Arts & Culture - Saigoneer

Memories and Heritage Considered Across Mediums at Dogma Prize Exhibition

2026-01-19T07:37:00+07:00

How can personal and collective memories – alongside questions of community and heritage – be explored through artistic practices that span different mediums and respond to changing times?

Entering its twelfth edition, the 2025 Dogma Prize Exhibition brings together nine artists from Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia: Hà Đào, Đỗ Văn Hoàng, Lê Tuấn Ry, Willie Xaiwouth, Hằng Hằng, Hul Kanha, Nguyễn Đức Tín, Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn, and Bi Tuyền. Organized by Dogma Collection, this year’s selection was made by a jury including artist Thảo Nguyên Phan, curator Bill Nguyễn, and art historian Pamela Corey – each of whom mentored three artists during the entire process leading up to the exhibition.

A makeshift shelter stands at the end of the corridor upon one’s arrival, where ocean sounds and market noises emerge. Inside the shelter, Đỗ Văn Hoàng’s short film The Tofu Maker’s Son blends fiction and documentary to recount his family’s history in Hong Kong refugee camps and his father’s life as an undocumented worker. Structured like a series of court sessions, with re-staged police raids and conversations with his father, the film unfolds as a confrontational dialogue between past and present, examines painful memories of family displacement, while also leaving space for remembrance and healing.

Đỗ Văn Hoàng. The Tofu Maker’s Son, 2025. Short film, 20 mins 55s. Film still courtesy of the artist (left). Đỗ Văn Hoàng. Water Spinach, Garlic, Chili, Coke (audio), 2023 (right).

Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn’s series on miniature sculptures of everyday forms – Untitled (Notes on romance and cities), incorporates a system of feedback and sonic circuity, where street sounds, and melancholic music play on loop, as the objects remain hidden within wooden boxes along Dogma’s signature architectural structure. The installation evokes the feeling of mini theaters, with shifting backdrops behind a miniature couple, armchairs on a spinning stage, or flashing LED lights. The miniature works form a world on their own where time is trapped in repetition, with an emerging quiet sense of nostalgia and loneliness.

Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn. Untitled (Notes on romance and cities) 1, 2025. Plywood, stain, reversed clock mechanic, toy traffic light, LED running name tag (left). Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn. Untitled (Notes on romance and cities) 2, 2025. Plywood, stain, phone screen (right).

Inspired by Western modernist painting techniques, Bi Tuyền fuses them with Vietnamese domestic imagery and childhood nostalgia through her monochromatic painting Seven Green Beans. The absence of colors invites viewers to pause and pay attention to lights, shadows, and forms, with the artist asking: “Can black and white condense something essential?” Upon closer observation, one may notice the subtle traces of color beneath the monochromatic surface. Created amidst times of rapid cultural changes, the work resembles a moment of stillness – a reflection on what we choose to remember from the past as we move forward.

Bi Tuyền. Seven Green Beans, 2025. Acrylic on canvas.

Known for merging Catholic faith with Vietnamese traditional culture, Nguyễn Đức Tín’s Faith, features black mosquito nets with slits that partly reveal portraits of Our Lady of La Vang (Đức Mẹ La Vang) and the Christ Child, and Catholic martyrs between the 17th and 19th centuries. Their lives remain largely unknown, yet they upheld their faith despite tragic deaths. The layered mosquito nets represent concealed histories, memory, belief, and the passage of time. Alongside is the Heart series where viewers’ distorted reflection appears – where faith is reframed not solely for religious devotion, but for one’s purpose and inner strength.

Nguyễn Đức Tín. Faith, 2025. Watercolor, oil pastel, acrylic, mosquito net, canvas.

Spanning across three different levels in between the staircases, Willie Xaiwouth’s The Fading Breath of Forgotten Words presents script embroidered onto fabric, using bamboo flowers collected from his hometown Saiyabouli (Laos). Viewed from above, the Tai Tham script flows downwards along the fabric and slowly fades away. Belonging to the Tai Yuan people, descendants of the Lan Na Kingdom between the 13th and 18th centuries, now scattered across Laos and Thailand, Willie weaves together his own story and a fragile cultural legacy amidst changes of history and modern times.

Willie Xaiwouth. The Fading Breath of Forgotten Words, 2025. Handmade calico, bamboo flowers, Tai Yuan traditional skirts, cotton sewing threads.

In a reimagined alternative world, Hà Đào portrayed the notorious Hải Phòng female gangster Dung Hà as a transgender man wandering through the street like a ghostly figure in If Heaven Awaits. The work takes the form of a music video with 1990s Vietnamese aesthetics with Lam Trường’s ballad “Đêm Nay Anh Mơ Về Em”. Accompanied with the video work also features two laser-engraved crystal cubes, Castle I (Vũ Hoàng Dung’s Tomb) & Castle II (Đồ Sơn Casino), an empire that faded and now exists only in memory and imagination. Focusing on marginal lives, her works also resist and question mainstream narratives, stereotypes and social norms.

Hà Đào. If Heaven Awaits, 2024. Audio, video, 6 mins 39s. Castle I (Vũ Hoàng Dung’s Tomb) & Castle II (Đồ Sơn Casino), 2024 (left). Laser-engraved crystal cube, wooden stand, LED strip. Film still courtesy of the artist (right).

Unforgotten Land glows softly in a darkened space. Composed of hair stitched and pressed onto fabric by Hằng Hằng and her family, the work was created from a collective effort and speaks for family’s history and internal dynamics. The hair, gathered from her mother’s salon and the surrounding community, forms a surface resembling a fragile, scorched grassland. Each strand carries memories of war, conflicts, migration, yet also love and care. Through the material intimacy of hair, the work also reflects on what it means to collect, inherit, and carry historical legacies onward.

Hằng Hằng. Unforgotten Land, 2025. Hair, faux leather fabric.

Hul Kanha’s installation Plates of the Passed comprises fifty papier-mâché sculptures floating on thin poles across the space. Rendered with vibrant colours and childlike brushstrokes, the plates combine painted imagery, black-and-white photographs of childhood and family memories, sewn red threads, and gold paint. The brushstrokes and threads appear to hold cracks and lines together, while also evoking childhood trauma shaped by extreme hardship in rural Siem Reap. On these fragile surfaces, childhood memories are reworked through the artist’s adult perspective and personal recollection.

Hul Kanha. Plates of the Passed, 2025. Cycle paper, acrylic, sewing silk.

On the highest floor, Lê Tuấn Ry’s 18 Realms of Mound is placed behind a red curtain. Here, the visitors assume the role of spectators, activating a music box and observing a vertical row of CCTV screens that display a site-specific installation composed of old X-ray films of anonymous bodies – collected from clinics and hospitals and threaded together – located in an unknown, remote place. His work poses questions of surveillance and perception: "who is watching, who is being watched, and what becomes of that which slips outside the frame?"

Lê Tuấn Ry. 18 Realms of Mound, 2025. Old X-ray film, industrial safety pins, claw machine motors, car display screens, music boxes (installation block), water coconut fronds, charred wood, found steel base, aluminium profiles, asphalt, mother-of-pearl powder, red velvet curtains (screen block).

Dogma is a private collection and exhibition space dedicated to archival and contemporary art in and around Vietnam. Starting as a collection of revolutionary propaganda posters, the collection has since expanded into three interconnected programs: Collection, Research, and Prize. Now in its twelfth edition, the Dogma Prize has grown alongside Dogma Collection, evolving from an award focused on self-portraiture into a platform that celebrates the diversity of artistic practices across the region.

The 2025 Dogma Prize Exhibition is now on view at 27A Nguyễn Cừ, An Khánh Ward, Ho Chi Minh City until 28 February 2026.

Viet Thanh Nguyen's New Essay Collection Is Both Theoretically Sharp and Intimately Tender

2026-01-18T20:00:00+07:00

Last year, acclaimed Vietnamese American writer Viet Thanh Nguyen published To Save and to Destroy: Writing as an Other, a collection of six essays adapted from the prestigious Norton Lectures that he delivered at Harvard in 2023–2024.

Writing and otherness are the central themes of the book. What does it mean to write as an other? To read as an other? What is, or should be, the relationship between self and otherness? Such are the questions that Nguyen is invested in in his latest book. And while his reflections upon these questions center around his own experiences as an Asian American and refugee, he demonstrates, importantly, that such questions are pertinent to all of us, whoever we are and wherever we live, ethically, socially, and in some sense, existentially.

The insights that Nguyen offers in To Save and to Destroy are simultaneously theoretically sharp and intimately tender, a result of his seamless blending of autobiography and theory. Maneuvering between artful storytelling drawn from his own life and readings of critical and literary texts, he lets each shed light on the other. The result is a deft hybrid between art and criticism, combining the best strengths of both — a quality that great lectures most often have. That said, Nguyen’s book does not read like a lecture, and nor does it attempt to lecture at us. Rather, it simply asks to be heard, asks for its readers to think, feel, and reflect alongside its author.

