Despite its humble beginning as something worn just for convenience’s sake, đồ bộ has entered every minute of life in the Mekong Delta as a staple fashion choice that’s both flexible and colorful. Đồ bộ means “set outfit” in Vietnamese, a type of female casualwear made of soft, thin fabrics and often come in a top and long bottom combo. They’re sometimes referred to as “Vietnamese pajamas,” but these comfortable sets can be worn at any time of the day and even outside, not just reserved for sleep like pajamas.

It’s Sunday morning in my hometown. The power is suddenly out. Our home is devoid of any usual sounds of the electric fan or water pump. The rooster’s lonesome cock-a-doodle-doo pierces through the dew-drenched garden. I carry the basin of laundry to our washing yard beneath the banana trees, where the giant pot sits, holding alum-free fresh water that my mom filtered a few days ago. This is my favorite washing spot, because it receives all the cooling breeze from our pond. The air is filled with a soothing aromatic mix of fabric softener, early morning sun, fresh hay, and new alluvium from the nearby river.

I carefully weave each clothing item to the hanger and arrange them onto the clothesline, leaving them dangle in the breeze. The line is right next to the veggie patches, so the scene always looks like something out of a picturebook. The winged beans are flowering on the trellis, their lilac flowers pop out in between green leaves craning out into the sun; nearby, the luffa blossoms are bright yellow; beneath, water morning glory shoots are still holding the night dewdrops. Amongst the emerald, lilac, yellow palette of nature, my mom’s navy đồ bộ stands out with its flowery pattern of red, yellow, and pink. Another features tiny floral motifs sprinkled all across the textile; one has neat rows of black polka dots on white; while the third set has stripes of sienna, purple yam, and teal.

I am enamoured with my mom’s outfits, even though I rarely muster enough courage to wear them in public. Only on a few home visits do I manage to try on the sets she finds pretty and saves for me in her wardrobe. Perhaps I’m not yet used to seeing myself in đồ bộ, and living in the city, I don’t have many chances to enjoy them. I guess I feel a little awkward in this vibrant fashion genre.

Nonetheless, one would only need to step into a local market to find an eclectic “universe” of dynamic đồ bộ. From U-30, U-40 sisters to older aunties, everybody wears them with ease. They wear đồ bộ with platform slides, crab claw clips, string bags, and, of course, the classic plastic market baskets. Outside market trips, đồ bồ can also be spotted in coffee shops, at the school gate during pickup time, or even during raucous livestreams and trendy TikTok dances filmed hastily in the front yard.

Everybody is embracing đồ bộ with open hearts today, thanks to a slew of modern modifications that improved upon the designs compared to years ago. My mom says that about a decade ago, đồ bộ was only confined to loose clothing created and worn purely for ease of movement. Nowadays, đồ bộ retailers boast a smorgasbord of styles, from short to mid-length to no sleeves, from lacy trims to heart-shaped necklines. The level of craftsmanship and silhouette diversity have also been improved to be as flattering as possible to wearers of any age.

Perhaps the most welcomed improvement was the advent of new materials such as cold spandex. During the peak of the hot season, this cooling fabric provides both lightness and coolness to the skin. Its minimal wrinkage and fast-drying properties are also beneficial for wearers who are busy doing heavy labors all day.

Attending a countryside wedding is a great opportunity for one to witness how the ladies break out their most treasured outfits. Their appeal doesn’t lie in the number of compliments they can solicit, but their ability to stay stylish and put-together even after a whole day cooking and prepping ingredients. Right from the moment the first light of the day arrives, everybody has gathered to help out with wedding preparations: some butcher the poultry, others peel veggies and pick herbs. A while later, those silhouettes move into their position next to the pot of porridge or broth, nimbly seasoning and stirring while sometimes wiping their hands on those very outfits. When the guests arrive, they will be greeted by those đồ bộ, and then the aunties will head back inside to clear the table and wash dishes. It’s probably because the wearers themselves are energetic, whatever they put on will take on the same energy — no frills, no fussiness, just pure countryside dynamism.

Đồ bộ are not confined to the kitchen or the market. They could be cooking up a storm in the morning, and in the afternoon, being cuffed up to wade through water channels and paddy fields. Sometimes you’ll even spot them climbing up towering coconut trees, each movement breezily supported by stretchy elasticity. By the river, they set up fishing nets; during low tide periods, they hunch down sandy swamps to dredge for clams. Đồ bộ is as resilient as the people who wear them, enduring every kind of harsh weather without complaints.

One time, I was loitering in the kitchen while mom was making canh chua. Its steam filled the air. I asked, quite randomly: “Mom, why is it called đồ bộ and not đồ bông [floral outfit]?” She was holding a ladle full of hot broth close to her mouth as she blew at it gently to cool it down enough to taste. “What đồ bộ? The one I’m wearing? Well, the top and bottom are cut from the same cloth, so people call it that.” That’s countryside vocabulary for you — everything all started with “that’s just what people say.”

Sometimes I see đồ bộ as miền Tây’s unofficial uniform. From the well-off to laborers in the field, their dressers are bound to feature a few sets. The southern region is too sweltering and humid for stiff formality in daily fashion, or sharp distinctions between clothes to “wear at home” versus “wear outside.” Everyday, the same outfit can be worn to cook lunch and sweep the floor in the morning and then to visit a neighbor for some delicious gossip in the afternoon. Is that not yet another evidence of that famous Mekong way of life? Laidback, flexible, and free-spirited.

I have always been curious about the origins of đồ bộ in history. Alas, internet search and questions to my grandma and mom yielded nothing concrete. The only thing I know for sure is that, since I was little, I have already watched mom tailor her own đồ bộ. She often purchased floral fabrics from the local market and spread them across a spacious wooden sheet. A triangle of tailor’s chalk in hand, she sketched layout and then cut out shapes using a pair of sharp scissors. I was amazed just seeing everything take shape from the sideline. In the evening, after dinner, she would sit down at the table and continue cutting and sewing.

During a time when retailers were rare and making one’s own clothes was more convenient, each đồ bộ was a product of care. Back then, my grandma’s clothing used to be mostly thick cotton in dull colors, usually solid without patterns; living in a period of scarcity meant durability was prioritized over everything else. Bright colors, florals, and patterns only started showing up in my mom’s adulthood — a positive correlation with our society’s better financial situation. Once a set was finished, mom would meticulously fold it to save for grandma or my aunties. Each outfit was treasured like luxury goods.

Gradually, our rustic sewing machine was pushed into a corner of the house, enveloped by a layer of dust. Now, at the market, everything is available for instant purchase without any additional labor involved. Still, no matter how diverse the styles get and how instant shopping has gotten, the gist of đồ bộ remains intact like the early days — a symbol of a timeless sense of practicality and simplicity that has helped endear it to everybody even in a new era.

An authentic Vietnamese meal cannot be complete without cái mâm. Mâm, a humble, circular food tray, has conducted generations of Vietnamese into a familial ritual for centuries. Once a mâm is set as the centerpiece, knees begin touching knees until the whole family sits cross-legged in a circle. One person pairs up chopsticks from the bundle and distributes them to fellow diners, while another scoops rice into bowls.

Mâm was first created using wood, usually from jackfruit trees. According to Tuổi Trẻ, former versions were painted crimson and featured intricate patterns to display wealth. At the dawn of the Bronze Age, a new, more durable version appeared, only to be replaced centuries later by its contemporary, aluminum cousin.

Some ethnic minorities utilize other eco-friendly materials for their mâm. In certain areas of northern Vietnam and along the nation’s central coast, men from Thái minorities take pride in the woven cane trays they create, which can last for up to 20 years. During special feasts, Muong minorities line their mâm with lightly scorched banana leaves and arrange regional specialties on leaves to form a colorful platter.

A 1960 silk painting by Nguyễn Phan Chánh. Photo via designs.vn.

Mâm is, therefore, a lens through which one can capture how Vietnamese people eat every day. A minimal checklist includes a serving of seasonal vegetables, a protein dish and a bowl of soup. Each mâm is a round of culinary delights orbiting around a spicy bowl of fish sauce. Indeed, what would a summer meal be without sautéed morning glory, or a winter feast without braised catfish?

The intuitive design of mâm explains its timeless utility. A round tray adorned with food becomes an instant focus for hungry eyes. Its magnetic presence attracts diners around its rim. The round tray has no prominent spot, thus it establishes seating arrangements of unrivaled equality. Diners, regardless of status or age, enter an intimate circle to share stories over plates of food. And yet it is, after all, merely a simple tray for carrying food to and from the kitchen to the dining area.

Now in his 60s, my father believes the communal aspect of mâm grew out of Vietnamese rice-farming culture. After working from cockcrow until noon, his parents and their nine children sustained themselves with only two boiled eggs, some diluted fish sauce and wild greens. He reminisced: “It was fulfilling somehow. We shared whatever was there on the plate.”

