitheaters, but was born right at drinking sessions and fields huts after fieldwork was done. The fundamentals of southern music have always been rooted in the community, its core principles forged on kinship and human connection. This festive spirit helps propel the traditional sounds of the south right into today’s entertainment sensibilities.

Đờn ca tài tử is a major part of music culture in the south. Photo via TTX Vietnam.

Remix never dies

Southern Vietnamese are notoriously convivial, and this conviviality means that they often do not care for the distinction between old and new. Music in the south is born for the party table, so when the time requires it to evolve to be more energetic, đờn ca and its traditional peers will rise to the occasion via different evolutions. The miền Tây remix trend stems from this need to electronify southern tunes.

Riding the wave of electronic music, countryside DJs started to reshape folk melodies into upbeat remixes that are familiar yet livelier to satisfy the need for club bangers. A melodramatic and tragic cải lương classic like Võ Đông Sơ - Bạch Thu Hà even got remixed three times.

Miền Tây remix is specifically created for festive, rambunctious occasions, especially wedding parties or Tết gatherings. In the Mekong region, weddings are major milestones that can stretch for two or three days of revelry, feasting, dancing, and singing by the newlyweds, their families and guests. Unsuspecting visitors during these periods might be easily swept up by the “tornado of hospitality” distinctive to miền Tây. Southerners are welcoming by nature, but with a little alcohol in their system, everybody becomes family in their eyes. Anyone who’s been to a Mekong wedding, be it Vietnamese from other regions or foreign travelers, would leave with perhaps some of the strangest memories of their life, ones that are filled with miền Tây remix earworms that are both folksy and high-energy.

Most remix songs are characterized by a fast-paced, repetitive beat and straightforward lyrics that are easy to learn, guess and follow along — especially engineered so the crowd can get into the mood and sing along as quickly as possible. The climax is the most anticipated moment, when everyone holds their breaths for a few seconds before exploding in cheer when the beat drops, despite not knowing how the music will transform. Critics are usually leery of miền Tây remix because of its formulaic recipe, which is not an unfair assessment, but that is by design.

Miền Tây remixes are often criticized as lacking creativity due to their repetitive beats, overused melodies, and cliched themes, but those attributes help the songs stay simple and easy to memorize so they can appeal to the narrow common denominator of the mass. If one can put aside the need for artistic merits, it might be easier to accept that these musical formulae are very effective tools to connect people, thereby helping the songs achieve their human-centered mission.

A musical identity rooted in marrying and drinking

Knowing the music taste of miền Tây listeners, songwriters often focus on the theme of relationships in the lyrics, such as weddings, watching an old flame marry a new lover, or pulling an all-nighter boozing with the squad. Regardless of the topic, the melody must be catchy, lest the remixer steal one’s thunder by attracting more attention with a banger makeover.’

Nhậu, romance, and weddings are the content pillars of miền Tây remix. Image via YouTube channel AC Media and G5R Remix.

Some examples of romance-forward narratives include ‘Muốn cua anh làm bồ’ (I want to woo you) by Dương Ái Vy: “Nè gật đầu cho suôn, sang năm mình làm đám cưới luôn / Hey just give me a nod upfront, next year we’ll wed at once.” In ‘Rồi tới luôn’ (Take the next step) by Nal, the courting is even bolder: “Em ơi em ở đâu anh mang trầu cau qua anh rước dâu luôn / Baby where are you, I’ll bring the trầu cau over to ask for your hand.” Phát Hồ is even more eager to get hitched in ‘Yêu là cưới’ (To love is to marry): “Yêu là cưới trên dưới hai là làm sui, rượu bia chơi láng chín tháng mười ngày có cục cưng nuôi / To love is to marry. Our parents will be in-laws. When the drinks flow freely, nine months are all it takes for a baby.”

In a different context, the genre shifts to fully celebrate booze and nhậu culture, like in ‘Hết sảy miền Tây’ (Miền Tây the GOAT) by Tracy Thảo My: “Anh cứ nhậu thoải mái, có xỉn em vào thay / Baby just drink to your heart’s content, once you’re down I’ll take your place.” This track’s bright spot is how it incorporates traditional cải lương tunes to accompany tongue-in-cheek lyrics that stay true to the youthful spirits of today. ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk again) by Võ Lê Mi, on the other hand, playfully features “hic” sounds in the production to emulate the comical hiccups of drunkenness.

Each of the above-mentioned hits amasses anything from several to dozens of millions of views on YouTube, proof of their catchiness and virality. For sure, these impressive figures are impossible to achieve without the contributions of the constant streaming of barber shops, lunchtime meals beside a mug of sweet tea, boisterous feasts, and the playlist of children of the Mekong bringing their hometowns’ favorite tunes to Saigon.

Reinforcing the southern identity visually

Besides employing familiar southern folk music and lyrical narratives, miền Tây-style electronic also lionizes the region’s cultural identity via visual language, especially in the music videos accompanying the songs.

While the original video usually tells the story via a skit, such as ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk Again), the remixed version will opt for a different direction.

In the remix, Võ Lê Mi decided to take her music as close as possible to its real-life application by re-enacting an entire Mekong-style wedding. The bride wears a festive gown and gold bracelets all across her arms while dancing her heart out on stage with a mug of beer. This would not be a foreign sight if you’ve been to any wedding party in miền Tây.

If a wedding scene is not the first choice, then it would definitely be a countryside landscape, complete with elements often seen in rural Mekong, such as straw mounds and bamboo thickets. In Tracy Thảo My’s music video, such tranquil scenes play background to her hip sways and hand gestures.

In conclusion, both the music and visual sides of miền Tây remix closely follow the people’s everyday culture, be it well-recognized landscapes or energetic wedding parties — with the added dance moves from clubs and discos.