For those who have read Nguyen’s previous works, the particular hybrid genre of To Save and to Destroy may strike as new, but it may oddly feel familiar as well — after all, Nguyen’s fiction has arguably always been theoretical, and his non-fiction, as his latest memoir A Man of Two Faces can attest, literary. Anyone who finds pleasure in reading theory as literature and literature as theory, To Save and to Destroy will be a delight to read, intellectually rich without being burdensome.

As it may already be apparent, the subtitle of Nguyen’s book, “writing as an other,” contains within it a multitude of meanings that he weaves through and together. To start, Nguyen is interested in two forms of otherness: one that is experienced via marginalization and domination, a form of otherness deeply personal to Nguyen as someone who came to the US as a young refugee from Vietnam, and a second form of otherness, perhaps more universal, that resides in the deepest parts of all of us. Nguyen explains:

By others, I mean those who are outcast from or exploited by the powerful norm of their societies, or those who have moved voluntarily or have been moved forcefully from one place to another, or those who have been dominated in their own homes by outsiders whom they would consider to be others. By others, I also mean ourselves, for as Toni Morrison points out in her Norton Lectures, The Origin of Others, otherness emerges from within the mysterious and unknown, or at best partly known, territory inside us all, a nexus of fears and desires we project onto those whom we label strangers, foreigners, enemies, invaders, threats.

For Nguyen, as the last part of the quote above makes clear, the two forms of otherness, while distinct, often intertwine in troubling ways. A central question of the book then, is how one should relate to the other, both within and outside the self. In the book’s preface, Nguyen explains that his lectures are an “attempt to think through what it means to write and read from the position of an other, which is for me the starting point of an ethical and political art.” If ethics and politics concern the question of how one should relate to others, the task of thinking through “writing as an other” is the starting point for ethical and political art precisely because it is in otherness that self and other meet, struggle, and relate.

In this respect, the chapter “Palestine and Asia” stands out, the corresponding lecture of which he delivered not long after the October 7 attacks in 2023. In raising the question of the significance of Israel-Palestine for Asian Americans, Nguyen comes to the following forceful conclusion.

Being Asian American is not the only dimension of myself. I cease being an Asian American if and when Asian Americans cannot emerge from self-defense, inclusion, and a limited solidarity bound by race and nation in order to embrace an expansive, global solidarity. My Asian Americanness matters less than my ethics, politics, and art. Together they constitute a repository of a stubborn otherness that resists the lure of a domesticated otherness satiated by belonging. For Asian Americans, inclusion is crucial but complicated when it means belonging to a settler and imperial country that promotes the colonization and occupation of other lands. What is the worth of defending our lives if we do not seek to protect the lives of others? As for whom we should feel solidarity with, the answer is simple, albeit difficult: whoever is the cockroach. Whoever is the monster.

Nguyen’s point is that belonging cannot, and should not, come at all costs, taking precedence over one’s ethics, politics, and art, nor over the pursuit of “radical solidarity” that cannot be bound by race or nation, but must extend to those who are most oppressed and dehumanized beyond our immediate communities. Importantly, Nguyen is not calling for a rejection of belonging or Asian American identity, but rather a transformation in how such belonging is understood in the first place — the values it should entail and the forms of solidarities it should call for. And such reworking of what Asian Americanness ought to mean is precisely what Nguyen seeks to engage in in deliberating upon, and performing, writing as an ethical and political act.

If, on the one hand, Nguyen is interested in “writing as an other” as an act, he is also interested in “writing as an other” as a noun, an object that “is itself an other to the writer.” This is, in fact, literally the case in the chapter “On Speaking for an Other,” in which he recounts rediscovering essays that he wrote long ago as a freshman in Berkeley for Maxine Hong Kingston’s writing seminar, specifically about his mother’s breakdown and her eventual commitment to a psychiatric ward. In rereading his own essays decades later, Nguyen realizes that his memories of the event were wrong, with crucial parts distorted or even entirely blacked out. He realizes that his mother had been committed to the psychiatric ward when he was a college freshman, not as a child as he thought for decades. He also learns about a hole in his bathroom door that he fails to recollect even after rereading his writing. His father had knocked it through in order to reach his mother who had locked herself in the bathroom out of a paranoiac fear that someone, or everyone, was trying to kill her.

If writing is other, it is in part because language itself is always already other, foreign, even in the form of one’s mother tongue, a point that the French philosopher Jacques Derrida elucidates in “Monolingualism of the Other,” a text Nguyen explicitly invokes. But writing is other also because it reflects the otherness that is an inherent and irreducible condition of existence itself. As Nguyen reflects upon the aforementioned episode, he writes, “if the experience was so unsettling that I had to write about it, it was also so unnerving that I had to forget about it until my mother died two days before Christmas Eve in 2018.” In some sense, Nguyen’s trauma was itself an other within himself that he could not bear nor confront — which is why he “had to” write about it, “had to” in order to externalize it into words on a page so that it could be stored away and forgotten.

As Nguyen explains, the experience of being a refugee is often one that must inevitably face the question, “will they live or die, be saved or destroyed?” But what about in writing? As the title of Nguyen’s book indicates, in “writing as an other,” salvation and destruction do not necessarily exist in binary opposition but rather in odd cohesion. In writing about his mother, and in rereading his writing, what has he saved? destroyed? The memories of his mother, both, no doubt, but perhaps also himself — a contradiction only if we cling onto a notion of self that excludes from itself otherness.

But even as the encounter with otherness — both of one’s own as well as of loved ones — can be deeply unsettling, traumatic even, Nguyen insists that such an encounter can also possess unexpected joys. In the last paragraph of the book, Nguyen describes his sister Tuyết, whom his family abandoned in fleeing Vietnam (and who, as was unknown at the time, was adopted), visiting San José to see their sick father, whom she had last seen three decades ago.

Love was what brought my sister to the United States, to see her brothers but most especially, I think, our father. After Los Angeles, my sister flew to San José to visit him, whom she had not seen since his last visit to Việt Nam thirty years before. Our father spends his days in quiet contemplation, and when I return, he either does not recognize me or pretends to recognize me, his other, as he is other to me. I warned my sister that our father would probably not know who she was, but this did not appear to deter her. When she walked into his room, she told me later, she asked him if he recognized her. In a moment of reunion and recognition that I think of as manifesting the joy of otherness, he murmured an assent. Then our father said, “Vui lắm.” And my sister was content that our father said he was very happy.

The otherness of Nguyen’s sister, the otherness of his father, the otherness of their encounter with each other — in this extraordinary scene, a multitude of layers of otherness overlap and collide, each bearing its own painful history. Yet in this encounter, we witness the emergence of a plurality of joys too, each felt differently by his sister, his father, and Nguyen himself. The “joy of otherness” resounds here, but it also remains opaque, not least of all because it remains unclear what their father exactly meant by “Vui lắm.” Perhaps he recognized Tuyết. Perhaps he was happy to see her regardless of who she was. Perhaps he was joyous for a different reason altogether.

But perhaps the question of why does not matter so much. If the joy of otherness, and the multitude of joys that reverberate from it, cannot but be opaque, it is because the joy of otherness is itself also, ultimately, deeply other.

In Sa Pa, Learning How to Indigo Dye, One Plant, Vat, and Beeswax Pen at a Time

2026-01-11T07:00:00+07:00

My first meal in Sa Pa was accidentally earned. After a few hours of uneven rest in a sleeper bus and a short ride from Sa Pa city center to the village, I finally arrived, along with two other indigo enthusiasts, at a small hill in bản Cát Cát. A few modest houses framed a quiet courtyard where indigo vats rested, and long strips of dyed fabric hung on bamboo poles, drying in the morning air.

Lush scenery of Bản Cát Cát.

Shortly after arriving, we met Mi in the courtyard. She led us into her grandmother’s house, where she was splitting corn kernels from the cob while her grandmother worked the stove. We each took a small stool and joined her by the fire. When breakfast came, we were handed bowls and chopsticks, despite our minimal help and last-minute arrival. Sautéed bamboo shoots, simmered pork, and plenty of rice: simple, filling, and comforting. That meal set the tone for the days ahead: we would be mildly useful, gently active, and always rewarded with food made with care.

Hmong indigo pattern with traditional beeswax pen.

After breakfast, we met the remaining students, and Nhái and Nủ, the couple who ran the four-day indigo class we had come for. It covers the main stages of the process: harvesting the plant, fermenting it using an anaerobic method (traditional to the Hmong community of the area), making indigo paste, and learning a selection of dye techniques. I joined after having seen scenes from one of their classes pop up on my social media feed last year. Small groups of people sat around a log of coal used to melt the beeswax needed to create patterns on fabric before dyeing. Another picture showed them in the woods, listening to Nủ explain something. Then there was a graduation shot, where everyone is showing their final dyed product. And all of it with Sa Pa’s greenery and wooden houses in the backdrop. Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ felt unassuming, yet their classes seemed inviting and fun.

Learning about fabric properties with Nhái (bottom right corner).