Table manners surrounding mâm weave daily interactions into a rhythm. The young show respect to elderly family members, who lightly nod in return. If someone seems too far from any dish, an observant relative will pass chopstick-held food across the mâm. If someone is late for dinner, their portion of food is reserved in a covered dish.

An illustration of a mâm plate adorned with sticky rice cakes, pickles, pork sausage, braised pork belly and stuffed bitter melon. Illustration by Phan Phương.

Like a timepiece without hands, mâm rings a bell of reunion. Its routine presence rushes workers out of offices, out of phone calls, and away from life’s daily hustle to take up their spot in the circle. It would only taste like Tết, however, if everyone makes it in time for the midnight meal.

The connective duty of mâm extends beyond quotidian family tables. Mounted with engagement gifts, mâm turns strangers into in-laws. When resting upon altars, mâm represents an outstretched hand to ancestors.

Yet while mâm is a mediator, it can also act as a form of segregation. Festive gatherings in rural areas still divide mâm trên, a higher rank, from lesser mâm dưới. Only when elders and men in the mâm trên group finish drinking and dining can the women and children in mâm dưới leave the gathering and start washing dishes.

A family of three generations having dinner. Photo by Trang Six.

In urban households, a generational rift manifests itself over mâm. My sister, a sophomore student, says home life stresses her out, and that street food meals are simply more exciting. Her obvious preference is to eat out with friends. This lifestyle choice of my sister and her generation questions the continued relevance of family gatherings.

In public spaces, some are finding ways to reconcile with this new cultural milieu. Modern Vietnamese restaurant owners serve food on mâm as it opens doors for business partners to enter a circle of trust, or for travelers to taste a sample of ‘genuine’ Vietnam in communal homestay dinners.

Across endless decades, mâm has satisfied generations of hungry souls. Bridging relationships one meal at a time, mâm whispers that we are all connected. In this circle of life, we are all a part of something greater than ourselves.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2020.

People’s skin erupted with horrific boils that burst open, spilling stinging pus across vicious rashes. According to the Christian Bible, along with water turning to blood, frogs, lice, gnats, diseased livestock, hail, locusts, darkness for three days and the killing of firstborn sons, the boils were one of the plagues God sent down to ancient Egyptians to compel them to free the Israelites.

Some researchers have different explanations for these seemingly divine punishments, however. A known volcanic eruption at the time or a natural algae bloom could have upset the ecological balance in Egypt’s waterways, causing frogs to flee rivers and lakes and die en masse, which would have left insects without predators and an overwhelming supply of rotting meat to feast upon. One such decomposition-loving bug just happens to cause horribly painful blisters: members of the Paederus genus, commonly known as rove beetles, or kiến ba khoang. 

Of all the living things people are afraid of, kiến ba khoang may be the smallest. Hardly larger than a grain of rice, the sight of one scurrying across the room not only causes a person to leap away in fright, but also subsumes one with the fear that there may be more lurking unseen. And it’s the beetles you don’t see that you need to worry about.

The agonizing large sores that result from kiến ba khoang are not due to any bite or sting, but a bacteria-produced toxin in their body called pederin.

The agonizingly painful and astonishingly large sores that result from kiến ba khoang are not due to any bite or sting. Rather, a bacteria-produced toxin called pederin courses through the flesh of females, or males that eat their eggs. As it’s more powerful than cobra venom and perhaps the strongest toxin in the animal kingdom, coming into contact with it — by crushing the insect, or brushing against one, which causes the animal to secrete the pederin — results in the condition known as paederus dermatitis. Anyone who has had the misfortune of experiencing this likely did so without first realizing it, often instinctively flicking at a tickle on one’s arm, leg or face in sleep.  

While they are beetles, many people refer to rove beetles as kiến (ant), which makes sense given how many members of the genus resemble the unrelated insects. Rove beetles evolved hundreds of millions of years ago, and some species took to sneaking into ant or termite colonies to eat. But why break in, if you can be invited in? If you can camouflage as a member of the army, you get all the easy food and safety you need. Thus, over millennia, their bodies evolved to more closely resemble ants, and they even developed the ability to emit the same aromas. 

In Vietnam, apartment buildings, neighborhoods and even entire cities occasionally experience an outbreak of rove beetles. Pesticide use and deforestation have pushed the insects from their normal woody homes into residential areas, particularly during the rainy season. Drawn to light, they end up in houses, where they are inadvertently squished. During such infestations, thousands of people end up seeking medical treatment for the chemical burns. Even if you haven’t experienced it, you have no doubt heard enough about it to dread finding one of the bugs in your home. 

And yet, there is a lot to love about the rove beetle. As with all animals that humans consider “evil” or “villainous,” rove beetles are simply acting according to their nature, as constructed through the merciless machinations of ecological checks and balances. And the toxins they contain have nothing to do with humans, but are the result of millions of years of natural selection before we even existed to repel the spiders that preyed upon them.

Ironically, they probably help us more than they hurt us, because they are critical in pest control, as their main diet is smaller insects that typically threaten crops, as well as mosquitos and other household nuisances. It is only when we started spraying fields with pesticides and chopping down forests that they were forced to migrate to urban environments. Truly, rove beetles serve as an early warning of greater problems to come if we do not rectify our relationship with nature.

Rove beetles serve as an early warning of greater problems to come if we do not rectify our relationship with nature.

Moreover, parents could look to rove beetles as an important teaching tool similar to tales of the boogeyman. Lured to illumination, at night they often invade homes that have lamps on inside. Such energy consumption not only increases electricity bills, but contributes to pollution. So parents would be wise to tell their children, “you better turn off that light, or the rove beetles will sting you while you sleep.” Even if leaving a lamp on only slightly raises the risk of accidentally developing their dreaded rash, this would be an effective means of encouraging responsible energy use.

The medical community has recently begun experimenting with pederin as an effective cancer treatment, as well. While significantly more studies are required, in the future, tumor-eliminating drugs that save you or your loved ones may be concocted with the main chemical found in rove beetle toxins. So even if you do not care about preserving the environment for its own sake, remember that every species lost or forest destroyed is a potentially life-saving substance gone.

On the flip side, if you care about taking life, as opposed to saving it, the rove beetle might be of interest to you as well. It is believed that ancient Indians relied on their crushed bodies to make a powerful poison. While it is extremely rare to accidentally ingest a rove beetle, doing so could have serious implications. I have found no modern accounts of this being done as a means of assassination, though I would imagine there is potential. Of course, Saigoneer is not advocating murder, but if one were to do it, slipping concentrated rove beetle powder in someone’s cà phê sữa đá may be the way to go; it's not like any medical examiners will be expecting it.

There is no domestic or international lobby focused on rehabilitating the reputation of the rove beetle and, because it is a bug, it cannot do this on its own. If one agrees with the need to improve the perceived value of the rove beetle based on all of the reasons offered above, however, I can think of numerous means. 

Conservation agencies could, of course, adopt them as a mascot, given they are a symbol of what happens when we muck around with the environment. Might a fashion brand release a jewelry line featuring glass vials containing live kiến ba khoang catering to “edgy” consumers? 

A much slicker way, I think, would be to create a popular comic or television program with the rove beetle as the starring character. She could have a goofy potato bug as a sidekick, an evil spider as an arch-nemesis. There would be schemes, shenanigans, and hijinks. Perhaps the rove beetle works as a delivery driver and gets into wacky mishaps with mismanaged orders, or maybe she is a detective tasked with exposing a forgery ring dedicated to duplicating priceless Nguyễn-dynasty artifacts; just spit-balling here. 

Graphics by Phan Nhi, Hannah Hoàng, Simona Nguyễn.
Animation by Simona Nguyễn, Phan Nhi.

Folklorist and anthropologist Nguyễn Đổng Chi dedicated decades to weaving a significant portion of Vietnam’s folklore tapestry. He collected, researched, and rewrote over 200 Vietnamese folktales from all corners of the country. His work, initially scattered across five volumes published individually and consecutively over 25 years, appeared as a complete anthology in 1982. Guided by a comprehensive treatise of Vietnamese folktale, Chi’s Kho tàng truyện cổ tích Việt Nam (Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales) might be daunting for readers drawn to Vietnamese folklore but disenchanted by rigorous academic discourse.

Major Books’ Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales: Volume 1, released in March 2026, offers a condensed and curated version of Chi’s seminal work in English. For the first time, international readers can indulge in his version of 11 classic Vietnamese tales. Readers might uncover a new appreciation for familiar tales, such as ‘The Battle Between Sơn Tinh and Thuỷ Tinh’ (Sơn Tinh Thủy Tinh), ‘The Tale of the Betel, Areca, and Slaked Lime’ (Sự Tích Trầu Cau), and the infamous ‘Tấm Cám,’ widely known as the Vietnamese equivalent of Cinderella; or discover new stories about ancient customs. This edition, focused on presenting the folktales to amuse and delight, is ornamented by Jeet ZDũng’s illustrations. Inspired by Vietnamese artisans, ZDũng’s visual interpretations are as playful, textured, and immersive as the tales they bring to life.