From the southwest to the world

Miền Tây electronic doesn’t need a coat of glamorizing paint to exist today. The genre finds inspiration in the familiar sounds from the past and reshapes them into simple, straightforward remixes so accessible that anybody can vibe to them, even if it is their first listen. Over time, these tunes have transcended the boundaries of matrimonies or family feasts to infect streaming services and the general public.

When a female DJ known for her hip-hop work wants to fire up a set especially curated to spotlight Mekong wedding culture, she would proudly invest in a bà ba pajamas set, checkered scarves, and golden bracelets, just to complete the visuals often associated with a southern party.

The rising popularity of miền Tây remix is best demonstrated in TikTok’s trendy dance challenges, where new music can spread at the speed of sound. Once a 15-second chorus goes viral thanks to a famous creator’s video, countless others would join in. Thanks to its inherently catchy melodies, miền Tây remix is welcoming to everyone. From edgy rappers to showbiz darlings, I’ve seen many instances where social media users dance to songs that seemingly do not match their vibes.

@thuanzilo Lấy cây kim may đồ ???????????? #thuận_zilo ♬ nhạc nền - Thuận Zilo ????

‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ is a miền Tây remix track that went viral on TikTok. Video via TikTok user @thuanzilo.

The most interesting phenomenon for me when it comes to the social impacts of miền Tây remix is how a friend once admitted to me that she really needs miền Tây electronic to… focus on her homework. “I can only focus with this upbeat kind of music. It hits hard but also is kind of monotonous, making me feel awake,” she said. Perhaps this could be an untapped potential for miền Tây music, a brand-new kind of white noise to help young Vietnamese focus?

Review: Horror Game 'Tai Ương' Exposes the Good, the Bad and the Ugly of Our Culture

2026-06-23T16:00:00+07:00

Natural disasters, illnesses, accidents, breakages, or even deaths: when a series of consecutive tragedies engulf a family, it’s often said that tai ương has befallen the unfornate victims. The term is also the name of a recently published Vietnamese horror game that has been making waves amongst gaming communities both nationwide and internationally, thanks to its layered narrative, chilling atmosphere, and meticulously crafted game environment.

Tai Ương is an especially fitting title considering the mysterious deaths that plague the family of young Lê Đặng Nhật Huy. Upon starting the game, new players are immediately transported into the first-person perspective of Huy, amid the funeral of both his parents, Nhật and Loan. On the side is a smaller shrine to his younger sister, Huyên, whose passing preceded theirs not by much. Even though the window is wide open, letting in a stream of bright sunlight, the room feels oppressively claustrophobic, compressed by the caskets and altars.

A double funeral is the first thing players experience in game.

You take a few steps to arrive in front of their framed photos and kneel down to bow. On the last bow, you open your eyes just to catch a glimpse, in the peripheral of your vision, of the bloody body of Huyên where her altar sits. You start to suspect something is amiss about her death. Later, you move away from home to a rental and embark on a journey into lucid dreaming at the behest of an eccentric medium, in hopes of unraveling the enigma behind your family’s tragedies.

When everyday norms become corrupted

The first chapter of Tai Ương (The Scourge) begins in a fashion entirely familiar to fans of horror cinema and games: a supernatural encounter compels a main character to find answers, just to learn that some curiosities are perhaps best left unsatiated. Nonetheless, Rare Reversee Gaming and Beaztek Studio, the indie teams behind the production, chose to execute this common hook in an exciting, unprecedentedly Vietnamese setting.

The setting is inspired by old apartment blocks in Saigon from the 1990s.

Tai Ương is without a doubt the most impressive portrayal of Vietnam we have been blessed with in a game to date. Some standout set designs include the 1990s home where the family lived when Huy was first born, the gritty Saigon tenement that acts as the story’s setting, and the hellish dreamscapes that Huy wades through in the last chapter. In other creative mediums, like cinema or literature, faithful recreations of our everyday realities in Vietnam are a great cause for delight and perhaps even pride, but in a horror role-playing game, the more that the character is going through parallels with real life, the more heightened the sense of uncanny dread.

A Honda Cub was a signifier of wealth when Vietnam first became open again.

The environment of Tai Ương is familiar in the most frightening way: Vietnamese players will immediately connect with the little decorations and design of the game. Here is the dimly lit corridor you might have played hide-and-seek with friends. There, a mid-century bookshelf that once housed your school certificates and childhood toys. Over there, on the altar, a platter of bananas sits amid photo frames. But wait, did the eyes in the photos just move?

How many things do you recognize from this image?

The puzzles in Tai Ương are overall not too complicated, but for the majority of the game, there is little to no instruction, leaving players to figure out what to do by painstakingly ransacking every nook and cranny of the setting to look for clues and hints, and by dying repeatedly at the hands of the villain.

This process of exploration, however, is not tedious and can be quite intriguing for those patient enough to do a little homework while playing: the game setting is enriched with a motherlode of lore-building fragments that come in a variety of shapes and forms, such as newspaper cutouts, handwritten letters, torn photographs, and even a radio program telling ghostly stories. As Huy progresses through the stages, players will discover alongside him in real time the bits and pieces that reveal the darker sides of his family dynamics.

There's a lot (quite literally) to learn about this dysfunctional family.

My first run at the game was peppered with these little moments of recognition. For one, Saigoneers who grew up in the 1990s will eventually realize that the squalid apartment block in game is inspired by the former President Hotel at 727 Trần Hưng Đạo Street, one that was demolished a few years ago. Just by reading the letters that are scattered across the game levels, there’s also a lot one can learn about Huy’s family history, such as his true parentage or his father’s infidelity, and more.

Ultimately, narrative and lore are two of Tai Ương’s shining strengths that make the role-playing experience rewarding and immersive. Control, physics, and animation, on the other hand, are at times quite underwhelming. The animation is robotic, and the control can be aggravatingly clunky for a game that requires you to sneak around monsters and undertake life-or-death time challenges.