When asked why she didn’t offer shorter, workshop-style classes, Nhái explained how she wanted students to experience the dye’s rhythm and living nature. The vats required care: we took turns, during our sojourn, stirring them to incorporate oxygen and keep the extract from settling, covering them from rain, and regularly checking and testing them for alkalinity and dye strength, especially after each use. The dye also needed warmth and time to ferment. We learned to read the signs of a healthy vat and to recognize when one was falling short.

The indigo dye process with bubbles visible due to fermentation.

From curiosity to Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ

Originally hailing from Hải Phòng, Nhái moved to Hanoi for university. With a keen interest in all things DIY and handicraft, she taught herself how to sew, to embroider, to bake, and to bind books. Certain that office life was not for her, she began making and selling handmade work while finishing her studies.

She first experimented with heat dye processes, using natural dye materials such as lá bàng, onion peels, and avocado pitt, before eventually learning about indigo dye. During this early period, Nhái partnered with a friend to learn and experiment with indigo dye together, selling their work under the same brand. In 2016, as their needs and directions diverged, they went their separate ways: Nhái continued with Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ, while her friend founded Đu Đủ, which now focuses on indigo dye in interior design.

As her focus deepened on indigo dye, her curiosity shifted towards the plant itself, sparking an interest in cultivation and farming. She began paying closer attention to the food she ate and the plants around her. Nhái then felt the need for more space to dye and grow, something Hanoi could not offer.

Preperation of simple, healthy meals is shared by attendees of the Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ indigo dye class.

In 2018, Nhái moved to a small farm in Lạng Sơn, staying for a year before planning to relocate to the Ngọc Linh Mountains to set up a new workspace with a friend and business partner. While waiting, Nhái went to Cát Cát to help Nủ, a recently made friend at the time, to build what is now their current house, all while continuing to deepen her knowledge of indigo dye through local practices. When the farm in Ngọc Linh did not turn out as expected, and the move was no longer possible, Nhái decided to stay in Cát Cát. She and Nủ would later get married and have Mì, their daughter, in 2023.

Starting a new dye vat.

After settling in Cát Cát, Nhái began teaching classes and continued to grow Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ, all while consigning her work at friends’ shops in Hanoi. When she became pregnant with Mì, Nủ stepped in to help with the business. Despite coming from different cultures, the two grew into a seamless partnership, balancing work and family life. Nủ would lead our group into the forest to harvest indigo, while Nhái guided textile choices and dyeing techniques, and ensured Mì gets her daily naps.

Before the class began, we were told to be mindful of the inorganic waste we brought with us and to take it back for disposal after our stay. Upon arrival, it became clear that while their environmental practices are not perfect, they are intentional and grounded in the realities of their surroundings. Plastic bags are kept and reused; milk cartons are washed, cut, and kept to bring back to Hanoi for recycling, if not already repurposed. Solid soap is bought by the kilo for all purpose use. In the kitchen, an informal compost bucket collects organic scraps for later use in gardening. Most importantly, no pesticides are used — not on the garden greens cooked for meals, nor on the hill where indigo is grown.

Dying the fabric (left) and Nủ melting beeswax to reveal the final product (right).

Currently, the indigo they can grow is not sufficient for their needs. This meant needing to buy indigo paste from other farmers, who are not always willing to forego pesticides, even when offered higher prices. Life in the mountains is harsh; using pesticides and chemical fertilizers has become common practice, as they speed up growth, reducing time and labor. They were often introduced as a miracle solution, without any acknowledgement of their toxic properties that degrade soil health, harm biodiversity, and pollute water and air. Persuading more indigo farmers to lessen or eliminate these chemicals remains an active effort.

A successful team harvest for indigo.

Adding to this, the growing interest in indigo dye in Vietnam has led to more places offering similar products. For Nhái, it’s an ongoing internal negotiation to put out work that meets her standards yet remains appealing and accessible. Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ relies largely on collaboration with small local brands who seek her out for hand-dyed fabrics with specific pattern designs. For example, here is an Áo Tấc from the brand Đông Phong, made with fabric dyed by Nhái.

Any profit from the class is reinvested in their infrastructure, improving living and communal spaces for students to learn and cook during our stay. With Sa Pa’s high altitude making construction materials costly to transport, progress is gradual. In the long run, Nhái also hopes to invest in herself, to further her education in indigo dye, and learn new techniques from other parts of the world.

A peaceful morning view from the dorms' windows.

Outside of work, Nhái and Nủ envision developing more social projects for local youth. Nhái sees a great value in indigo dye as a craft, but local youth seem less and less interested. Today, many are encouraged after ninth grade to learn a trade and/or work in the service sector, as tourism in the region continues to grow and demand more labor. The couple hopes to preserve their cultural practices, as well as expose younger generations to more creative paths.

When asked about what she considers her proudest achievement, Nhái frankly shared, “In truth, I feel a bit self-conscious for not coming from a creative background. Because of it, I always feel that I’m not skilled enough, that my work could always be better. Of course, after some time thinking this way, looking back, I realize that I actually did well. I tried and did my best at the time, so it’ll be ok.”

How to dye using indigo, the four-day teaser

A refreshing dip in the river after the first day of learning about indigo dye.

Time spent in Cát Cát held more depth than expected. We moved slowly and followed the curriculum flexibly, yet time never felt ill spent. After our first day, we took a spontaneous hike to the river with Nhái and Nủ’s nieces, bathing in the fresh water of the falls.

On our third day, we spent hours by a small fire that kept our beeswax melted, as we drew and sewed, helping one another through projects that were sometimes more ambitiously time-consuming. My fellow course-mates all opted for a bigger rectangular hand-woven fabric (180cm x 40cm), which can be used as a scarf, tablecloth, or turned into an ornamental piece. I chose the other option, a square linen piece (70cm x 70cm), that I intended to use as a headscarf or a neckerchief. At the beginning of the course, we were shown different pieces from Nhái and Nủ’s collection, finished and ongoing projects, as well as pieces made by Nủ’s family, for their own use.

A traditional Hmong indigo dye pattern.

They very kindly let me buy one of Nủ’s old jackets, dyed and sewn by his mom when he was still a boy. Their clothing has a distinctive shoulder built, that drops well into the sleeves, almost reaching one’s elbows. This simple structure removes all sharpness, giving the jacket a softer overall look. The fabric has seen many dye vats throughout the years, retaining its dark and vibrant blue. The garment is completed with dangling small metallic bell-shaped buttons and has white stains on the left sleeve, remnants of renovation work done by Nủ recently, when he decided to throw on his old jacket for added warmth. When they sold me the jacket, they considerately tried to remove the stains. I thought about embroidering over it, but have since decided against it, as it gave me yet another excuse to share anecdotes about my time in Cát Cát and the people behind Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ.

Through their collection, we were able to better understand the rendering of different techniques, aiding our own design process. My project combined beeswax use, which protects the fabric against dye, creating negative space, with layering dye to get different indigo shades, and shibori stitching. The result is a patchwork composition. Others had a more defined vision, opting to focus on one technique only to create a cohesive design.

The group works on their designs while Nủ grills chicken.

Nủ shifted between guiding us and grilling chicken over that same fire meant for the beeswax, meat he had marinated that morning, while we studied with Nhái. Many meals were prepared in slight confusion and not without tension, as our little group was only getting to know one another in an unfamiliar setting. Still, we always came together whenever Nhái brought out baked goods. Shokupan for breakfast on our second day, cream puffs to celebrate our graduation, and milk bread that was meant to last a couple of days, but was quickly devoured on our fourth-day hike to Tả Vân, while we waited for our dye vats to ferment.

Graduation cream puffs that Mì eyes with anticipation.

I left Cát Cát with a deeper appreciation for indigo dye as a craft and its deep roots in Hmong culture. Since then, I try to incorporate the same focused intention and active curiosity in my daily life that came so naturally during my stay. On my phone now sits our own graduation photo and an ongoing group chat, where our cohort continues to share tips, discoveries, and reflections on indigo dye.

Graduation picture with Nhái (third from the left).

Hanoi Indie Duo Limebócx Brings Tried-and-Trù Traditions to Young Ears

2026-01-08T11:00:00+07:00

A grazing buffalo, frolicking water puppets, mystifying tam cúc cards, an insolent maiden in áo tứ thân, a rustic meal around cái mâm. These are just a few standout visuals that will haunt your brain upon feasting your eyes on Limebócx’ debut music video ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay).’

Amidst bewildering characters and surreal segments that seem to have been spontaneously glued together in a chaotic fever dream, Tuấn and Chuối — the founding members of Hanoi indie duo Limebócx — appear as the only semblance of normalcy reassuring viewers that they’re watching a music video and not tripping balls. The pair first met through a jam session at the Rec Room community years ago, but only played music together during a music exchange program in South Korea, they told Whammy Bar in an interview. The founding of Limebócx started from an unknown mishmash of influences that didn’t fit in any particular genres but sounded relaxing when đàn tranh was added to the mix. Over time, the sight of a beatboxing Tuấn hunching over his trusty loop station and Chuối cranking out sultry bass licks or a đàn tranh solo would go on to become a beloved familiar image in the mind of fans starting from the duo’s debut in 2019.