Fairy tales and the women in them

Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales: Volume 1 is an ambitious project. It promises multifaceted Vietnamese female characters, and to honor Vietnamese cultural heritage through Vietnamese storytelling traditions. Offering glimpses of our culture through short, punchy, and surprisingly funny tales, it appeals to readers with varying expectations. Love stories, rivalries, happy endings, tales of revenge, historical legends, animals, deities and Vietnamese customs: this compilation truly has something for everyone to enjoy. It fulfills its promises through whimsical visual elements, subtly thought-provoking stories, and skillfully translated folk rhymes that sound as catchy as the original Vietnamese versions of my childhood.

Inside front cover

Mother Liễu Hạnh watching corrupt male travelers from above

Initially, I struggled to reconcile the anthology’s bold claim to spotlight “the women of Vietnamese folklore—not damsels in distress, but as heroes, tricksters, warriors, and sometimes even villains,” with its opening title, ‘The Battle Between Sơn Tinh and Thuỷ Tinh.’ The tale is a classic: two men, in this case, the Mountain God (Sơn Tinh) and the Sea God (Thuỷ Tinh), battle for the hand of Mị Nương, the daughter of Hùng Vương. While the two gods wreak havoc on the villages, the princess disappears from the narrative. How can an absent female character be even remotely layered and complex? This contradiction perplexed me, but ultimately had a useful effect. Unable to find Mị Nương in her own love story, I diligently searched for women in subsequent tales and kept them at the forefront of my mind as I read. Perhaps this was the anthology’s goal all along: to make readers consider women in every story, making us focus on their presence or lack thereof.

Sơn Tinh and Thủy Tinh

As promised, the collection offers autonomous female characters with colorful personalities over its 10 remaining tales. ‘Mother Liễu Hạnh’ is a fun and empowering story that follows a woman who does what she wants — and gets away with it splendidly. The Jade Emperor banishes his unruly daughter Liễu Hạnh from Heaven. In the mortal realm, she becomes famous for her beauty and the merciless pranks she plays on corrupt male travelers. One such traveler, the Crown Prince, tempted by Liễu Hạnh’s mythical beauty, plans to visit the tavern and kidnap her. Acting mostly in self-defense and self-entertainment, Liễu Hạnh transforms into a peach tree. As he prepares to bite into the irresistibly “ripe, round peach sagged from a low branch,” she turns it into disgusting maggots before vanishing into thin air. I giggled at this seemingly random act of punishment all while acknowledging its creativity — turning oneself into a rotting peach sure is an unusual way of chasing away unwanted suitors. This supernatural fruit seasoned a tale of reversed gender and power dynamics with a healthy dose of whimsy.

Love stories, rivalries, happy endings, tales of revenge, historical legends, animals, deities and Vietnamese customs: this compilation truly has something for everyone to enjoy.

In ‘Tấm Cám,’ we follow Tấm through her death and subsequent reincarnations. Her final transformation into a magical golden fruit, quả thị, discreetly raises an interesting discussion on domesticity and female autonomy. One day, an elderly woman comes across the lonesome fruit; unaware of Tấm’s residence within it, she brings the fruit home. Every day, as soon as the woman leaves for work, a tiny Tấm emerges from the fruit, grows back to her default size, cooks, cleans, then climbs back into her refuge. But surely such mystical potential would inspire more adventurous quests than housework? The spilling of fantasy into daily domestic life is very characteristic of Vietnamese folk tales, as Nguyễn Đổng Chi observed. Though Tấm’s confinement to domestic duties can be read as an affirmation of traditional gender roles and gendered division of labor, I find that quả thị nonetheless symbolizes a renewal, or a new life for Tấm. She enters a domestic space that strictly excludes her abusive stepmother and sister.

Shimmering art direction

As readers navigate the multitude of worlds contained in Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales, Jeet ZDũng’s textured artworks transform each page into an immersive reading experience. Visually, the book opens into a universe of its own: shimmering gold fonts and deep, dark, jewel-toned illustrations in gold frames jumping out of crimson pages pull you into a regal world of ancient magic — flipping through the pages, I felt like a lost kid who had accidentally stumbled upon an old relic locked away and accumulating dust

Inspired by “Vietnamese sculpture, lacquerware, ceramics, and folk paintings,” Jeet ZDũng brings each folktale to life through diverse and textured illustrations. The illustrations are contained in geometrically irregular boxes and fun shapes that resemble fragments of crystal or puzzle pieces. For instance, his depictions of the Sea God and the Mountain God blend sharp and rounded shapes, as well as warm and cold colors, creating intense contrast that feels fitting for a mythical clash

Tấm and the giant, golden thị

ZDũng imagines many scenes in black and gold, occasionally adding muted colors. Such drawings add allure to tales that many already know, prompting readers to visualize old stories in new shapes and shades. In ‘Tấm Cám,’ the luminous quả thị glitters against a black background — the humble fruit looks more luxurious than I have ever imagined. This melancholic mood further mythologizes the fruit, corresponding nicely with the importance of this golden symbol.

Constrastingly, ZDũng’s illustrations can also be bright, bold, and colorful. His version of the betel leaf, areca nut and slaked lime stands out against the anthology’s generally somber visuals. The neon-green heart-shaped leaf against a bright red square with a gold frame is simple but effective in evoking that childish wonder so crucial to one’s enjoyment of fairy tales. 

The betel lead, areca nut and slaked lime

The fisherman in “The Water God’s Daughter Is In Love With The Fisherman”

Meanwhile, the drawing of tall turquoise scallions sprouting between and over two tiny dancing characters playfully introduces the tale ‘Who Will Buy My Scallions? Or The Magic Potion.’ A few pages later, one cannot help but smile at and let their attention linger on the sight of one tiny, compact man carrying these same giant scallions before two other tiny, compact characters.

Familiar stories, with a little something new

As a Vietnamese reader who primarily reads in English and is on a quest to refamiliarize herself with Vietnamese literature, I was delighted by this anthology’s ability to not only preserve, but add to, the wit and humor of the tales I grew up loving. An example is the humorously concise final sentences that condense entire legends in curiously straightforward terms in most of the tales. In ‘The Battle Between Sơn Tinh and Thuỷ Tinh,’ the final line casually unmasks the turbulent and tedious romantic rivalry as the origin of Vietnamese monsoon season: “This time of year, when the two gods clash, is known as the monsoon season.”

‘Who Will Buy My Scallions? Or The Magic Potion.’

This brief addition of crucial information abruptly de-dramatizes the genesis of monsoon season as common knowledge. ‘The Tale of the Betel, Areca, and Slaked Lime’ is summarized in a similar punchline that reads as an afterthought: “And that is why Vietnamese people have the custom of chewing betel.” In ‘Tale of the Sand Crab,’ readers are briefly told that the protagonist “turned into a sand crab which rolled sand into little balls to fill up the sea day in and day out” after his death. We are given only a brief second to make sense of this ending before the narrative concludes on oddly placed fun fact about an entirely different animal from the story — geese: 

“The lore goes that geese do not eat shrimp because they are grateful of the latter’s sacrifice on their ancestors’ behalf in the olden days. They also say that geese have a white crest on their heads as a sign of mourning for Dã Tràng and their gratitude for him having saved their lives.”

I was also amused by the straightforward translations of rhymes that make this edition’s ‘Tấm Cám’ particularly enjoyable. I expected lyrical verses that match the grandiose character of fairy tales, but the tea vendor’s sing-songy imploration, in simple monosyllabic English, is as catchy as I remembered it in Vietnamese. Tấm, reincarnated as various entities, delivers her fair share of rhymes to her stepsister who has replaced her as the Prince’s wife.

Catching Cám doing the Prince’s laundry, Tấm, as a golden bird, sings “You dry his dresses, dry with poles; don’t dry on hedges, you’ll rip holes.” This uncomplicated translation, which does not over-poeticize rhymes with which many Vietnamese children grew up, does a nice job at emulating the original Vietnamese verses. My favorite rhyme of the anthology must be Tấm’s final threat to Cám, which she utters as a loom: “Crock-a-crock-et, / You take my husband, / I’ll gouge your socket.’” The effective use of onomatopoeia sent shivers down my spine; it's as frightening in English as it was in Vietnamese when I heard my mom say it to me at bedtime over a decade ago. 