In this nightmare, here is Vietnamese culture, both good and bad

At Saigoneer, we often feel compelled, in everything we do, to showcase Vietnamese culture in its brightest, richest, and most worthy of celebration. It is not a hard job. Vietnam has a rich spiritual life and harbors deep respect for higher beings, as evidenced in our ancestral worship, Đạo Mẫu traditions, and extensive network of temples and pagodas. From young to elderly, members of Vietnamese families are close-knit and highly dependent on one another during hardships. Vietnamese society has a strong sense of community where neighbors, passersby, and even complete strangers can rise to the occasion to care for those in need.

Spirituality is a major part of Vietnamese culture, past or present.

These three qualities are all positive traits, but at times, amid our extolment of their virtues, it’s easy to forget that they too possess a darker side that can take over, causing grievous harm, trauma, or even death. Overindulgence in spirituality breeds superstitions that detach humans from reality. Tight family bonds mean that generational trauma and abuse are just that much harder to escape from. And a society all too eager to involve and pass judgments makes keeping up appearances a desperate and exhausting struggle.

A demonic ritual in the game with architectural elements inspired by Chùa Thầy in Hanoi.

The tragedies in Tai Ương serve as bone-chilling examples of how these ugly sides of Vietnamese culture can drive a family to their gruesome demise. Certainly, the in-game consequences are much more dire, amplified by the manipulations of a demonic supernatural being, but many of Huy’s toxic family dynamics are immediately recognizable in our daily life, sometimes right within the very walls of our home.

Desperate for a son after over a decade of infertility, Nhật and Loan asked a local shaman to perform a perverse dark ritual that resulted in Loan being pregnant with Huy; it’s implied that the shaman sexually abused her. She kept her trauma a secret for fear of public opinions and Nhật’s abusive tendencies. They eventually conceived Huyên naturally, but showed obvious gender bias to Huy. His needs and whims were met without question, sometimes to the detriment of Huyên — like how Loan sold Huyên’s long hair to buy Huy a new pair of shoes, or how Huyên had to quit school during the family’s tough times so they could focus on Huy’s education.

Water puppets are a recurring imagery as stand-ins for human in the dream sequences.

With every memory, family misfortune, and loss that Huy and the player discover in game scenarios, Tai Ương slowly unveils an imperfect family trapped in the confines of societal expectations and their socioeconomic caste. One particular creative decision from the production team that struck a chord with me is how each family member is portrayed in the dreamworld as a water puppet. It demonstrates the team’s conscious effort to keep the setting rooted in our cultural heritage, but also strategically links to the game’s overarching social commentary about their actions — controlled by an unknown force, unable to escape the entrapment of outside expectations.

Even though the story behind Tai Ương is a familiar one, it doesn’t make it easier to live through firsthand. The fast-paced, at times mortally urgent rhythm of the game might make it hard to take a moment to fully appreciate and digest its rich narrative and robust gaming setting, but Tai Ương’s acclaim really comes from the feelings it leaves behind after the fright has faded and the adrenaline has subsided: contemplation, hope, bittersweetness, relief, wistfulness, perhaps a tinge of regret too.

Indie Short Film 'Saigon Kiss' Is a Quintessential Saigon Queer Love Story

2026-06-22T14:00:00+07:00

Is there a meet-cute more characteristically Saigon than a motorbike breakdown and subsequent friendly assist from a stranger?

Such is the premise of how Mơ and Vicky, the romantic interests in the indie short film Saigon Kiss, encountered each other amidst this bustling city of 10 million souls. Saigon Kiss is the brainchild of writer and director Nguyễn Hồng Anh, and producers Nguyễn Thị Xuân Trang and Andrew Lee.

Director Nguyễn Hồng Anh (right) on set.

The film chronicles a chance encounter between martial arts instructor Mơ (Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như) and dancer Vicky (Thương Lê) right on the street of Saigon — hawk-eyed Saigoneers would immediately recognize Thị Nghè Bridge as the venue for this budding romance to bloom. When Vicky’s scooter malfunctions, she is noticed by Mơ and receives the latter’s help to push the bike to a corner repair shop. While waiting for the fix, they get to talking and bonding over their life passions for martial arts and dance.

Nominating bridges as the most romantic venue in Saigon to meet new people.

Edited with a crisp, cozy palette that can pass for a Honda commercial, Saigon Kiss is a quintessential Saigon romance, from the setting, title, to how our queer leads meet. One could also argue that the fact that it’s a same-sex story is also very Saigon, the unofficial queer capital of Vietnam. A “Saigon kiss,” as the production team defines, is a small burn on the inner right calf, typically caused by accidentally bumping into the sizzling exhaust pipe of a motorbike.

Bonding over getting your bike fixed is way better than Tinder.

Saigon Kiss had its international premiere at the 46^th Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival 2024, where it clinched a Special Mention by the Queer Jury. The short was also screened at the BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival in the UK.

Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như plays Mơ and Thương Lê plays Vicky.

“Saigon Kiss is an attempt to take a snapshot of a rapidly changing modern metropolis,” director Hồng Anh writes in the director’s statement. “Like the city, both protagonists, Mơ and Vicky, currently find themselves in a transitional period. Both struggle to find room for themselves to reflect. However, despite the ever-changing landscape and fast pace of this place, they find solace and tenderness in each other's company.”

Watch the short film's trailer below:

Photos courtesy of Saigon Kiss.