In 2023, the renaissance of traditional Vietnamese elements in the local music landscape is so prevalent that you can’t walk two blocks in any metropolitan area without bumping into a fusion pop hit blasting from a bubble tea parlor or sidewalk coffee cart. Names like Hoàng Thùy Linh, Hòa Minzy, Văn Mai Hương, and K-ICM have all found success of varying degrees with new chart-topping tracks featuring facets of Vietnamese culture, from folk instruments like đàn nhị or đàn tranh to ancient literary classics. This appreciation for local flavors in mainstream pop productions has been bubbling away for half a decade or so, but is fully flourishing in 2023. Back in 2019, the release of Limebócx’ EP “Electrùnic” was the first time I saw zither and classical poetry having a place in such a contemporary, sleek and exciting context.

The cover of the extended play "Electrùnic."

Even with just a handful of songs, Electrùnic demonstrated a coherent creative vision that rose above the music landscape at the time. The debut extended play includes four tracks: ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay),’ the first to premiere, is based on the quan họ Bắc Ninh mainstay ‘Qua Cầu Gió Bay’; ‘Mục Hạ Vô Nhân’ and ‘Hồ Tây’ weave in poetry by 19^th-century literary powerhouse Nguyễn Khuyến; and ‘Chiều Trù Nhật’ takes inspiration from ca trù, another form of folk singing. Beatboxing, bass, echoing loops, and đàn tranh intermingle as the simmering base for Chuối’s deliciously viscous line delivery. It’s as if slam poetry has a dalliance with electronica during a quan họ performance.

Limebócx 2.0

Hà Đăng Tùng (left) and Lê Trang (right), the current roster of Limebócx.

Watching ‘Dung Họa,’ Limebócx’ latest single and music video released back in February, you might notice a new face in the member roster. Last year, Hanoi bid farewell to Tuấn as he embarked on a new academic journey in Australia, and the group welcomed a new member in the form of Hà Đăng Tùng, who brought his passion for electronic music into the tapestry of Limebócx. I met Tùng and Chuối for the first time via virtual call as they were drowned out by the cacophony of a random coffee shop in Hanoi. It was hard for me not to feel intimidated, as a self-proclaimed Limebócx groupie, to sit face-to-face with the people behind the songs that have accompanied me through numerous flights, night showers, and languorous Saturday nights lying on the floor feeling every beat.

My attempts to dispel the initial awkwardness with small-talk questions went about rather poorly, though many random things I’ve been wondering were answered. Chuối, meaning banana in Vietnamese, is the affectionate nickname of Lê Trang. As she was growing up, Trang’s father referred to her by a plethora of pet names depending on his mood, but only “Chuối” has stuck until now. Her favorite fruit? Not banana, but jackfruit. Is there a special story behind the band name? Nope, before a performance back in the early days, they were asked about the name of their act, so they fused together “chanh/lime” (đàn tranh) and “bócx” (beatbox). Limebócx was born and the rest is history.

Limebócx before a performance at the Temple of Literature in Hanoi.

The indie music scene in Hanoi was as small as can be and Tùng and Tuấn were already friends way back then, so it was a natural progression that Tùng stepped in to form Limebócx 2.0. “I was ‘coerced’ maybe three, four times [to join Limebócx]. After four, five nhậu sessions, I finally had to say yes,” Tùng tells me. “I already knew both of them. At the beginning, it was challenging as I didn’t know where to start, and the band already has an established image, so it was tough for me to fit in.”

Long-term followers of the independent music scene in Hanoi might already recognize the prolific “pedigree” of the members. Chuối was a segment of Hanoi quintet Gỗ Lim, iconic punk legends of the 2000s, and is currently the bassist for rock/metal group Windrunner. Also known as Đờ Tùng, Tùng studied Classical Guitar at the Vietnam National Academy of Music in Hanoi and is a member of several music entities, such as Bluemato, Phác Họa Xanh and Ngầm. Becoming a part of Limebócx, Tùng brought to the table a distinctive touch of electronic music, something that he has already been exploring in his personal endeavors, along with experimental and ambient sounds.

Not too cool for school

From nhậu mates to bandmates.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness. Making a world of percussive sounds using just one’s mouth movements, gliding easily between traditional and contemporary instruments, and smashing together east and west, old and new — none of these are easy feats for newbies. Cool, however, is not exactly the first adjective one would associate with many of Vietnam’s traditional performing art forms. Quan họ, ca trù, chèo, đờn ca tài tử, hò, tuồng, xòe, and many more, all have rich histories, involve meticulous techniques, and are shining examples showcasing the country’s profoundly diverse cultures, but one is more likely to catch them at tourist sites and academic television documentaries than in the minds of young Vietnamese. Nguyễn Khuyến, whose vịnh poems inspired a number of Limebócx songs, is a mainstay author in the national high school literature syllabus, and thus, tends to evoke memories of exam-related dread rather than a sense of fascination among youths. This is all to say that there isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

There isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

Much of the link to traditional influences came from Chuối, who credited her interest in reading and poetry to the literature lessons back in high school. “In high school, we are taught so many types of fiction and poetry. There were things I really hate, but there were things I thought were cool and resonated with me,” she reminisces. Nguyễn Khuyến is perhaps best known for a trio of poems revolving around autumn: ‘Thu Điếu’ (Autumn Fishing), ‘Thu Ẩm’ (Autumn Drinking) and ‘Thu Vịnh’ (On Autumn). “I like things like that, a bit of romanticism in there, like taking a walk, appreciating the flowers, sipping some rice wine,” Chuối adds.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness.

In between verses of poetry, the music of Limebócx is truncated by metallic licks of đàn tranh, our version of 16-string zither and a major factor contributing to the duo’s unique fusion sounds. Chuối received an old đàn tranh as a gift, but found the traditional instrument too challenging, so she didn’t touch it for a long time. When she started making music with Tuấn during the early days of the band, she decided to give it another chance. The next era of Limebócx might or might not see the addition of guitar phím lõm in its soundscape, something that Tùng is experimenting with after he was given one by a friend. This six-string lute is the Vietnamese adaptation of the European guitar, albeit with scalloped neck spaces between frets; this modification was designed to produce the reverberating sound commonly heard in southern cải lương.

Finding a new balance for a new album

Following a few years of relative quietude, Limebócx confirms with me that they’re indeed working on the next record, an album that pays tribute to the band’s old self, in-transition self, and new self. There’s a sprinkle of throwbacks to the first extended play, but with more of Tùng’s input. There’s an exploration of Limebócx as a trio, as evidenced in the latest single ‘Dung Họa.’ And of course, there’s Limebócx 2.0, much of which we don’t know about yet, but the making of which is a process of experimentation that they enjoy. Long-time supporters will be able to find the traditional elements they know and love about the duo, but electronic music will play a bigger role than before, adding more weight to the new record.

The new direction will lean more towards electronic, Tùng's forte, while retaining the traditional references that fans know and love about the band.

“Tùng has been in the group for a year, but at the beginning, we were just trying to get to know each other,” Chuối says of the process of making new music. “For the new album, I want to ‘exploit’ this one [points to Tùng] as much as possible so that it will turn out to be something with a lot of his personality and voice too.”

“I hope it will turn out okay,” Tùng quips. “I think it’s quite dope when I listen to it, but I don’t know what people will think.”

Limebócx’ biggest wish ever since the band’s founding is to bring their music and more traditional Vietnamese materials to the international stage. For decades now, local music has struggled to find a footing in bigger arenas, but there are glimmers of a very Vietnamese identity that are starting to shine through — in projects by Hoàng Thùy Linh, Dzung, and Limebócx, for example. After decades of learning from developed industries, perhaps we’re finally at a point where we can grow what we learned into a unique and personal sound.

What’s Limebócx’ biggest dream?

Chuối: Perform with a symphonic orchestra. Or even better, a traditional orchestra.

Tùng: Glastonbury. [laughs]

Photos courtesy of Limebócx.

This article was originally published in 2023.

In His Research-Driven Artistic Practice, Quang deLam Maps History, Knowledge Together

2026-01-04T10:00:00+07:00

What if art functions as a visual form for transmitting knowledge and entangled histories, and the artist is a messenger between them and the audience?

With an academic background in image sciences and professional career in digital media, French-Vietnamese multidisciplinary artist Quang deLam (Quang Lam) works across photography, painting and installation. His artistic process is often research-driven, where he starts from looking into science, history and geography, and with archival materials playing a significant role. This approach is reflected throughout his works included in his first solo exhibition “Seas of Silk” (2025) at Lotus Gallery and in the group exhibition “Archive and Post-Archive” at Vincom Center for Contemporary Art (VCCA) as a part of Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025.

Quang deLam next to his work ‘Tales from the Land of Dragons’ (2025) as a part of “Archive and Post-archive,” Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. Photo courtesy of the artist.