Unlike Nguyễn Đổng Chi’s original anthology, which meticulously records, analyzes and categorizes Vietnamese folklore as a genre, Major Books’ Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales: Volume 1 builds a whimsical and beautifully illustrated world that is accessible to various kinds of readers who, like me, might find their expectations met in surprising ways. These 11 short stories might not provide elaborate explanations of Vietnamese customs, or underscore the historical significance of certain legends and myths, but they make for a perfectly delightful introduction to the intricate tapestry of Vietnamese folklore. Subtly informative, this collection blends knowledge of Vietnamese culture into an entertaining mix of mundane and epic moments, whilst making sure that rhymes and essences are not lost in translation.

Illustrations by Jeet ZDũng, courtesy of Major Books.

Thwunk! Thwunk! Thwunk! Thwunk! The vendor’s cleaver struck the heavy wooden chopping board again and again after slicing through duck meat. Centimeters away, a microphone hovered, capturing each strike. 

“To me, photography and sound recording are actually very similar. They're both ways of preserving memories, just through different senses… Whenever I listen to old recordings, it feels like I'm transported back to that exact moment. I'm there again, surrounded by the same atmosphere, reliving the experience,” explained Trần Đăng Khoa, the founder of Vietnam Sound Library, as we ate the duck soup he had just recorded being prepared.

Between noodle slurps, he expanded on his philosophy of audio preservation. Sounds can be a powerful means of eliciting memories and triggering nostalgia for moments we’d forgotten, but all too often, unlike photos, we don’t think to record something until it’s already gone.

Khoa, however, is always thinking about what to record and approaches every sound field trip systematically. When arriving at a location, he asks himself two questions: “First: What is the most distinctive quality of this sound? If someone closed their eyes and listened, would they immediately recognize where they are? Second: 30 or 50 years from now, when the world has changed, which sounds from today will still mean something to people?” 

Khoa records Bình Tây Market's opening activities.

Saigoneer spent the morning witnessing Khoa’s approach in action, starting with when Chợ Lớn (Bình Tây Market) was just opening for the day, and a truck arrived at the front gate to unload. “This is significant — men at work,” he exclaimed before jolting off to get himself in position for the clanks and clamors of metal tables and stools being lugged down and set up. Minutes later, he was on the market’s second floor, asking a vendor to open and close her shopfront gate. Always listening for a sound to throw himself towards, Khoa even interrupted himself mid-sentence at breakfast to rush off to record a passing chè vendor.

A wellspring of energy, after the market, he brought us to several nearby pagodas where he recorded gieo quẻ xin xăm, a blind lottery vendor’s banter with visitors, bells being struck, and the ambient sounds of murmured prayers.

Sound has been central to Khoa since he was a child. “Every time I watched a movie and felt emotion, goosebumps, I realized mostly it came from sounds.” From there, the Saigon native took a logical route, studying sound engineering and finding work editing and mixing sound for films, TVCs, and other commercial projects. Occasionally, a scene would call for a specific ambiance or noise that wasn’t available in any archive. Sometimes, a Foley artist can create a sound that differs from reality but delivers a stronger emotional impact and enhances storytelling. But other times, there is no replacement for reality. In those situations, Khoa ventures off into the world to locate and capture it.

To organize and share these real sounds, in late 2024, Khoa created Vietnam Sound Library. At the time of writing, the archive contains more than 550 audio tracks assembled with a mission to make the everyday sounds of Vietnamese life available to everyone. Uploaded via SoundCloud, the lossless audio tracks are organized into clear albums such as parks, markets, residential areas, restaurants, the metro, and even festivals and activities, including a funeral. Within the folder are broad ambience and specific actions, such as a schoolyard’s morning drum, a street jackhammer, and people playing pickleball.

After our morning at the market and pagoda, we traveled to Khoa’s studio, where he sat in front of numerous monitors and a giant screen to edit what he’d recorded. He would review the recordings, isolate and remove distracting background elements, and cut out pauses before labeling and organizing them for upload. Likening the process to photo editing, he noted that every sound artist has their preferred level of manipulation, and it’s ultimately a matter of taste for how much polishing to apply.

To showcase how he uses the audio professionally, Khoa then pulled up an in-progress feature film for which he was completing the sound design. For a scene that takes place in a forest, he layered various sounds he’d recorded several weeks earlier in Cát Tiên National Park. Ambient noise, crickets, birds calling, a mosquito landing on the microphone, and other elements are layered atop one another to achieve not what a scene sounds like in reality but what listeners will imagine it to sound like.

While Khoa started Vietnam Sound Library for practical, professional use, the project took on new depth and significance when he met his partner, Đinh Vũ Thu Thủy. “At first, my goal was simply to build a sound library for film production. Then, in 2025, Thủy joined the project and brought me a completely different perspective on sound,” he shared.

It's rare to see either Thủy and Khoa without a smile.

Reflecting on the first time she joined him on a recording trip, Thủy said: “The first collection I worked on was recordings from traditional markets. That's when I realized that sound isn't just data — it tells cultural stories. Khoa felt the same way. Sounds like street vendors calling out to buy scrap metal, the school drum, or children playing năm mười were all part of our childhood growing up in the 1990s. But many of those sounds are gradually disappearing. That made us realize we should document everyday sounds while they're still here.”

The recording equipment is light and compact, so the couple is ready to go at almost any time.

Since then, Thủy has been by Khoa’s side on every trip, pointing out noises that might not be immediately relevant for films, but are important elements of Vietnamese culture that won’t be around forever. She also takes all the unique photos that accompany the tracks so people have a more exact understanding of what they are hearing, particularly if it's something they haven’t witnessed in person before. And in the studio, she is there to help clarify file names (“not sliding door, but rolling door”), and add essential cultural markers such as specific locations, dates, and times, beyond the generic notes that would be sufficient to satisfy the needs of filmmakers.

The project has changed Khoa and Thủy’s relationship with each other, as well as with sound itself. Thủy shared: “Before joining this project, I never paid much attention to sound. I took it for granted. I could hear, but I wasn't really listening. Now I've learned to slow down, to listen more carefully, and to notice the tiny sounds that I used to overlook. Through that, I've come to understand that sound carries much more than what we hear every day. It holds stories about culture, the environment, and people's memories. [Vietnam Sound Library] taught me to understand my surroundings through listening.”

In contrast, Khoa always appreciated sounds, but hadn’t before realized that his appreciation was a form of meditation: “One thing that really surprised me while recording was what happened when I gave my full attention to listening. I started feeling deeply connected to the present moment. Everything around me suddenly became much more vivid. That's when I realized that, before this, I had spent so much time lost in my own thoughts that I wasn't truly present in everyday life.” 

The genuine appreciation the couple has for sound recording allows them to work without annoying their subjects. Combined with a palpable sense of joy and excitement, this authenticity removes skepticism and puts the people populating streets, markets, schoolyards, and restaurants at ease. This is particularly important because while many sounds may be of natural or manmade objects, Thủy considers the presence of voices to be among the most important ones for culture. The street vendor calls, which Khoa likens to singing, are her favorite: “After hearing just a few voices, you can immediately feel the unique atmosphere of a Vietnamese market. Every vendor has their own style, their own rhythm, and their own voice, and together they become part of the market's identity.”

When was the last time you heard the call of a local rat trap vendor? An ice cream cart? What about a mobile laminator or someone offering to weigh your child on a scale? While discussing vendor songs, we soon found ourselves talking about lost sounds. With Khoa and Thủy, it’s easy to become philosophical and ruminate on the value of sounds, our favorite sounds, the sounds we wish we’d heard before they’d vanished, and what is disappearing all around us. What did Saigon sound like when horses still clomped down the streets pulling carts, and before plastic replaced vendor tables and chairs? “I wish I could record traditional Vietnamese children's games,” Khoa noted before offering the observation that “every generation has their own sound, for example, when elders come together and talk nowadays, they talk differently than elders 30 years ago; the way they talk, the topics they talk about, even their volume.” 

In addition to archival value, these sounds of the past can have a powerful impact on the present. Khoa explained: “One day, we received a message that said, ‘I'm studying abroad, and I really miss these sounds. Thanks, bro.’ It was incredibly moving because that was the moment we realized these recordings aren't just preserving sounds. They're also helping people reconnect with their own memories and emotions.”

Regardless of their use, one unavoidable truth of the sound library is that Khoa and Thủy cannot do it all. Even if one discounts sounds vanishing every day, Saigon simply contains too many noises for one couple to capture. And then one has to consider other locations, with Khoa noting “one man is never enough because its not about technique, it's about experience. People born in the north will understand the north, people born in the seaside or the mountains will understand their homeland better than me; they know what to record better than me.”