WildAct's Trang Nguyễn Turns to Social Media to Inspire a New Generation to Love Nature

2026-06-21T17:00:00+07:00

Dr. Trang Nguyễn — a wildlife conservation scientist with a PhD from Cambridge and the founder of WildAct — needs little introduction. She has been recognized as one of Forbes Asia’s 30 under 30, called a conservation “hero” by Sir David Attenborough on BBC’s Planet Earth III, and had her inspiring story, which includes going undercover to bring down illegal ivory poaching rings in Africa after surviving cancer, covered widely. But much of her work has been behind the scenes or at least in corners devoted to conservations. Her recent arrival on the social media scene, amongst memes, music videos, and TikTok challenges, represents a shift in approach.

The relationship between bees and elephants; an introduction to gibbons and pangolins; why migratory birds are at risk in Vietnam; what a forest patrol team member does on duty; the many ecosystems in a single Vietnamese national park; the daily tasks required to run WildAct; how a pair of conservationists juggle work and marriage; the horrors of shopping mall petting zoos and the impact chocolate can have on biodiversity: these are amongst the many topics populating Trang’s Instagram page. While viewers may end up binging a few dozen, the format and intent are clear after viewing just a few. Narrated by Trang, the upbeat, digestible videos introduce subjects related to Vietnam’s wildlife, conservation challenges, what WildAct does and why, Trang’s personal story and experiences, and some helpful advice for how viewers can act more responsibly.

“In the beginning, I was actually against doing Instagram videos,” Trang says of the steady stream content that began appearing on her personal page several months ago. Noting in an email with Saigoneer that she doesn’t consider herself a media person and does not enjoy making the videos, she explained that it’s all for the greater good. The videos, her team convinced her, “could become a powerful way to bring conservation stories from Vietnam to the public, especially stories that people rarely hear — about rangers, local communities, wildlife trade, or difficult social issues connected to conservation.”

“Different people connect through different mediums. Some people are touched by books, some by films, some by documentaries, some by social media… At the end of the day, I think storytelling is one of the most important parts of conservation. Because people only protect what they care about,” she explained. While it took some convincing from Hoàng Nguyễn, WildAct’s communications and fundraising advisor, Trang eventually acquiesced to lending her image, voice and fame to share stories that endeavor to inspire people into caring.

The aims of the videos are straightforward. First and foremost, Trang wants to make knowledge accessible as part of holistic efforts to foster the love and respect for the natural world required for conservation. Hopefully, the videos will also result in donations that support WildAct’s many efforts which include patrolling forests, research that leads to evidence-based conservation, local and ethnic minority empowerment, women leadership training and empowerment, and broad education initiatives.

Hoàng, the leading charge behind the project, explained the decision to make the videos and the process for recording. He recognized that personal channels are more effective in reaching audiences and decided they should be in English, as opposed to the bilingual posts on WildAct’s Facebook, to reach a wide audience that includes educated Vietnamese. He set an ambitious goal of at least 15 new videos per month, but the WildAct team’s expertise and wealth of material developed for other platforms make this more achievable than it might sound. They write the scripts based on what they’ve published elsewhere or what Trang and the team have discussed in regular meetings. Trang always approves the scripts before shooting, which can take a bit of convincing when they involve her personal life.

While videos touching on Trang’s private affairs, such as one introducing her husband, a conservationist who works with sunbears, attract huge audiences, it is another, more difficult topic that Trang is most proud of. “One of the strongest reactions I received was after we released a video on gender-based violence in the wildlife conservation sector. A lot of people reached out to me privately — through Instagram, emails — sharing their own personal experiences, thanking me for speaking out, and asking me not to stop talking about these issues,” Trang said.

“At the same time, when the video spread more widely in Vietnamese media, there was also a huge amount of backlash and trolling. People reacted very aggressively. But what stayed with me most were the quieter messages from Vietnamese women and conservationists saying: I cannot speak publicly because I’m afraid of the reaction, but I experienced this too. And many told me: ‘Please don’t become silent.’”

Trang’s determination to remain loud not only puts her at risk of public criticism but also leaves her with less time to do what she is truly passionate about. “My perfect working day would honestly be going back 15 years ago — spending months in the forest, following wild animals and observing their behaviour. That was the reason I first fell in love with conservation. It is where my passion is, where my expertise is, and honestly, where I feel happiest. But as you become a manager, a director, or a founder, you slowly lose that privilege. Your days become meetings, fundraising, donor calls, budgets, paperwork, management… and a lot of things you may not even enjoy,” she summarized.

While Trang is upbeat and the team diligent, conservation is hardly a realm of unbridled optimism. Challenges abound. As the nation prioritizes economic growth and societies around the world gravitate to transitory joys that replace human thought with vapid impulses, nature suffers. Hoàng noted that he has the most hope for younger generations who are more open to discussions of sustainability and viewing wildlife as having intrinsic value beyond its use by humans. Once they are in positions of power, they can implement the institutional stewardship necessary to make meaningful change that isn’t beholden to bottom-line economics.

In the meantime, WildAct does what it can while recognizing that energy and attention are expensive, and not all issues are equally surmountable. The rise of shopping mall petting zoos, a key WildAct focus, illustrates how and why they select certain topics. “As a wildlife conservationist, I want to say this clearly: this is a horrible idea, for both animals and children,” Trang says of them in a recent video. The terrors of these set-ups are easy to explain and, when supported by heartbreaking imagery, allow the problem to resonate emotionally. Meanwhile, solutions are accessible and achievable: simply choose not to visit and instead support activities that involve animals in their natural habitats so children can learn about actual behaviors and develop an understanding that animals are not sources of amusement for people, but sensitive living creatures of intrinsic value.

WildAct’s work regarding shopping mall petting zoos can have a significant impact on public perspective and thus impart important change. But small victories such as turning people off these zoos, are not enough. In societies where it's acceptable to lust after US$9,000 a night hotel resorts while organizations struggle to raise the monthly US$300 salary for park rangers who patrol forests protecting endangered species, it’s easy to lose hope.