His exploration of different materials and media is closely linked to his scientific background and inspired by Marshall McLuhan's well-known phrase, “The medium is the message,” from Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1964). McLuhan’s idea implies that the communication medium itself is the message, and the form of the message determines the way the message is perceived — which resonates strongly in Quang’s practice. He initially worked primarily with photography, a medium often associated with “conveying the truth,” but became interested in how the same knowledge can be perceived differently when “translated” onto different mediums. Through the re-composition of objects and forms, painting allows him to reorganize visual information and alter how the truth is constructed and perceived by the audience. Since 2022, this has marked a shift in his practice as he became fully engaged in art-making by expanding beyond photography into painting and installation, alongside his research on science and history.

Quang Lam's series of paintings and installations, recently presented in the solo exhibition “Seas of Silk” (2025) at Lotus Gallery, draws on the history of the maritime Silk Road, shipwrecked ceramics, ancient civilization, and their surrounding narratives. Developed through his research of maps and astrology, as a combination of different materials and historical references, the bodies of works invites viewers to consider the inter-relationship between these histories, the way we view histories that we had never lived in but could only imagine and find out through historical sources, with connections to our contemporary world.

Installation view of ‘Seas of silk’ (2025) at Lotus Gallery. Photo courtesy of the artist.

The central installation depicts a shipwreck scene with broken ceramic fragments scattered on the ground. The paintings incorporate representations of the silk road expeditions, using the Maokun map as a reference, alongside motifs drawn from shipwrecked ceramics from museum collections and transformed into iconography. In ‘Cocoon’ (2025) and ‘Pegasus cells’ (2025), the centrally placed cocoon shape references the process of silk production. Surrounding this are images of corals and motifs from Chu Đậu ceramics, such as the mythical pegasus, a bird on a tree branch, shrimps, and flowers — all rendered in iconographic forms in bright, vibrant colors and clean lines. While the compositions evoke a sense of collage and abstraction, this reveals the artist’s process: collecting images and artifacts, turning them into iconographic elements, and arranging them on the paintings.

‘Cocoon,’ 2025. 100 x 80cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist

‘Pegasus cells,’ 2025. 80 x 60cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

In other paintings, such as ‘Dancing with the storm’ (2025) and ‘Oc Eo Aurora’ (2025), the imagery shifts towards sea and mountainous terrains, depictions of the wind currents, and shipwreck scenes. One work depicts ships coming from afar, with silhouettes of ancient Oc Eo statues appearing across the horizon. The main reference behind these paintings is the historic Mao Kun map, also known as Zheng He’s Navigation Map, published in 1628 during China’s Ming dynasty. Originally created as a rollable strip map documenting coastal regions and islands along the maritime routes, it is considered to be the earliest known Chinese map on the maritime Silk Road connecting different parts of Asia, Persia, Arabia and East Africa. By adopting this Asian map as a reference, Quang intentionally moves away from the Eurocentric perspectives that have long dominated historical mapping and education.

‘Oc Eo Aurora,’ 2025. 80 x 100cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

‘Dancing with the storm,’ 2025. 80 x 100cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

For the artist, maps themselves function as a kind of “abstract” art, even though they were not originally created with artistic intention. Ancient navigators recorded mountains, rivers, and terrains encountered during their journey, where lived experiences are translated into a system of measurement. While maps are often discussed from a geographical and political perspective, they are rarely considered within the context of art. This perspective made Quang highlight the importance of scientific knowledge beyond how mainstream art history is often written, which tends to focus on stylistic development.

Beyond cartography, Quang deLam also researches astrology, the use of astrolabes and compasses, acknowledging that navigators in the past relied on the stars in the sky to navigate their way through darkness, whether on land or at sea. For him, one of the most fundamental ways to understand the world is through measurement: time measured by the clock, directions determined by the compass, and position in relation to the stars measured through the astrolabe. These systems explain the different layers of his artistic and research practices, as well as different materials, with the aim of creating works that embody a sense of time and space.

‘Made in Far-East,’ 2025. 80 x 80cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

‘Astrolabs Saigon–Hanoi’ (2024) features an astrolabe-like structure, composed of large ruler forms positioned at the top, paired with die-cut plexiglass panels engraved with city maps. Beneath the plexiglass layer is a painted star chart, alongside archived letters with destinations written on the envelopes. According to the artist, the constellations depicted in the work are calculated according to the specific date on the letters, determining the positions of the stars at that moment. The letters contain names of senders and recipients from different locations, with postal stamps and sending and receiving dates, providing the basic geographic information of who, where and when. Collected by the artist, the letters themselves are artifacts representing lived histories of movement, measurement, and communication.

‘Astrolabs Hanoi–Saigon,’ 2024. 90 x 36cm. Inox, plexiglass, wood, paper, postcard. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Returning to photography with an emphasis on archival materials accumulated throughout the years, Quang deLam’s “Tales from the Land of Dragons” (2025) was recently featured in the large-scale group exhibition “Archive and Post-archive” (2025) at Vincom Center for Contemporary Art (VCCA), curated by Đỗ Tường Linh and Éline Gourgues, as part of the Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. The installation centers an index drawer surrounded by stacks of white boxes and books, with dragonfruits placed on top and inside the index drawer, and some in between the book stacks. These elements are connected by a dense network of electric wires and threads, with photography works of dragonfruits and books staged within old libraries on display in the background.

Installation view of ‘Tales from the Land of Dragons’ (2025) as a part of “Archive and Post-archive,” Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. Photo courtesy of the artist.

The work took inspiration from the Vietnamese origin myth “Con rồng cháu tiên,” which depicts the Vietnamese people as descendants born from 100 eggs laid by the dragon lord Lạc Long Quân and the fairy Âu Cơ; following their separation, 50 eggs were taken to the mountains while 50 returned to the ocean. In this installation, according to the exhibition text, the work “takes the fruits of the dragons [dragon fruits] as the symbol of the eggs, and along the various pictures combines with architectural and book elements to compose the timeline of contemporary Vietnam.” By linking this myth with the modern and contemporary Vietnamese history, which was marked by upheavals and violence, the work reflects on the shifting access to knowledge: from the colonial period, where it was largely restricted to a small number of intellectual elite, to the post-independence period when public libraries play an important role in making cultural resources and knowledge accessible to the public. The photography installation itself in this case represents an archive of knowledge and a timeline of cultural memory.

Installation view of ‘Tales from the Land of Dragons’ (2025) as a part of “Archive and Post-archive,” Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. Photo courtesy of the artist.

As much of his practice centers on history and knowledge, Quang deLam employs archival materials and research to bridge science and art, while reflecting on the nature of knowledge itself, and the significant role of human consciousness. “Knowledge comes first, then our consciousness and then followed by our actions. If you have knowledge but without consciousness, there’s no meaning in your action. The same thing applies to art, where action needs to be guided,” Quang deLam shared with Saigoneer.

For the artist, art functions as a means of knowledge and a prophecy: it is not about his own self-expression, but about transmitting understanding to the viewer, positioning the artist as a messenger. In this increasingly complex world — where distinctions between what is real and what is fabricated are often blurred — he believes that art plays a vital role in cultivating awareness and critical engagement with new knowledge, rather than relying on inherited moral principles passed down through generations.

Photos courtesy of Quang deLam.

Saigon Residents Swap Screens for Ceramics as a Means to Relax and Connect

2025-12-31T06:36:00+07:00

Can ceramics be a form of self-care? Sitting in a cozy space, slowly covering blank clay with color can have a profoundly calming effect. Rotating a textured mug in your hand to spread paint across a template or letting your imagination reveal a picture on the surface of a plate is important in what it's not: idly scrolling a screen or absorbing a chaotic assault of algorithm-indebted ads and announcements. As digital busyness invades every minute of our waking lives, hand-painting ceramics is a mental and emotional cleanse.

Ceramic4You’s Arrival in Saigon

The past several years have seen a rise in hobby craft activities with ceramics among the most popular. BBC explains: “The tyranny of working and communicating digitally is one reason for the recent appetite for crafting – it is the perfect antidote to the online world. And of all the crafts, perhaps pottery does this most successfully. [...] although multi-tasking has long been seen in a positive light, now is a time when many of us yearn to slow down, and focus on a single, absorbing activity.”

Ceramics themselves are, of course, an ancient, essential element of human society. The painting of already-formed plates, cups, trays, and dishes as a fun pastime is not new either. In the 1990s, for example, the trend moved from America to Europe, where shops and cafes opened for groups of friends, coworkers, students, and couples to spend time transforming simple ceramics into personal works of art.

Stefan Michalk witnessed the ceramics trend in his native Germany in the 1990s, and the idea returned recently after he’d left the publishing world and was looking for fresh businesses to bring to Saigon. Along with his partner, Chi, a voice of creativity and local insight, they recently opened Ceramic4You on Lê Văn Miến Street in the former Thảo Điền. The cafe and pottery studio now provides a casual form of therapy, relaxation, and bonding for Saigon residents.

The Difference is in the Details

True to stereotypes of German demand for precision and a fastidious attention to quality, Ceramic4You holds itself to exceedingly high standards. Such commitment to details is evident the moment you step into the hushed, bright space. After a small seating area, a pristine cafe countertop and kitchen area outfitted with high-tech coffee, waffle and drink gadgets stands across from a floor-to-ceiling shelf of blank ceramics. It’s from these awaiting Bát Tràng pieces that guests can select.