At the moment, Khoa and Thủy are not focusing on the marketing and branding that would help raise more awareness and attract additional archivists, let alone thinking of any way to monetize the library. Rather, they seem content to chase after important sounds and ensure they are preserved. If this means a homesick Saigoneer can connect with their childhood, or a film can contain a bit more reality, that's all the better. And in the process, we can all hope they remember to record themselves the soft laughter and exultations that accompany their process — that, too, is now an important part of Saigon’s auditory history.

A few hours after sunrise in the small village of Thổ Hà, Bắc Giang Province, alleyways morph into picturesque tunnels of drying rice paper, while ladies toast crackers over fire in the streets. 

Alleys run like arteries through the village, clogged by rows and rows of bamboo panels, each drying a sheet of rice paper (bánh đa nem) made at 5am that morning.

On sunny days, villagers bring out thousands of rice-covered panels (phên) and stack them along the village streets. They fix them high up in the alleys too, and early morning sunlight flows over the sheets creating creamy, translucent light patterns.

Alleyways clogged with drying rice paper panels.

When wolfing down fresh bánh xèo, you would never think how much work goes into making a single sheet of rice paper. Every day they can, in this village just 45 kilometers outside Hanoi, locals work from before dawn to make as many as time allows.

In recent years, Thổ Hà has developed a name for itself due to its photogenic rice paper trade and ancient architecture. Yet Thổ Hà used to be known for creating ceramics, and you can read this history in the alleyways. Porcelain boxes (tiểu sành), which store the bones of deceased relatives, were used in the past as bricks. Those they failed to sell, or that were damaged in the kiln, formed the building blocks of new walls.

Moving rice paper into direct sunlight to dry.

With no land to plant paddy in, villagers depended on the river for trading and earned a living by creating goods by hand. Much of the sand from the river has been used up now, so since the 1990s, they have moved away from ceramics. Like the river, their way of life has shifted, with rice paper the new beating heart of the village.

Bamboo panels stacked high up in the alleys creating little tunnels.

Hundreds of bamboo panels line the alleyways.

Porcelain boxes, normally used to store the bones of the dead, are used as bricks.

A lady toasts rice crackers over an open fire.

Not just the streets, but the insides of houses were stacked full of drying rice paper.

Grass-fiber broom temporarily relieved of its duties. 

Preparing the rice paper for removal.

Peeling rice paper off the bamboo grids.

A man carries bamboo panels through the village.

Light streams through the panels, casting patterns on the wall.

Transporting huge stacks of rice paper through the streets. 

A man and his son walk beneath an ancient gate.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2018.

The rich, bluesy ‘Tại vắng anh,’ written by Tuấn Khanh, was performed by Carol Kim this past November at Saigon Jazz Revival's inaugural concert in New Orleans. 

A heart-wrenching rumination on lost love as captured via birds that forget how to sing, the track benifits from Carol Kim's textured voice and aching saxophone solos by Amari Ansari. It was released by Saigon Jazz Revival, a project dedicated to reviving Vietnam's lost jazz era while fusing old Saigon style with contemporary New Orleans, connecting Vietnamese and diasporic music lovers through shared appreciation of sonic legacies.

At the November show in New Orleans when the video was filmed. Photos by by Kim Ha.

“A lot of recordings from before 1975 have disappeared or are hard to find. Coming across them is like a portal into history. The musical influences in Saigon at that time created these tracks that have this very unique multi-cultural energy that's so similar to what contemporary music in New Orleans feels like,” explains director and project-founder Marion Hoàng Ngọc Hill.

‘Tại vắng anh’ performed by Saigon Jazz Revival and Carol Kim. Video via Saigon Jazz Revival YouTube.

‘Tại vắng anh’ is the second track to be released from the Carol Kim concert after her rendition of Phạm Đình Chương's ‘Đón xuân.’ Of that work, Hill explains, “I heard Carol Kim’s song ‘Đón xuân’ for the first time, and I had this wild emotional reaction to it! This song was recorded in Saigon in 1971, which is in every way a traditional New Orleans jazz song and a Vietnamese tune about Tết and spring all in one song. With a whole Latin breakdown section in the middle. So cool!”

Saigon Jazz Revival founder Marion Hoàng Ngọc Hill.

Hill's discovery of that song while working on a film, surrounded by her jazz musician friends, eventually led to Saigon Jazz Revival and Carol Kim being brought to New Orleans for the show. Kim is also scheduled for an August 29 show in Chicago. Meanwhile, artists including đàn tranh musician Brian Bui and vocalist Đồng Lan will be coming to hold summer workshops. Further on the horizon, the group aims to release a full album of original music in 2028 with a variety of performances along the way.

Photos courtesy of Saigon Jazz Revival.

My family lives in Saigon, a long distance from our hometown in Quảng Ngãi. We only visit a few times a year, but each time is a celebration of amazing food: bánh tráng nướng with sausages, bánh gói with spicy, garlicky nước chấm, crispy fried rolls, etc. Without fail, whenever I set food in the city again, I can’t help missing it dearly.

I used to wish that Saigon would have a market dedicated to all sorts of Central Vietnamese treats, and the universe has answered my prayers in the form of Bà Hoa Market. Based in an alley on Trần Mai Ninh Street in Bảy Hiền, former Tân Bình District, the market exists as a home for the most familiar, rustic, and distinctly central fares, from obscure snacks to central Vietnamese accents.

Bà Hoa Market was established by central Vietnamese immigrants who moved to Saigon during the war.

A brief history of Bà Hoa Market and Saigon’s central Vietnamese enclave

According to historical records, the Bảy Hiền area in Saigon has been the safe home for many immigrant communities from Northern and Central Vietnam for decades. Amongst them, people from the Quảng region are the most populous.

The market is crowded from the early hours of the day until midday.

During the most tumultuous times of the war, waves of immigrants left their hometowns to seek solace in Saigon’s suburban areas. To make a living in the new land, they took up whatever jobs that were available, from driving a xích lô, mechanical work, carpentry, to selling mỳ Quảng. Most notably, central Vietnamese founded the famed Bảy Hiền Weaver Village.

At Bà Hoa Market, you can find all sorts of interesting food from central Vietnam.

Once the community grew big enough, people started longing for a common space to trade spices, produce, and regional dishes. According to some sources, around 1964–1967, a woman named Hoa decided to purchase the low-lying lot belonging to the Đắc Lộ Parish in Bảy Hiền. She filled the plot and established the market that we know and love today.

To pay respect to the founder, the market was named after her: Bà Hoa. Nowadays, this historic venue is renamed Ward 11 Market on administrative maps, but in the minds of Central Vietnam migrants, Bà Hoa Market is an irreplaceable memory anchor. Its existence reminds them of a tough period in their life and the human connection those hardships helped foster.

The market nurturing migrant souls

Each marketplace in Saigon is beautiful in its own way. Some stand out thanks to their massive structural scale. Some have transcended their basic commercial functions to become historical landmarks. Bà Hoa Market, on the other hand, is not that different from a rustic countryside hangout, a place to convert homesickness into tasty, familiar treats.

Right from the opening of the alley leading into the market, you’ll bump into rows of bicycles and carts vending iconic snacks. Xu xoa is an opaque, crunchy, refreshing white jelly made from a special type of seaweed collected along the Central Vietnam coast, enjoyed with brown sugar syrup and candied ginger. A bowl of warm beancurd is also great with smooth, velvety spoonfuls of soy and ginger flavors and a touch of southern quirks with coconut milk and white chewy pearls.

Xu xoa and beancurd.

Walk a few more steps and you’ll be greeted with kiosks specializing in all sorts of rice paper and noodles. The compendium of rice paper from the region is extensive: Bình Định-style coconut rice paper, rice sheets, sesame crepes, wrapping sheets from spring rolls, and Đại Lộc-style rice paper for rolling. Right in front of their stalls, vendors set up coal fires to grill crackers until golden and alluringly toasty.

Grilled crackers are the soul of central foods.

Grilled crackers are the soul of Central Vietnam foods, being a part of a range of dishes including bánh đập mắm nêm, don xào, turmeric-braised white bait, vịt lộn, mỳ Quảng, offal porridge, and turmeric stir-fries — the crisp sounds of breaking up a cracker is iconic.

Next, the rows of confectionery kiosks house tangible reminders of a sweet childhood, quite literally. Blooming yellow bánh thuẫn remind me of previous Tết when I helped mom mix batter until my hands were exhausted. The black bánh ít lá gai and logs of sesame-covered bánh tổ bring back memories of my time with grandma. The vast range of sugar types evoke the imagery of endless sugarcane fields and the many desserts they flavored, like cakes, chè, dried sweet potatoes.

Quảng Nam-style bánh tổ is made of glutinous rice powder, sugar, ginger, and sesame seeds, often eaten during festive times.

Bánh ít.

Different forms of raw sugar.

Lung sugar (đường phổi) is named after the final shape that resembles the lung.