Trang understood, as she shared with Saigoneer: “I think nowadays it is very easy to feel overwhelmed, disappointed, or even hopeless about the state of the planet. But I think hope is very important. And in order to have hope, you need to act. The good thing is that conservation does not only happen in forests or laboratories. Small daily actions still matter — reducing single-use plastic, consuming less, supporting ethical businesses, changing diets, speaking up for nature, or simply paying more attention to where products come from. Real change happens when people act out of love, empathy, and hope.”

This idea of change occurring from love and hope brings us back to Trang’s realization that “people only protect what they care about.” If we want to save our precious plants, animals, and ecosystems, we must help others know and thus care about them. Share Trang’s social media videos and Saigoneer’s Natural Selection pieces with friends, family and co-workers so they can hopefully develop a deeper respect and appreciation for our wondrous natural world. Maybe you will hear Trang’s voice the next time you are thinking of buying new clothing rather than refashioning something you already own. Maybe you will opt to dine in a restaurant instead of ordering delivery. Perhaps you will hear the haunting cry of a gibbon the next time you are planning a trip and, instead of a luxury room, you settle for something more humble and donate the difference to the operations tirelessly working to ensure we still have a world worth admiring.

Photos courtesy of WildAct.

Bánh Ú Tro Wraps the Childhood Joy of Tết Đoan Ngọ Within Its Green Leaves

2026-06-19T10:00:00+07:00

Since the beginning of our festive history, Vietnam’s special occasions have always been closely associated with traditional dishes. Lunar New Year is the time to enjoy bánh chưng and bánh tét, while the arrival of Trung Thu is foretold by the appearance of moon cakes and bánh pía. In the case of Tết Đoan Ngọ, revelers eat bánh bá trạng and bánh ú tro to get a taste of festivity.

What is Tết Đoan Ngọ?

Tết Đoan Ngọ falls on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, marking the midway point of the lunar yearly calendar. It’s observed by not only Vietnam but many East Asian nations too, such as China, Japan, and North and South Korea. Each celebrates the occasion via different customs, but most involve warding off bad mojo and wishing for health and bountiful harvests.

In Vietnam, Tết Đoan Ngọ’s existence is rooted in ancient Vietnamese’s agrarian life. As researcher Trần Ngọc Thêm explains in the book Tìm về bản sắc văn hóa Việt Nam (Revisiting Vietnam’s Cultural Identity): “[Vietnam] lies across the Tropic of Cancer, so summers are sweltering and uncomfortable, negatively affecting human health. Luckily, as part of the routine of rice growers, farmers must always monitor the weather to minimize its harmful effects and make full use of natural advantages. That was how Tết Đoan Ngọ traditions formed.”

Bánh ú tro as part of an altar offering plate for Tết Đoan Ngọ.

Some Vietnamese refer to Tết Đoan Ngọ casually as Tết diệt sâu bọ (Pest Removal Festival). During the lunar May, the weather is often intensely hot, peppered by bouts of heavy rain, both conducive to the proliferation of bugs while weakening human immunity. To “remove pests,” at midday on the fifth day, families set up festive altar offerings to their ancestors to seek successful harvests, good health, and a peaceful life. Some other customs include picking medicinal herbs, bathing in water steeped with leaves, and dabbing lime water on young children to deworm, etc.

Each region in Vietnam has a slightly different offering platter, depending on local beliefs and produce. This diversity and uniqueness can be observed in the writings of authors like Phan Kế Bính, Vũ Bằng, and Nhất Thanh: “If the platter of northerners must include red watermelons, central platters from Thanh Hóa to Huế can’t leave out duck meat. Those living in the Quảng stretch often put up sticky rice, chè, and bánh ú tro. In the south, chè trôi nước and xôi gấc are a given. People from across the South-Central, South and some locations in the North eat bánh ú tro and bánh gio. It’s common to see chè kê and grilled rice paper in Huế.” Across that eclectic range of altar treats, bánh ú tro is the rare delicacy that appears all over Vietnam.

Bánh ú tro on the altar

Bánh ú tro is made from glutinous rice and wrapped in green leaves. Despite its name, the dumpling is often just the size of a child’s fist. To make it, first, the rice must be soaked in ash water for 24 hours. The soaking liquid’s slight alkalinity helps partially hydrolyze the starch in rice, so when the rice is cooked, the result is transparent like jelly, no rice grain in sight. This soaking is believed to make bánh ú tro easier to digest than other rice dumplings. Just bite into it, one can taste the faint taste of ash, but also a refreshing feeling.

Bánh ú tro (bánh gio) is eaten with molasses in Northern Vietnam.

In each locality, the dumpling manifests in a subtly different form, taste, and eating style. Northern Vietnam calls it bánh gio, bánh nẳng, or bánh âm; this version doesn’t feature a filling and is served with molasses, hence the name bánh gio mật. Via the baskets of street vendors, bánh gio mật travels across the streets of the region, bestowing its sticky, molassy, and “ashy” goodness on eaters.

Shape-wise, makers can choose to wrap it pyramidally, squarely or cylindrically like a banana. To serve, bánh gio is placed on a plate with a drizzle of molasses. Diners section off smaller pieces using a bamboo string. Sweet, refreshing, sparkling with molasses — bánh gio is something to relish slowly, so that elegant taste lingers for longer on your tongue.

Bánh ú tro can be pyramids, squares, or even cylinders.

In Central Vietnam, bánh ú tro appears as pyramids, sold in bundles of 10. Some say the pyramid shape symbolizes a mountain’s stability, but others believe that the dumpling represents elemental harmony: fire creates earth, like how the burnt ash forms the glutinous coating, shielding the rice in the middle, which was nurtured by earth. Central Vietnamese like both bánh ú with and without a filling, but children adore the chewy outer layer, especially when dipped in molasses or rock sugar grains.