The spacious second floor features more tables for painting at with natural light. On the wall at the top of the staircase is a large display of Mayco paints. These American-made colors are considered the world standard because of how consistently and accurately they maintain their shades after being fired in a kiln. Similarly, Ceramic4You’s two kilns were both imported: one from Germany and one from the USA. This means that when guests finish a piece, they can be confident that their hard work and artistic vision are perfectly preserved.

To control quality Ceramic4you manages the whole process inhouse. Having two own modern electric kilns customers receive their finished work within 72 hours, which is rather unique for the activity that can often take more than a week.

A Complete and Soothing Experience

Ceramic4You makes the experience easy for guests by providing very clear, multilingual instructions for how to use the many design elements that include stickers, stamps, patterns, tape, stencils and silk screens. There are even QR codes that lead to videos for how best to use them. This is particularly helpful because Ceramic4You doesn’t offer classes or teacher-led instruction; that’s not the point. Guests have the freedom to indulge their creative whims while focusing on the company they are with, savoring the hours of uninterrupted peace and opportunity for self-expression.

In addition to not being a place for classes, Ceramic4You is not a babysitter, Stefan cautions. Children are more than welcome, but while it is popular for the many families that live in the area, parents must supervise their young children to ensure they enjoy the experience while not bothering other guests. This maintains a comfortable atmosphere where couples have time to really hear each other, friends can feel unencumbered, and co-workers can discover sides of one another’s personalities that don’t normally appear in office settings.

While sponging abstract colors, stenciling delicate flowers or even printing a beloved pet’s paw on a dish, it’s nice to enjoy some refreshments. The same commitment to quality that informs the ceramics applies to the cafe’s drinks and waffles. Fresh fruit means that no added sugar is needed for the juice while only real butter and maple syrup are used for the waffles.

The result of this holistic attention to detail manifests in guests having positive experiences that leave them relaxed and happy, Chi notes. Such feelings are reflected in the glowing reviews online with customers praising the comfortable space, friendly staff and easy process that leaves them with creative pieces to be treasured as reminders of precious afternoons in the city.

Decorating ceramics is a year-round activity, but it seems particularly suited to the holiday season when friend groups, companies and families are all eager to gather and yearn for something new or different. Moreover, Ceramic4You sells gift cards that make a perfect gift for nearly everyone.

The next time you find yourself wondering what there is to do in Saigon that isn’t another routine cafe or restaurant, or are consumed with a vague but pressing ennui that defies a simple remedy, consider Ceramic4You. You might discover that simply having coarse pottery in your hands, colors unspooling from your imagination and a chill atmosphere are exactly what you need.

Ceramic4You's website

Ceramic4You's Facebook

+84 (0) 988 122 146

Ceramic4You's Email

No 4, Le Van Mien Street, District 2, TP Ho Chi Minh City

In the Era of AI Slop, I've Learned to Embrace Saigon's Ugly Urban Clutters

2025-12-29T11:00:00+07:00

To live in Saigon is to coexist with clutter. Chaos is perhaps to be expected, when one’s habitat is a gargantuan crowded compressed narrow concretized megalopolis of over 10 million people, but few cities I’ve been to are as cluttered as Saigon.

On the ground, your shoes have to maneuver around physical clutter: parked motorbikes, styrofoam, old slippers, durian rinds, chairs, a web of random strings, wires, and plastics. In the air, the clamor of audio clutter drones on, clanking, thrumming, shrieking, yowling, and bonking away day and night.

Born and raised in Saigon, I’ve evolved to accept them, but for reasons unknown, I’ve never made peace with the city’s visual clutters: signboards, shopfronts, and posters in generic typefaces and contrasting colors of red, yellow, white, hot pink, and every hue in between. I despised them — corpulent letters that scream for our eyes’ attention in their soundless, gaudy rage.

They started popping up in the 2000s and have infected all corners of Saigon’s commercial streets, like a corrosive urban mold digesting local architecture and expelling migraine-inducing spores. I blame the advent of cheap and easily accessible printing technologies for this blight; we can print anything nowadays, but does it mean we should? At the risk of propagating yet another Saigoneer cliché, I remember a time when signage was an art and not just a means to an end: when every sign was hand-painted.

Advertising predates the age of rampant visual clutter by a good few decades, and without instantaneous prints, our parents’ generation relied on the skills and artistry of painters to adorn shopfronts. I’ve long wondered why retro signage appeals to me so much, and came to realize that it’s not the fact that it’s old, but the fact that it’s human. Humanity, unlike machines, is prone to imperfections. A little kerning inconsistency. A fatter brushstroke here and there. An irregular, cheeky twirl at the end of a “Y.” Imperfections are interesting and authentic.

Nostalgia is an ever-churning cycle. In the 2000s and 2010s, I yearned for the hand-painted goodness of the 1970s. Today, in the 2020s, I find myself strangely drawn to the kitschy clutter of the 2000s. It is increasingly exhausting to exist as a creature with eyes in the 2020s, when AI slop is cluttering every corner of our world. It is soul-draining to have to be on alert 24/7, to scrutinize every human figure’s hands, every online cat’s fur pattern, every video’s narrative logic just to detect signs of AI. And there will come a time when the technology has progressed so much that our human brains can’t tell reality from slop anymore. With the release of Dildo Banana Promax — or whatever the fuck Google is puking out these days — I fear that day is already here.

A few days ago, I was on a run and stopped at a red light. I looked up, and there, right in front of my eyes, was a signboard for a bike-fixing shop, all decked out in 2000s-style bombastic palette of red letters on yellow background. However, one letter was hanging on by a thread and the sign corners were covered in moss. And the pièce de résistance was that instead of “sửa xe” (fix bikes), the sign reads “sữa xe” (bike milk). It brought a smile to my face.

Take that, AI slop. Saigon’s visual clutter might be hideous, but it is also incredibly human. As a final act of resistance, I will start loving all shitty art from all eras and all genres, as long as a human created it. It might be shitty, but at least it is ours.

On Grappling With a Consumerist Christmas in Saigon

2025-12-26T11:00:00+07:00

Growing up in America, Christmas meant arriving at my grandmother's house and immediately devouring a handmade gingerbread cookie drenched in sugar; driving with my Dad to “candy cane lane,” where homeowners took particular pride in stringing colorful lights on their gutters, windows and frontyard pines; and sneaking to our living room’s Christmas tree at 5am to sit in the dark staring at the presents, waiting until my mom said we were allowed to wake up and open them. Christmas began when Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas songs played on the long ride home from Thanksgiving with relatives and continued through snowy Christmas tree lots, studies paused for classroom parties with pizza and soda pop, and the 1966 Grinch cartoon played on repeat.

Santa Clause 1863 apperance on Harper's Weekly established his apperance has a fat, white-bearded man. Photo via Wikimedia.

Modern Christmas is, in many ways, intrinsically American. European immigrants to New York brought with them a variety of Christian traditions influenced by pagan rituals, and in the 19^th century’s stupefying swirl of capitalist industrialization, we got Santa Claus, Christmas lights and piles of packages containing the year’s newest toys. Disparate activities such as German wassailing songs and decorated trees, English greeting cards, and St. Nikkolas giving gifts to Dutch children all came together in America’s diverse cities, and became coated in a glimmering shade of consumerism aided by Hollywood and the day’s popular media, particularly Harper's Weekly. The holiday shed its rowdy associates and became the premier time for cherished family togetherness, largely independent of any religious belief. It’s a straight path from there to Hallmark Christmas movies, Toyotathon deals, and peppermint lattes.

Christmas decoration shops pop up in Vietnamese cities around the holidays, such as these seen in Hanoi.

I offer that as a necessary preface for how I understand Christmas in Saigon. With each passing year, the city seems to embrace it with increased fervor: Mariah Carey sings in Circle Ks selling Christmas tree-shaped pastries, coffee shops hang wreaths and serve candy cane drinks, and nightclubs announce fake snow events. Red and white trinkets, knickknacks and geegaws abound. On December 24, I passed through a hẻm where a local man dressed up like Santa was handing out packages to neighborhood kids assembled for a party beneath lights that had been strung by a man standing on a motorbike. Before Saigoneer had December 25 off, we held an office gift exchange. Huge crowds gather at the large churches as an entertainment spectacle.

Tân Định Church is brightly decorated for the holiday, while Christmas Eve mass attracts so many onlookers that they spill into the street and obstruct traffic.

With a few exceptions, it seems that Saigon has embraced the most bombastic, capitalist elements of the modern American Christmas. It is a shimmering but harmless distraction at best, a soulless carnival for corporate marketing departments at worst. America’s most wholesome facet of the holiday: a day off to gather with rarely seen family, is difficult, if not impossible, for many, with only rushed evening gatherings taking place.