The region’s umami-rich side is on display at mắm vendors, in many fermented condiments like anchovy mắm, mắm cái, mắm nêm, fermented baby eggplants, mắm ruốc, sardine mắm, and even flying fish mắm. Mắm cái, an assortment of fermented fish, is perhaps the favorite one in the eyes of Quảng Ngãi residents in my hometown. A few spoonfuls of mắm, some sugar, garlic, chili, and lime juice make for a tantalizing bowl of dipping sauce for fresh greens.

Of course, a stroll through Bà Hoa Market is never just for stocking the pantry, because the fragrance of ready-made foods from everywhere would entice anyone to sit down for a plate of bánh đập mắm nêm. On top of a big grilled cracker lies a sheet of silky bánh ướt, smeared with chives oil and dipped in mắm.

Tasty dishes are made right in the market.

Besides, there’s always mỳ Quảng that sings of củ nén, eaten with simmered pork and shrimp, sesame crackers, roasted peanuts, fresh herbs, and chili jam. For something different, you can also seek out offal stir-fried with turmeric, lemongrass ốc ruốc, or bánh bèo served on puny plates with prawn floss and chives oil.

Wrapping bánh nậm using dong leaves.

If you have nothing going on this weekend, drop by Bà Hoa Market for a different type of hangout. You’ll not only get to feast on amazing food, but also get to know Central Vietnam’s exceptionally flavorful cuisine.

Bánh đập is a crepe-like dish combining a layer of cracker with a layer of rice sheet.

Mỳ Quảng, bánh bèo and chả Huế.

Tiny ốc lễ are stir-fried with lemongrass and chili.

Pork offal stir-fried with turmeric.

When it comes to cơm tấm, most people are familiar with cơm tấm Sài Gòn, featuring grilled pork ribs as the vedette topping. But since the dish’s creation, and as it gained popularity across the Mekong delta and southern Vietnam, another cơm tấm variant emerged alongside cơm tấm Sài Gòn. This version became so cherished by the locals that it was named after its birthplace — cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

I recently tried this dish for the first time at Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh. I arrived with the expectation to have the usual cơm tấm Sài Gòn, but I saw the Long Xuyên-style listed on the menu, and curiosity got the best of me.

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh is hidden in a nondescript hẻm in District 3.

The shop is nestled in an alley that links Kỳ Đồng Street with the road along the Nhiêu Lộc Canal. It’s a modest spot with an open house where food is prepared and ordered, while customers sit across the house in the front yard of another neighbor that serves as both a parking area and a dining space. There’s another branch in Gò Vấp District, but I chose this location because it’s closest to my house and workplace.

To place an order, one must weave through a sea of delivery staff from food-hailing apps.

Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh is run by a family from southwestern Vietnam. They started as a snack shop more than 10 years ago but only began serving many types of cơm tấm in 2021. Their signature dish is cơm tấm Long Xuyên, a culinary highlight of their hometown, but they also offer the more common Saigon-style cơm tấm with toppings like chicken or tender ribs. 

For a cơm tấm place that’s only three years old, Tị Quỳnh is surprisingly busy during the lunch hours. But after ordering a portion of cơm tấm Long Xuyên, I was fortunate enough to find a seat. About 5–10 minutes later, my dish was ready.

The standard portion of cơm tấm Long Xuyên has rice, pickles, fish sauce, thinly sliced braised pork belly and eggs.

The most noticeable difference between Long Xuyên-style cơm tấm and the Saigon version is the topping. Instead of grilled pork, it features caramelized pork and eggs, both sliced into thin strips, with a drizzle of braised sauce to enhance the flavors. Upon tasting, the main topping offers a delightful mix of textures. The yolk of the boiled egg provides a creamy mouthfeel, the pork strips contain both tender lean cuts and crispy, chewy fatty cuts.

If one is looking for something more substantial, pork chops and ốp la are great add-ons.

Another unique feature of cơm tấm Long Xuyên that one can observe from eating the dish is the rice. Known as “cơm tấm nhuyễn,” it is a type of broken rice with smaller grains and a firmer texture compared to Saigon’s common broken rice. To get this cơm tấm nhuyễn, the shop has to source it from Long Xuyên. When served fresh and hot, the grains give off a gentle, comforting aroma. With each spoonful, I can feel the fluffiness of the grain.

Essential elements of cơm tấm.

Sweet fish sauce is the element that ties everything together and can make or break any cơm tấm dish. Long Xuyên’s style fish sauce is also quite distinctive, thanks to its thicker, more pronounced sweetness. After all, Long Xuyên is located in Miền Tây, where sweetness is a hallmark of the region's culinary identity. Pouring the fish sauce onto the toppings ensures that each serving is filled with rich, inviting flavors.

A lunch for champions.

Upon finishing the dish, what fascinates me about cơm tấm Long Xuyên is the culmination of contrasting aspects. On one hand, the thick sweet fish sauce, and the light, delicate grains of cơm tấm nhuyễn guide me into the essence of a local delicacy from a faraway region. On the other hand, the main topping is caramelized pork and eggs, a renowned dish that evokes memories of family meals. Almost every Lunar New Year, my mom prepares a big batch of caramelized pork and eggs to ensure we have enough food stocked up throughout the holidays. It gives me a homey feeling, even though I’m savoring cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

In conclusion, Tị Quỳnh offered me a savory introduction to a southwestern specialty, Long Xuyên-style cơm tấm. A dish that truly reflects the palates of its homeland. When tasting a regional dish like this, there are elements that are new and different from what I'm used to, yet there are also elements that remind me that, no matter where we come from, there are things that still bind us all together.

This article was originally published in 2024.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 7am–2pm; 4pm–9pm
• Parking: Bike only
• Contact: 0962359528
• Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood, GrabFood

One may be surprised to learn that Viet Thanh Nguyen’s Pulitzer-winning novel The Sympathizer was rejected by 13 out of 14 publishers before its eventual publication. He describes in an interview why he believes his novel was rejected by all but one publisher he submitted to: “I knew in writing the novel that I was deliberately not doing what I was supposed to do as an Asian American writer, which is [...that] you have to end on a note of Americanization. You have to end on an embrace of the American dream, explicitly or implicitly. And the novel does not do that.” He comments elsewhere along similar lines, “I refuse[d] to subscribe to dominant American narratives and mythologies that allow someone like me a very narrow space to speak.” 

Such a “narrow space” is precisely what Vietnamese-Australian writer Nam Le, known for his widely received short story collection The Boat, seeks to question and subvert in 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem. The book — witty and experimental, each poem numbered and themed, meant to be read as constitutive of a larger whole — engages with a question that he has long grappled with, namely, “what it means to write as a writer that will always be described as a Vietnamese writer, or a hyphenated-Vietnamese writer – whatever you want to call that.” Early on in the collection, he writes:

Whatever I write is
Vietnamese. I can never not —

The statement, at once a liberatory realization and a curse, neatly encapsulates the book’s premise. There is nothing that makes his poems “Vietnamese” other than the fact that he is himself Vietnamese — ultimately, “Vietnameseness” does not lie in some kind of essence. Yet at the same time, this does not prevent the fact that whatever he writes will inevitably be branded as “Vietnamese,” a label that carries with it certain expectations and baggage — that is, at least in English.

Nam Le. Photo via Simon & Schuster.

The collection’s first poem, titled [1. Diasporic], opens with the following lines. 

In English, mind You. 
You dink I writee Yiknamee?
Shame on You.
It was Your violence dumbed me.

In these opening lines, Le centers the disabling violence of the English language, accompanied by its racist caricature of a Vietnamese (or some Asian) accent. Such violence of English recurs throughout the book. In [10. Reclamatory: 1], we find similar racist language, 

Me chink but not so fast with
console or condemn, me chinked,
self-chinked in pidgyhole & niche,
notch cranny-hole creft crack —

And in the next poem, [11. Violence: Anglo-linguistic], Le more explicitly details the abhorrent nature of English.

Appetitive, omnivorous, expansionary.
Atonal, with smashed-together consonants,
It wants it all.

Empire and industry. Science, technology, narratology.
Transaction. One language to rule them all.
Billions strong.

Later, he juxtaposes the violence of English against the liberatory potential of Vietnamese.

[...]
English with its mind of closed grids
Demands

Answers — data, declension, denomination.
But Vietnamese answers: ‘I am all these things.
Or any.

‘I am openness, manyness at once, entelechy.
Your grammar is violence. Your way is narrow
Exaction.

English demands, while Vietnamese opens space for refusal, freedom. It is along such lines that Nirmala Devi titles her review in ArtReview of Le’s book as “Rage Against the English Language.” She writes, “this collection is driven by rage and violence. Anger against the violence of the English language with its rules that, in effect, force users to make categorisations.” 