Down south, bánh ú tro is best known as bánh ú lá tre. The shape is still a pyramid, but the filling is much more diverse: apart from the traditional mung bean paste, there are also durian, coconut, candied coconut, and candied winter melon. This version is already sweet on its own, so there’s no need to dip in anything. All you need to do is peel away the leaf wrapping and then go to town on them, one by one.

How to make bánh ú tro

Bánh ú tro might seem unassuming, but its preparation is a whole tedious process that often begins every year from the end of lunar April. Bánh ú bakeries often operate around the clock during this peak season to meet orders for Tết Đoan Ngọ.

Bánh ú lá tre.

Across Vietnam, many craft villages are nationally famous for their bánh ú tro, like Đình Bảng (Bắc Giang), Đắc Sở (Hoài Đức, Hanoi), Tây Đình (Vĩnh Phúc), Phú Yên (Bình Định), Hoán Mỹ (Quảng Nam), Yên Lãng (Thanh Hóa), and even Saigon has its own bánh ú neighborhood.

In the most traditional preparation, bánh ú makers must begin the process months before the midyear period. They gather firewood, leaves, and fruit peels of ideal plants. The plant matter is dried, burnt and then sieved to produce fine ash. In each locality, the plant species might vary: dền gai, xoan, pommelo peel, and banana peel in the north; Thanh Tiên Village in Huế uses the ash from brick kilns; Quảng Nam prefers the ash from mè trees, as the oil from the ash is believed to improve the texture of the dumpling’s outer layer. Some families just use the ashes from their kitchen, which come from straw and charcoal.

How to wrap a bánh ú.

The ashes are mixed with pickling lime and water, then left alone for a few days. After the sediments have settled down, the alkaline water on top is removed and used in cooking as ash water. The concentration of the ash water plays a key role in whether the texture and taste of bánh ú would be ideal. If the alkalinity is too high, the dumpling will turn out pungent and bitter. Conversely, low alkalinity will produce dumplings that are tough and grainy. Glutinous rice, when soaked, will turn different colors, like opaque grey, sienna, or even hay yellow. Once the grains get to the desired translucence, the cook will remove them and rinse them a few times to remove the ash water.

There are many choices of leaves for the wrapping, including bamboo, dong, banana, or đót. The leaves are washed then blanched in boiling water or sun-dried to make them more pliable. A few layers of leaves are folded into a funnel and then filled with rice. The filling is added in this step too. The leaves are then pinched on top into shape and tied up using grass strings. Each bundle of bánh ú has 10 dumplings. The bundles are boiled for 4–6 hours, removed and soaked in cold water to stop the cooking. Finally, the bundles are hung on bamboo canes to dry.

A sweet memory of Tết Đoan Ngọ

Although not as widely celebrated and popular as other special occasions of the year, Tết Đoan Ngọ is still a nice occasion to check in with one’s family, perhaps over a bánh ú tro or two.

“The simple joy of Tết is just seeing the block of dough appear like sparkling amber. The rice grains have completely mushed together, soft and elastic to the touch.”

I still remember vividly the weight of bánh ú in my hands as I heave in a lungful of bamboo leaf scent, carefully peeling away the wrapping to reveal the dumpling inside. The simple joy of Tết is just seeing the block of dough appear like sparkling amber. The rice grains have completely mushed together, soft and elastic to the touch. The outer layer is jiggly and chewy, tastes of ashes — perfectly accompanied by the nutty and sweet mung bean filling. If that year my mother decided to go all out with a durian bánh ú, then that would be another layer of special fragrance. Vegetarian bánh ú is also good for dipping in table sugar, rock sugar grains, or even molasses.

Every time Tết Đoan Ngọ comes, I can’t help but yearn for the flavors of bánh ú tro, not just because of its inviting taste, but also because of everything that this humble dumpling encapsulates: the aroma of the leaf wrapping, the meaningful customs of our culture, and the bond linking generations of our family together.

This article was originally published in 2025.

After Saigon Police Bust Major Pet Theft Ring, the City Rallies to Help Care for 400 Cats

2026-06-17T11:00:00+07:00

After an extended investigation, the Hồ Chí Minh City Police Department has busted a major cat theft and distribution ring that operated across multiple southern provinces.

As Thanh Niên reports, the Criminal Bureau of the HCMC Police Department recently announced the result of a special campaign targeting a group of interprovincial pet kidnappers that have stolen, trapped, and trafficked cats for the past three years.

The police arrested and questioned 10 suspects with direct involvement in the ring. They allegedly organized kidnappings of pet cats and trappings of stray cats in Saigon and neighboring provinces and stored the animals at home. Once every two or three days, they would deliver the cats in cages to Lê Huỳnh Bá, a middleman at a rate of VND70,000 per kilogram.

Photo by HCMC Police via Tuổi Trẻ.

Bá then would transport the cats to a gathering point at a garage in Tây Ninh Province, northwest of Saigon, before they were distributed to other sellers. Upon investigating the Tây Ninh garage, HCMC detectives discovered about 400 cats in 45 cages and 4 styrofoam boxes containing frozen cat carcasses.

An additional 21 live cats were found after officers searched another hideout in Linh Xuân Ward. In total, the campaign discovered over 500 cats, marking the bust the biggest of its kind so far in Saigon. Unfortunately, a number of cats have passed away.

Zoo staff tagging cats to assist with searching efforts.

However, after the cat theft ring was unraveled, the remaining cats that are still alive have been temporarily sheltered at the Tăng Nhơn Phú Police Station so owners of lost cats can look for their lost kitty friends, according to Tuổi Trẻ.

Since the news broke on local media, vets and animal lovers from across the city have volunteered to help the station to take care of the hundreds of cats recovered from the ring. Saigoneers have also sent kibbles, wet food, litter, medicine, and cages to assist with the operation.

Many cats are stressed, dehydrated, and malnourished, requiring IV fluids.