Meanwhile, an evil history lurks in the margins of Saigon’s Christmas. “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” was the coded signal used by the US military on April 29, 1975 to began the evacuation, as alluded to in Ocean Vuong’s poem ‘Aubade with Burning City.’ The charming old photos of 1960s and 1970s Christmases cannot be seen outside the context of the war, death and destruction wrought by the soldiers for whom the decorations were strung up to satisfy.

Christmas in Saigon 1970. Photo via Đại Kỷ Nguyên.

So when it comes to Christmas in Saigon, maybe us non-Christians should resist its syrupy pull that serves little purpose beyond enticing us to spend money. For those of us who have fond memories of Christmas abroad, let us protect those tender nostalgias without marring them by doomed attempts to recreate them here. But I'm writing this on December 26, anyhow. Christmas is over, so to think of it, perhaps we should turn to a poet, fittingly from America, who recorded the annual taking down of the tree and observed: “all that remains is the scent / of balsam fir. If it’s darkness / we're having, let it be extravagant.”

5 Vietnamese Brands for Christmas Gifts That Celebrate Local Creativity and Culture

2025-12-16T14:00:00+07:00

Even though Christmas is arguably the most important holiday of the year in the west, it is not a traditional special occasion in Vietnam, at least not in the same way Vietnamese go gaga over Tết.

Catholic communities in Saigon and elsewhere in Vietnam observe this holiday the religious way: praying, attending mass, and, for families with a dramatic flair, creating elaborate nativity scenes to display at home. The rest of Vietnam, however, celebrates Christmas with a mix of western and local customs that mostly center around pretty decorations and gift-giving.

Vietnam considers the evening of December 24 to be the height of Christmas celebration, as it is not officially recognized as a national holiday and everybody goes to work as normal on December 25. Gift exchange often takes place in the same evening, though it is not strictly practiced.

In case you’re still in search of ideas for a little something for a close friend, treasured family member, or even crush, Saigoneer has put together this small gift guide to make the brainstorming a little easier. It is no secret that at Saigoneer, we appreciate local creativity and craftsmanship, which are well-represented in the five brands and items below — each from a prominent category of gifts for the diverse receivers in your life.

1. Fashion & Textile: Easy Bad Work

Khim Đặng in his home studio. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Designer Khim Đặng started Easy Bad Work originally at the insistence of his friends to put his artworks on T-shirts. Khim’s art is detailed, fiercely colored, and takes a lot of inspiration from Vietnamese nature and culture, especially mythical motifs like tigers, phoenixes, and dragons. Specialized in shirts, bandanas, and caps, the brand produces limited small batches that are gone once sold out, so each design is a reflection of the time it was born. While the shirts and caps are generally more accessible, it’s the bandanas that truly showcase Easy Bad Work’s artistry through their intricate strokes and symmetrical visuals that draw you in.

Easybadwork products at LÔCÔ Art Market (right) and Khim Đặng's show “Thả Hổ Về Trời” (left).

Read Saigoneer’s profile of Khim Đặng and Easy Bad Work here.

Contact:

Website: easybadwork.com
Instagram: @easybadwork

2. Home Goods: Nắng Ceramics

Photos via Facebook page Nắng Ceramics.

If your giftee is anything like me, who believes that meals eaten on beautiful crockery taste better, they would probably enjoy a choice item or two from Nắng Ceramics. While it’s a relatively young brand, the design philosophy Nắng pursues is closely in line with Lái Thiêu ceramics, a time-honored style originating from Bình Dương. The hand-painted patterns are recognizable enough to not veer too much into minimalism, but are also not too ostentatious to distract you from the beauty of your food. Gladiolus, carp, chrysanthemum, rooster, etc. — the motifs are charmingly rustic, rendered in an elegantly muted palette. I personally own a deep plate and a medium bowl from Nắng Ceramics, and they’re my favorites to create rice bowls in.

Contact:

Instagram: @nang.ceramic

3. Food & Beverages: Sông Cái Distillery

Photos via Sông Cái Distillery.

Rice wine has tugged on the heartstrings of Vietnamese drinkers for centuries, at times, quite literally. We love gulping down rượu đế to nhậu, but few ever pay too much attention to what went into the making of the drink. Hanoi-based Sông Cái Distillery was founded as an attempt to pay respect to the land and the wonderful produce it has bestowed on us. Their spirits and wines are born of a close relationship with indigenous farmers and species, like sim berries in the Spiced Roselle Gin and Mẩy, an amaro bitters made in collaboration with a partner from the Red Dao ethnic minority. While Sông Cái might not appeal to giftees usually enamored by name brands, their locally made bottles could intrigue drinkers with an open mind who are eager to try out new flavors.

Contact:

Website: songcaidistillery.com
Instagram: @songcaidistillery

4. Books: Chu Du Hà Nội by Lê Rin

Images via Thái Hà Books.

Graphic designer and illustrator Lê Rin rose to fame for the first time nearly a decade ago when he published his artbook Việt Nam Miền Ngon, a passion project comprising 100 hand-drawn illustrations of traditional dishes across Vietnam. Since then, it has been reprinted 11 times and remains a popular title for anyone who loves both gorgeous illustrations and eating. Chu Du Hà Nội is the latest title in Lê Rin’s growing portfolio, and this time, he takes readers on a visual journey to the capital. Part travelogue, part artbook, and part cultural exploration — the artbook lends Lê Rin’s intricate watercolor art style with the sights, scenes, and snacks of Hanoi. Buying books as gifts is always a tricky move, as readers tend to have very specific tastes and non-readers might leave the gift forever unread. This artbook is accessible enough to appeal to both.

Where to get: Bookstores across Vietnam or via the publisher’s website here.

5. Arts & Design: Tò He

Photo via Tò He homepage.

Photos via Tò He homepage.

In a market filled with colorful, vibrant merchandise, Tò He’s products stand out thanks to their humorous, charmingly childlike designs and a meaningful brand vision. Founded in 2006, Tò He is a social enterprise with a mission to help improve the livelihood of disadvantaged children in Vietnam through creativity. They organize free art classes, craft workshops, and vocational training programs for children, whose artworks are digitized and polished by designers to become commercial products for sales. A portion of the revenue is returned to the children as royalties. Tò He’s range of products is eclectic, so finding something for an artistic loved one in your life won’t be difficult.

Contact:

Website: tohe.vn
Online store: here

In Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai's New Novel, Saigon's Rhythms Hum in the Background

2025-12-15T11:00:00+07:00

“I’m always homesick for Vietnam. To write is to return home. That's why I had to bring Vietnam alive onto the pages. I had to hear the people speak, I had to listen to the music, to the language; I had to smell the food, see the landscape — that's my way of returning home. Whenever I’m homesick, I just return home via my writing.”

Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai explained this motivation for writing her newest novel Dust Child after she had literally returned home. We were sitting together in the lobby of the Hotel Majestic, discussing her book in one of the places it was set.

I first met Quế Mai more than five years ago in a coffee shop on Pasteur Street to write a profile on her. While back then, her novels were certainly already in progress, she was known to me and most of the English-speaking world as a poet and translator. It was surreal to join her last month to explore some of the settings of Dust Child, the follow-up to her international bestselling The Mountains Sing. As we walked around District 1, visiting locations where some of the book’s pivotal and heartwrenching moments played out, we had a chance to chat about her inspiration, process and purpose in writing the book and also listen to her read the corresponding passages.

Saigon is home to Quế Mai. She studied and worked here for many years; her parents and brothers live here. Dust Child is an opportunity for her to reveal her love for the city as well as her appreciation of its complex past.

A poetic saga that deftly examines oft-marginalized elements of war, race, trauma and healing, Dust Child transports readers to Vietnam to witness the powerful role of compassion in the wake of humankind’s efforts to inflict great harm on itself. The novel contains three main storylines that leap back and forth in time, occasionally overlap and eventually intertwine: In search of confronting painful memories and regrets during the war, American veteran Dan returns to Vietnam in 2016 with his wife Linda as guided by a Saigon local, Thiên; Phong, a mixed-race, or trẻ lai, individual from Bạc Liêu struggles to find a way to lift his wife, Bình, and children out of poverty; and Quỳnh and Trang (Kim), two teenaged sisters who move to Saigon during the war with America to make money for their family.

Saigon Central Post Office

“That’s Sài Gòn Post Office, built in 1886,” Thiên answered.

“It looks French, very French,” said Linda.

“Yes. It was constructed when Việt Nam was part of French Indochina, originally designed by Gustave Eiffel, whose company built the Eiffel Tower. Later the building was reconstructed by other French architects.”

“Really?” gasped Linda.

“Gustave Eiffel had an office in Sài Gòn. He also designed Long Biên Bridge in Hà Nội.”

Dan studied the arched windows and the intricately decorated façade. He’d seen them during the war but hadn’t cared.

“I had no idea,” Linda said, taking off her sunglasses, admiring the building. “Gustave Eiffel also co-designed the Statue of Liberty, Mr. Thien.”

“I want to see the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower before I die. But I need a job that pay better.”

Dan almost laughed. How clever Thiên was, hinting about a big, fat tip at the end of the tour.

They crossed the road. Dan watched the people streaming in and out of the post office. If Kim was in Sài Gòn, she must come here from time to time.