Yet, if Devi’s characterization of Le’s collection is correct, why, then, in a different essay of his does Le write the following? “English is my second language, my better language. It’s the language better suited to my way of thinking — which was conditioned by it to think so. (It takes a mongrel, maybe, to know a mongrel…) I’ve never felt unwelcomed in it. Which is more than I can say for every place it’s spoken.” Safe to say that this does not sound like a man “raging against the English language.” What went amiss?

The problem is that to read 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem as a polemic against English is reductive, and overlooks the ways in which many of Le’s poems are not meant to be read at face value — though it is not at all clear, as we will see, which ones exactly. For me, it was only by the 20^th poem in the collection that I began to fully suspect this was the case. Titled [20. Titrative], the poem consists of three lines.

Unself-consciously?
Ha ha!
Too late.

And too late indeed. In raising the question of unself-consciousness, the poem forecloses its possibility. Clearly, the poem possesses a kind of self-consciousness both performative and playful. But if that is the case, might the same be true of other poems in the collection?

In this respect, poem [26. Evasive] is most interesting. The poem consists of two erasure poems (one of which only semi-blacks out the underlying text), accompanied by a subtitle in capital letters, “ERASURE RHYMES WITH ASIA.” With regards to the subtitle, Le makes a peculiar comment in The Guardian.

What I would hope readers would get from the ludicrous rhyme of ‘Asia rhymes with erasure’ as a subtitle for a poem is that there is a tongue firmly in cheek in these moments. [...] I wanted to be able to say: ‘Look at this, this is ridiculous! Look in the mirror!’ to both writer and reader and myself. And at the same time sort of recalibrate, retune that way of writing, that way of reading: to hopefully see it again, anew.

It is easy to see the “ludicrousity” of the line upon reading Le’s own thoughts about it. Of course, Asia does not rhyme with erasure! But at the same time, without his help, how are we supposed to tell? After all, if poetry consists of, well, poetic language, the reader might as well take “rhyme” to mean something non-literal — I, for one, certainly did. “ERASURE RHYMES WITH ASIA” is fascinating because to take the line seriously itself constitutes an enactment of the violence described in the very line itself. In other words, the conflation of Asia with erasure itself perpetrates a kind of orientalist discourse that renders “Asia” inaccessible, obscure, mystic. If Asia is indeed under erasure, for/to whom is it rendered invisible? Certainly not Asians living in Asia?

All of this, in an odd way, reminds me of a story the South African comedian Trevor Noah once told about a friend who was “accidentally racist.” As he tells it, while he was walking on the street with a group of white friends, a stranger yelled in their direction, “hey, you monkey!” Immediately, one of his friends turned to Trevor Noah and apologized. To commit the sin of over-explaining a joke — the crux of the story is of course that, in apologizing to Trevor Noah, his friend already assumed that the term “monkey” was directed at him. One might note that something similar is at play in “ERASURE RHYMES WITH ASIA,” in that the line invites “accidentally” orientalist readings. Such capacity to produce (mis-)readings is arguably one of the most distinctive features of Le’s poems.

In a much-circulated essay titled “Blunt-Force Ethnic Credibility” from Astra Magazine, Som-Mai Nguyen critiques a kind of linguistic fetishization commonly found amongst Vietnamese diasporic writers.

There’s a jazz-hands half-nelson device I dislike in diasporic literature and criticism. Writers extrapolate from orthographic coincidence and sprinkle in non-English words to assert unearned authority. I tire of variants on: in Vietnamese, a tonal language, ma can mean many things. The author rattles off ghost, mother, tomb, horse, code, accompanied by the suggestion that this phrenologically means something. These claims are in-group sleights of hand, smugly announcing, without real evidence, that the author has exotic cultural knowledge the outsider cannot fathom. If you know, you know.

Som-Mai Nguyen’s point is that diasporic writers’ invocations of Vietnamese tonality and diacritics often function as a mechanism for producing “blunt-force ethnic credibility,” a kind of automatic authority granted to ethnic authors on the basis of identity alone. Funnily enough, in [15. Dire critical], Le appears guilty of exactly the thing that Som-Mai Nguyen critiques above.

Here, we find Le too invoking the hackneyed example of the tonal variations of ma to imbue Vietnamese with a kind of mystic quality inaccessible to English. Though perhaps not. Is it that the poem is simply another instantiation of the object of Som-Mai Nguyen’s critique — or is it self-consciously parodying it? Earlier in the same poem, Le writes, 

All in the tone.
Give us each day our diacritics — our low and high, fall and rise, our horns and holds:
Flat we are without.
(You like that, no doubt.)

He continues:

Give us our dấu sắc, huyền, ngã, hỏi, nặng:
For ours is not your flat euphony
Your squeezed, frictioned speech
But full mouth music.

Here, again, assimilation to English is presented as a kind of violence that flattens, that which deadens the fullness of Vietnamese and its tonality. But what follows after prompts us to question such a reading, for in the “full mouth music” of Vietnamese we find: “Tripping of water over stone-carved lingas // Rising tang of early season mango in the mouth // Trill of moonlight and wind on silk curtains / or reflected sunlight, prismatic, on rice paddies along the Baie d’Along.” Mangoes, moonlight, silk curtains, and rice paddies. Are these objects not almost too clichéd, too perfectly oriental, to be read as “unself-conscious”?

Perhaps. But in [35. Reclamatory: 2], Le complicates our reading once more. 

As the poem points out, “moon and jade and silk” have been deployed millennia before the advent of French colonialism, and thus cannot be merely reduced to "orientalist" tropes. Perhaps, then, what was actually orientalist (accidentally so) was none other than to have read “Rising tang of early season mango in the mouth / Trill of moonlight and wind on silk curtains” as a parody of orientalism in the first place.

Though, yet again, perhaps not. After all, that the images now associated with orientalism have existed “millennia before” does not annul the fact that, well, those images have indeed been appropriated into orientalist imaginaries. In the end, it remains impossible to tell with full certainty what is meant to be taken as tongue-in-cheek and what is not — and that appears to be precisely the point. 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem is arguably best understood as a staging of the seeming inescapability of clichés, stereotypes, and tropes, in which parody and the parodied become indiscernible. As writer and translator Lina Mounzer writes of clichés that seem to ever-lurk “at the edge of one’s awareness”: “[Y]ou write towards them, or against them; you write to subvert them or mock them or indulge them or skirt around them altogether, but they are always there.”

Surprisingly, the collection contains 37, rather than 36 poems, contrary to what the title suggests. In the last stanza of the final poem of the book, titled [37. Post-racial / -glacial], Le writes. 

In this ecopoetic imagining of a post-racial world, words do not “need mean more than itself”: things just simply are — and there, perhaps, “Vietnamese” too need not signify anything more than “Vietnamese,” whatever that may mean. Yet, in utter contradiction with the poem, for me at least, Le’s use of the word “escape” already signifies more than it need mean: namely, Le’s own background of having come to Australia after having “escaped” Vietnam. Is it I who, in this last instance, collapsed the poem’s utopic vision for a post-racial world? Perhaps. But if the word “escape” has already escaped, it is also because the landscape of racist, orientalist, ethnic clichés and tropes has already escaped me — us — too, its edges always just in sight, just out of reach.

On September 9, 1883, ominous smoke hung over Huế. The sun was blue-green, and throughout the day, people on the streets had no shadows. As their legitimacy relied on maintaining the Mandate of Heaven, the Nguyễn royal court was alarmed. Three high-ranking mandarins rushed to advise the Emperor to change his ways to regain Heaven’s favor. While this strange incident can be easily dismissed as another case of outdated superstitions, a closer look reveals it as a rare conjunction of astrology, power, and — given the source of the smoke — volcanism, all set against the backdrop of France’s rapid incursion into Vietnam.

The smoke of that baleful day stemmed from the island of Krakatoa in the Sunda Strait, located less than 2,000 kilometers south of Saigon. A vigorous, multi-volcano component of the Ring of Fire, Krakatoa showed the first signs of eruption on May 20, 1883, when a strong earthquake reached as far as the Dutch East Indies capital of Batavia (now Jakarta, Indonesia), rattling doors and windows. The following day, plumes of whitish steam and thick black smoke soared from various vents across the island, and molten rock burned away the lush vegetation on the volcanic slopes. This smoldering phase continued all summer; ships entering the Sunda Strait would report large, barnacled chunks of pumice bobbing in the waves. By late August, even passage through the strait became impossible, as ships were bombarded with pumice and ashes falling out of the sky, and around the island, loud bursts were heard every few hours.

A 1801 map of Southeast Asia by English cartographer John Cary. Image via Wikimedia.
The indicator of Krakatoa located towards the bottom left, between Sumatra and Java is added by Saigoneer.