According to Nguyễn Quỳnh Thiện Hảo, head of the Saigon Zoo’s veterinary department, zoo staff volunteered to help immediately after reading about the police campaign online. While other Saigon vets focus on treating vulnerable and sick cats, the zoo team has been helping with tagging, categorizing, and profiling the felines to streamline search and rehome efforts.

Congratulations to No. 103 for being united with its parents, who traveled all the way from Vĩnh Lộc, Bình Chánh to visit.

Posted on an album of on the zoo’s official Facebook page, the profiles come with ID numbers, distinctive features, and photos to help owners better recognize their furry friends. While the police have not released official data on how many have been recovered or rehomed, reports on social media show families as far as An Giang in the Mekong Delta reuniting with their lost cat, which illustrates how extensive the cat theft network was.

Photos via Facebook page Thảo Cầm Viên Saigon.

To search for your lost cat, have a look at the Saigon Zoo’s cat profile archive here and visit the Tăng Nhơn Phú Police Station at 9 Xa Lộ Hà Nội, Thủ Đức City during business hours.

The History of Hanoi's Lost Tramway Network

2026-06-15T10:00:00+07:00

When they first drew up plans for a citywide tramway network in 1894, it seemed as though the Hanoi authorities would follow Saigon’s example by opting for steam traction. Yet, by the time government approval was forthcoming in 1899, advances in technology made it possible to construct the entire system as a state-of-the-art, one-meter gauge electric tramway.

In 1900, the Compagnie des Tramways Électriques d’Hanoï et Extensions (CTEH) was to set up to build the first two tramway lines, which were jointly inaugurated in November 1901.

A CTEH Line 1 tram at the Place des Cocotiers terminus.

Setting out from the Place des Cocotiers terminus next to the Petit Lac (Hoàn Kiếm Lake), Line 1 led southward to Bạch Mai and Line 2 northeastward to Giấy village, near today’s Bưởi Market. A subsequent decision of July 20, 1905 authorized the extension of Line 1 to Chợ Mơ on the Route Circulaire (now Đại La Street).

A CTEH Line 1 tram passes the Petit Lac.

In 1904, work began on Line 3, which led east from the Petit Lac to the Pagode des Corbeaux (the Temple of Literature) and then headed southwest to Thái Hà Ấp. This line was extended to Hà Đông in 1914 and to Cầu Đơ Market in 1938.

A CTEH Line 3 tram at Hà Đông.

Construction of Line 4 got under way in 1907. Following the path of Line 3 from Place des Cocotiers to the Pagode des Corbeaux, it then branched westward to the Pont du Papier (Cầu Giấy).

In its early years, despite its apparent popularity, the Hanoi tramway network suffered continuous financial problems. Until as late as 1913, CTEH remained a deficitary operation. Thereafter, profits remained relatively modest, precluding adequate maintenance on its rolling stock, track, catenary and buildings. In 1929, the increasingly run-down network was taken over by the Compagnie des Tramways du Tonkin (CTT), which upgraded large stretches of track and catenary and ordered replacement second-generation tractor and trailer sets from France.

It was under the CTT that the final stage of network expansion was implemented. A decision of November 14, 1930 authorized the creation of Line 5, which branched off Line 3 and headed south along the Route Mandarine to Kim Liên and northward from Place Neyret to Yên Phụ on the Red River Dyke. In 1943, Line 5 was extended further south as far as the Route Circulaire, in order to serve the René Robin Hospital, the radio station and Bạch Mai airfield. With the completion of Line 5, the tramway network in Hanoi had reached approximately 30 kilometers in length.

13 CTEH Line 3 tram at Place Neyret.

In 1952, at the height of the First Indochina War, the CTT was renamed the Société des Transports en Commun de la Région d'Hanoï. However, on June 1, 1955, this company ceased operations and all track, equipment and rolling stock was transferred to the new Democratic Republic of Vietnam.

A Hanoi Line 1 tram (1927 stock) heads south along Hàng Bài towards Bạch Mai in 1960.

Unlike its Saigon counterpart, the Hanoi tramway system continued to function for nearly 30 years after independence. In fact, in 1968 the Hanoi People’s Committee even built an additional spur from the Cửa Nam junction along Cột Cờ Street (now Điện Biên Phủ) and Hùng Vương Street, rejoining Line 2 south of Trúc Bạch Lake. However by the early 1980s, track, catenary and rolling stock had deteriorated to the extent that the tramway was no longer fit for its purpose. Line 1 (Bạch Mai Phong) was closed in 1982, followed in subsequent years by Line 4 (Cầu Giấy), Line 3 (Hà Đông), Line 5 (Yên Phụ) and finally, in 1989, Line 2 (Đường Bưởi).

A Hanoi Line 2 tram (1927 stock) picture in the 1980s.

Line 4 (Cầu Giấy) was offered a brief reprieve of sorts in 1986, when the route was taken over by a small donated fleet of old trolley buses from Eastern Europe. The Hanoi-Cầu Giấy trolley bus fleet outlasted the trams, soldiering on until 1993 when it, too, fell victim to modernization.

Tim Doling is the author of the guidebooks Exploring Huế (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2018), Exploring Saigon-Chợ Lớn (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2019) and Exploring Quảng Nam (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2020) and The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam (White Lotus Press, 2012) For more information about Saigon history, visit his website, historicvietnam.com.

Vietnamese Vernacular Modernism Is a Local Language Created by the Ordinary People

2026-06-14T15:00:00+07:00

In the history of architecture, rarely have we seen such a challenging movement as Vietnamese modernism. Not only does it show how a culture evolves and expresses itself across historical epochs through its building practice, from the traditional to colonial and eventually modern period, but the language of Vietnamese vernacular modernism also reveals deeper understandings of human creative potential.

A typical modernist house in Saigon.

Vietnamese modernist architecture is remarkable for its inventive use of modernist elements. Louvers, planters, pergolas, and brise-soleils — initially functional micro-climatic devices — are composed in an extremely intensive way, with elements being placed not only for functional reasons, but also seem to play a role in personal artistic expression.

Started in the mid-20^th century, during the decolonization process, modernist architecture was the language through which the Vietnamese modern state projected its identity. It reflected how Vietnamese architects had mastered the expression of industrial materials like concrete, steel, and glass, using a modernist design philosophy. Functionality and rationality was the spirit of the new architecture, refusing glamorous decorations and arbitrary rules to embrace a modern and free, optimistic and future-oriented architecture.

Saigon's V.A.R building exemplifies modernist principles on a grand scale. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Joyful composition using reinforced concrete.

Buildings like the V.A.R building, Unification Palace, VOH building, Library of General Sciences, designed by the first generation of Vietnamese modernist architects like Lê Văn Lắm, Ngô Viết Thụ, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, and numerous others, had not only brought the modernist language to the public, but also rewrote it for the tropical climate. By learning from traditional architecture, rather than constraints, they harvested the movements of air, water, shade and plants to tropicalize modernism in a distinctive manner, inventing a rich glossary of louvers, overhangs, planters and brise-soleil designs.

Adoption of modernist brise-soleil in individual dwellings.

Unexpectedly, during this process, a parallel development of modernism occurred in Vietnam. For the first time, the population had acquired this new language and used it to design their houses in both urban and rural contexts, without architects. Based on generally accepted templates, the general masses crafted artworks of personal expression on the modernist façades of their houses. The micro-climatic devices mentioned above were reinvented once more.

Ordinary creative display of modernist elements by the people. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

From a widespread use of those devices, a unique language emerged. Rather than sophisticated functional calculations, architectonic elements like planters, louvers, brise-soleils are placed intuitively and spontaneously as in a poetic visual game, without losing their purposes. Ordinary people, across Vietnamese regions, using a common grammar and vocabulary built out of functional elements, crafted creative expressions of personal taste for their houses. Consequently, the language of modernist design was domesticated by the local design culture to become a completely independent creative enterprise; a parallel modernism that is popular and without authorship.

Even though Vietnamese vernacular modernism seems spontaneous, there is an underlying structure common to all designs, a kind of generative code, with its own syntax and lexicon that the population uses to create and iterate. Individual results, despite being unique pieces, are recognizable as members of a common language.

Walking through the urban landscape of Saigon today offers a spectacle of individuals who had picked and tweaked the designs of planters, louvers, brise-soleils to their whims, yet somehow always following certain common orders that automatically integrate passive shading and natural ventilation. An element, like a planter, reappears and travels within a city, or even across cities, but not one single planter is identical to the rest. These features made modernism vernacular in Vietnam, due to its intimate relation with the climatic context, as much as to its relation with the cultural characters, one inclined to the joyful play of structure, elements and their interlocking shade.

Planter design with supporting “brackets.”

The architectural landscape became a display of creative conversations. There seems to be a subconscious forum where ideas were exchanged and circulated. Modernist designs then became a collectively lived experience, yielding an unprecedented architectural current that is more spontaneous, natural, poetic and spiritual than what conventional modernist principles would normally tolerate.

Vietnamese modernism represents a distinctive moment within global modernism. For the first time, the modernist language was extracted from an institutional practice by regular people to be reinjected into their building culture. That culture then became an autonomous, yet largely anonymous modernist current.

This phenomenon sheds light on two subconscious cultural processes. First, vernacular practice can exist in modernity, contrary to the public’s generally perceived ideas about modernist movements. Vietnamese modernist architecture makes the case that culturally and environmentally sensitive architectural responses can be achieved within industrial societies. Through a collective climatic intelligence and a particular aesthetics, these structures attach themselves to the practicality and sensuality of Vietnamese living habits.

Second, it explicates a profound aspect of human nature that spans across cultural activities. Almost identical to a natural language, Vietnamese vernacular modernism exhibits the exercise of a strong collective grammar and vocabulary, with expressions embedded with personal tastes, nuances, and inflections, similar to regional accents or individual speech styles.

There seems to exist a more profound mental language of culture, one that dictates across human expressions. As a part of this creative linguistic capacity, Vietnamese vernacular modernism sheds light on how the human spiritual self manifests through physical expressions, as an individual and as a community. In this sense, architecture, beyond being a professional discipline, is a cultural act, the product of a collective conscience.

These characteristics of Vietnamese modernism invite us to reconsider how architectural value is understood. It is not only the “scholarly” architecture practiced by a few, but rather the popular practice that best reflects the built environment’s cultural and geographical codes. Contrary to a kind of formalism theorized by a private group, Vietnamese vernacular modernism is achieved by the masses, from the bottom up, growing naturally as a language system — a living cultural substance that transforms, matures, and evolves according to the community in which it is spoken, a process that gives form to ideas, styles, and tastes, reflecting that community’s singular relationship with reality.

Vernacular modernism in Vietnam also offers a different way to look at architecture history. One has to briefly forget rigid architectural principles to look at design and build as a social and cultural phenomenon. The anonymous speakers of this architectural language were also the anonymous authors of the vast majority of the built environment. Unlike institutional modernism, it gives us a break from elitist and privileged architectural currents to look at the beauty of everyday people’s ordinary “speech.” In doing so, it advocates for the unofficial and unnoticed in architectural history. It pushes us to think not only outside the “scientistic” sphere of architecture, but also beyond the commonly known modernist centers of the world, to consider architecture as an ordinary yet fundamental activity of human expression.

Too little has been said about vernacular modernism in architecture, just as too little has been said about Vietnamese modernism in relation to the world’s. Perhaps it is time to take a leave from over-theorized aesthetics and start finding poetry in ordinary languages.