Then, on the morning of August 27, Krakatoa exploded. The noise was so intense that it blew the eardrums of British sailors more than 60 kilometers away and sent shockwaves circling the world three times. Nearly 70% of the island was destroyed, and the pyroclastic flows that gurgled out of its collapse scorched entire Sumatran towns such as Ketimbang, killing more than 4,000 people. Tsunamis swallowed the nearby port city of Merak and crashed against shores as distant as South Africa. At least 21 cubic kilometers of dust and ash were launched into the sky, carried west by high-speed air currents that only scientists in the aftermath would come to identify as jet streams. As noted by British meteorologist Rollo Russell, wherever it spread, this smoke scattered the sunlight, changing the color of the sun into a bluish green, and that of the sky into an ashen grey in the day, then a bloodshot red at sunset. After wafting around the world for two weeks, the smoke entered Vietnamese skies, still thick yet more dispersed, in early September.

Footage from the Japanese weather satellite Himawari-8 of the 2022 Hunga Tonga-Hunga Haʻapai eruption, which was of similar scale to Krakatoa. Image via EUMETSAT.

At the time, the Nguyễn Dynasty was in crisis. The last few years were marked by constant French encroachments, and with the death of the staunch Confucianist Emperor Tự Đức in July 1883, the French saw an opportunity to ramp up these attacks. On August 18, Admiral Amédée Courbet launched a naval assault against the forts at Thuận An Estuary, where the Perfume River led straight into the capital. The three-day raid took the lives of many Nguyễn soldiers, including commander Trần Thúc Nhẫn who jumped into the sea to his death.

Victorious, the French marched inland, and Commissioner François-Jules Harmand gave the court an ultimatum, vowing that if they rejected French demands, then “even the worst catastrophe you can imagine will fall short of what will happen to you. The Empire of Annam, its dynasty, its princes and its courtiers will have chosen their own extinction. The name of Vietnam will be erased from history.”

On August 25, the same day Krakatoa entered its critical phase, representatives of Emperor Hiệp Hoà signed the Treaty of Huế (Hòa ước Harmand) with the French, which recognized French protectorate over their territory, renounced their own diplomatic independence, and allowed Bình Thuận Province to be annexed into the colony of Cochinchina. While the treaty was slightly revised in 1884, it had effectively put an end to Vietnamese sovereignty.

One of the few portraits of Hiệp Hoà (left) and an artist's interpretation (right). Images via Khám phá Huế.

Let us now return to the morning of August 27. According to a report by British officer Richard Strachey to the Royal Society, as soon as Krakatoa erupted, its sounds were heard in Cape St. Jacques (now Vũng Tàu, 1,800 km away) and Saigon (1,873 km away). That only two such locations in Vietnam were named was likely because Cochinchina had become a full colony and saw a stronger European presence than the rest; since the shockwaves circled the globe three times, it is possible that people elsewhere in the country heard the sounds too. Their wide propagation is also implied in Notes sur l’Annam (Notes on Annam) by explorer Etienne Aymonier. In his volume on Khánh Hoà, published in 1885, Aymonier wrote:

It is difficult to gauge just how much of this frantic response was real or exaggerated; however, the panic is not unimaginable given the intensity of the sounds. According to Richard Strachey’s report, in Singapore, there was no way to talk on the telephone line until 3pm; by shouting at the top of their lungs, both ends could hear each other, but “not one single sentence was understood.” More than 2,000 km west, in the landlocked Sri Lankan town of Bogawantalawa, the sounds “were like blasting [from the northeast] and kept on all day, from 7:30 a.m. till 4 p.m.” And far down south, in Western Australia, a local newspaper wrote that people were startled by a series of loud, artillery-like sounds, which continued “at irregular intervals till about 4 p.m. on Monday [August 27].” Sometimes, noted the newspaper, there were as many as three explosions in a minute, but “generally there was a few minutes’ interval.” With this context, we can infer that people not just in Bình Thuận, but all over Vietnam could have heard the eruption, and with the bombardment of Thuận An still fresh in their minds, many were driven to panic.

Then, two weeks later, came the strangely colored sun. An entry in the official chronicle Đại Nam thực lục (Veritable Records of Đại Nam) described that baleful day as follows:

Let us pause to situate the three mandarins’ appeal in their political lives. Tôn Thất Thuyết, Nguyễn Văn Tường, and Trần Tiễn Thành were all regents appointed by the late Tự Đức, who died without an heir. At first, they picked his 30-something adopted son, but to Thành’s horror, Thuyết and Tường teamed up to depose the new monarch after only three days for improper conduct. On July 30, the three regents crowned Hiệp Hoà, Tự Đức’s younger brother. Fearful for both his throne and his life, Hiệp Hoà quickly sought to make peace with the French, which also enraged the patriotic Thuyết and Tường.

After Hiệp Hoà approved the treaty of August 25 with Thành’s support, Thuyết and Tường devised a plot to remove Hiệp Hoà too. Seeing their conduct as a flagrant abuse of power, Thành retired to his manor north of the Perfume River. On November 28, while the French representative was away from Huế, Tường arrested Hiệp Hoà on charges of collaborationism, put him in jail, and poisoned him to death. On the night of November 30, Thành was murdered at home by unknown burglars; later historians suspected it was an assassination orchestrated by Tường and Thuyết themselves.

Tôn Thất Thuyết (left) and Nguyễn Văn Tường (right). Images via Wikimedia.

With such contexts, it is surprising that Tôn Thất Thuyết, Nguyễn Văn Tường, and Trần Tiễn Thành were appealing to Hiệp Hoà together, as noted by the official historical record Đại Nam thực lục, in response to the Krakatoa sun. Did it alarm them so much that they set aside their differences and rushed to warn the Emperor? Could there also be hidden motives for Thuyết and Tường, who already disliked Hiệp Hoà anyway? For although courtiers often saw astronomical phenomena as signs for their kingdom, they may also exploit these to their advantage.

In the 1430s, Bùi Thì Hanh rose to prominence for his forecasting; he would use this knack for astronomy to gain favors from Emperor Lê Thái Tông, becoming chief of the Bureau of Astronomy (Thái sử viện 太史院) until he was exposed for a false lunar eclipse prediction. Combing through Đại Việt sử ký toàn thư, historian Ho Peng Yoke also found that some eclipses had no match in the records of neighboring countries, and may have been invented by later compilers to condemn the kings during whose reigns they occurred, which in fact was a practice among other East Asian dynasties too. In a similar vein, Thuyết and Tường could have seized the rare opportunity of a blue-green sun to strike fear into Hiệp Hoà’s heart. Whether or not they had such motives, their appeal worked, based on Hiệp Hoà’s reaction. Unfortunately, this was not enough to prevent his fall three months later.

An illustration by William Ashcroft of a typical dramatic sunset after Krakatoa, as seen from London in 1883. Image via Bodleian Libraries/University of Oxford.

Krakatoa was not the Nguyễn’s first rodeo with volcanoes. In 1815, Mount Tambora erupted, causing a drop in global temperatures and adverse weather effects for years to come. In Europe, the cold, stormy summer simply inspired Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein, but in Vietnam, it led to a widespread famine and a Bengal-born cholera outbreak that killed hundreds of thousands of people, including the great poet Nguyễn Du. Still, the regime was able to pull through, thanks in part to Minh Mạng’s quick reactions by relieving taxes, distributing monetary aid, and supplying medicine to localities despite not fully understanding the disease himself.

Krakatoa, conversely, found the dynasty in a critical spot, with an ineffectual ruler, a domineering pair of regents, and an impending foreign conquest. Thus, although Krakatoa did not seem to take a heavy material toll on the dynasty like Tambora, it still left both the court and the commoners shaken. Whether the residents of Bình Thuận did flee en masse after hearing the explosions as Aymonier described, whether Tôn Thất Thuyết and Nguyễn Văn Tường had hidden motives in addressing the blue-green sun to the Emperor, the reality was all the same. The kingdom was no longer as it was under Minh Mạng; if anything, with the treaty signed just days before, it seemed that the kingdom was slouching towards doom.

Tôn Thất Thuyết and Nguyễn Văn Tường, the dynamic duo that they were, would go on to enthrone and dethrone another emperor, before settling with the 12-year-old Hàm Nghi. The French would maintain an arrogant, aggressive attitude, convincing the duo of imminent war. On the night of July 4, 1885, Thuyết launched a preemptive attack on the French, who quickly overpowered his forces and burned the citadel. Thuyết got away with the young Emperor and issued the Cần Vương (Aid the King) edict, exhorting patriots nationwide to rise up.

Meanwhile, Nguyễn Văn Tường stayed behind, and was arrested and exiled to Tahiti, ironically a volcanic island itself. He would live here for a year before dying of illness in 1886. That same year, Mount Tarawera erupted in New Zealand, the closest large landmass to Tahiti. It is tempting to wonder if Tường had lived to witness the effects, and if for a moment, far away in exile, he was reminded of that blue-green sun.