As Linda approached the stairs leading up to the post office, Thiên signaled Dan to stop. He waited until Linda was out of earshot, then lowered his sunglasses, looking at Dan in the eye, his scar twitching. “I think you don’t need a guide. If you do, I don’t care. Today is my last day working for you.”

When American veterans ask Vietnamese about the war fifty years ago, a common sentiment shared is that it’s over, it’s the past. Such a comment seems aimed at reassuring the Americans that they are welcome in Vietnam, that blame will not be placed on their shoulders, and the focus should be on looking forward to a harmonious and fulfilling future together. I think that sentiment is truthful. But such a simplification of the past being gone and buried threatens to ignore lingering fears, hostilities or traumas that must be overcome for a mutual future to be pursued as healthily as possible.

This passage at the Saigon Central Post Office, which occurs about halfway through the novel, reveals Dan’s lingering mistrust as he assumes that their guide is scheming to profit from him. Quế Mai shared that via Dust Child she hopes to bring about “healing for people who were impacted by armed conflicts and separations.” She said: “My stories are human stories, aiming to bring people together by fostering empathy.”

But before they can come together, Dan and Thiên must admit lingering hostilities and address them. Quế Mai explained: “To write these books I had to overcome my own fears because these topics I’m writing about are difficult, not often written about. But I think someone needs to write about them. Unless we confront difficult issues, we cannot generate dialogues that foster healing.”

This scene is crucial in illustrating how Dan has unresolved issues when it comes to his expectations for how the Vietnamese will treat him. Likewise, Thiên, a former soldier who fought alongside the Americans, must examine how he understands the many American veterans that are returning to his country. Their differences come to a more dramatic head later, but this moment helps establish that everything isn’t as calm and happy as everyone may wish it to be, and healing is a difficult process.

April 30 Reunification Park

“The grass of the 30^th of April Reunification Park was wet from the evening rain. A cool wind cut into Phong’s face. He took off his shirt and brought it to his nose. Bình had ironed it before their departure to Sài Gòn. He inhaled her touch. He hoped she’d gotten home safely with the children and hadn’t run out of money along the way. He wished he had made up with her before saying goodbye, told her he was sorry. When Bình agreed to marry him, people whispered that she only did it for the chance to migrate to America. They were wrong. He knew she loved him.

He used to believe that he didn’t deserve love because his life was cursed. He used to believe that his parents had done something unspeakable and that he was being punished for it. The luck of his life had been meeting Bình. Her faith in him had enabled him to regain his confidence. Yet for years, he’d feared that she was just a beautiful illusion; that he would wake up to find her gone.”

Vietnamese voices are underrepresented in global literature and Amerasian characters are particularly absent. Many foreign readers of this novel will not even know that term, though the concept will make sense once they consider the frequency of American soldiers and Vietnamese women getting together during the long war years. Phong’s story brings to life the painful discriminations and hardships these mixed-race individuals faced after 1975 and the important issue that continues to affect the country today.

To write from the perspective of characters with different backgrounds, experiences, genders and races, Quế Mai performs a staggering amount of research including extensive interviews. For example, to give Dan, a white man, a compelling and realistic voice, she spent time with American veterans, accompanying them on their visits to Vietnam and to homes of former enemies. It’s a powerful inversion of the far-too-frequent instances of white men writing from the perspective of Vietnamese women. Similarly, for Phong, Quế Mai relied on numerous interviews with Amerasians and her many years assisting Amerasians in their search for their parents as well as research via published oral stories, memoirs, essays, documentaries, and films.

"The Amerasian character in my novel was abandoned at birth, is illiterate and needs to seek his parents and his identity. Inspired by real-life stories, I was determined to write Phong not as a victim, but as someone with agency: Phong does not let tragedy define him; he fights against racism and prejudices; he assists those who are being scammed; he earns his honest living by doing all types of job. He celebrates life by being a gardener and a musician. Phong’s love for his wife and children offers them hope for the future," she explains.

Quế Mai’s novels are exceedingly generous and hopeful, looking to the best possible outcome that we might achieve with effort and the right heart. Phong’s character, while far from perfect, exemplifies this quality. This passage expresses how hope, even during the most stressful and desperate times, is possible. The love and beauty inherent to the world can lift people out of the most dire states.

Bánh Mì Như Lan

“Bánh Mì Như Lan was similar to the eateries Kim used to take him to, only bigger and more crowded. Sitting on a corner of a busy crossroad, it was filled with noise and packed with people. Instead of doors, it had counters selling many types of dry and cooked food. Customers on motorbikes drove right up to the counters to buy food without even turning off their engines. Behind the counters were Formica tables and plastic chairs. Linda wrinkled her nose, eyeing the rubbish scattered on the floor. Thiên assured them that such a place sold authentic food. He ordered for them and soon the waiter placed the food in front of them: crunchy baguettes stuffed with thinly sliced roasted pork, pate, pickled vegetables, spring onions and coriander, plates of fresh and fried spring rolls, and bowls of steaming noodles.”

Quế Mai may be a world-famous novelist now, but she will always be a poet, first and foremost to me. This passage’s simple depiction of food served in an iconic Saigon bakery showcases her subtle ability to create an evocative scene with precise images and colorful descriptions. More startling metaphors and graceful descriptions exist elsewhere in Dust Child, but here she brings a novelist’s restraint to her poetry.

In a previous article written for Saigoneer, Quế Mai articulated how love and food are extremely intertwined in our memories. It is thus not surprising that a humble dinner of bánh mì transports Dan back 46 years to his time with Kim, the Vietnamese woman he was dating while stationed in Saigon. He returns to Vietnam to confront certain traumas, but he doesn’t seem prepared to confront recollections of happiness and the complexities such an emotion ushers in. This scene is one of the first times that theme emerges and it will remain one of the most powerful elements for the rest of the novel.

Hotel Majestic

Hotel Majestic looked as magnificent as ever, with its domed glass windows, its elaborate entrance where a guard stood. Painted a pale yellow, the building now has a bright red Communist flag flying above its name. He gazed at the rooftop, recalling that it had one of the best views of the city. He had to take Linda up there, tell her tales about the foreign journalists who used to hang out at the rooftop bar during the war.

To the right, Tự Do — the Street of Freedom —, now called Đồng Khởi—the Street of Uprising— stretched out before his eyes, lit up by colorful lights. Were some of the bars still there? During his final month here, he’d been a frequent customer. The girls had been younger than Kim, undemanding and not pregnant.

“This hotel was built by a Chinese Vietnamese businessman in 1925,” Thiên gestured toward the Majestic. “His Chinese name was Hui Bon Hoa, but we called them Uncle Hỏa. He was once Sài Gòn’s richest man. His family constructed thousands of buildings, including the current Fine Arts Museum.”

“That’s amazing,” Linda said. “And how interesting that this hotel looks just like some of the buildings I saw in Paris.” Linda tilted her head, looking up to the lit windows of the higher floors.

As Linda mentioned French architecture, Dan thought about the terrible things the French had done to the Vietnamese. They’d colonized the country for decades, divided its people, caused the First Indochina War, which killed hundreds of thousands of people. Then he noticed how Linda’s innocent words had instantly snapped his mind to the subject of French colonialism. That was the thing about being here. In America, he could pretend that world history had nothing to do with his life. But as soon as he stepped back into the hot air of Việt Nam, he knew that notion was bullshit.

Dust Child jumps back and forth in time, often by chapter, but occasionally within a single paragraph via the character’s memories. In this scene, Dan experiences both present-day Saigon in all its dynamic glory as well as the dangerous, alluring Saigon of his war years. Such time travel makes reading the novel while in Vietnam particularly satisfying as one sees their own reality and a former reality mirrored back to them.

Regardless of which time period a scene occurs within, Quế Mai fills it with historical asides and references, as she does here with the story of Hui Bon Hoa. Of her writing process she explained: “As a reader, I aim to write a book that I’d like to read. So, I wanted to write a book that is authentic to my perception of Vietnam, Vietnam’s history and Vietnam’s present day. I included messages which are important for me, my point of view, my experiences and also messages which are impactful for Vietnamese people that I know”

The personal experiences she alluded to in this quote are even more important to this scene than readers would know, however. While sitting in the Hotel Majestic, Quế Mai explained that she had gotten married next door to this very hotel in 1999: her wedding reception took place at the Maxim Restaurant, which is also featured in the novel. Friends she’d made while studying in Australia as well as her in-laws had flown in for the event and were staying at the Majestic together with her and her husband-to-be. It is thus a cherished place of love-filled memories and given the emotions her book exudes, it makes perfect sense to have included it.

Quế Mai also noted that she set the novel at the Hotel Majestic because it is where Graham Greene wrote his classic The Quiet American. I can imagine people being moved by Dust Child the same way they are by that book. However, it’s worth noting that while in The Quiet American, Phuong, a young Vietnamese woman, was largely silent and relied on Western men to rescue her, Dust Child places two strong and independent Vietnamese sisters at the center of the story where they attempt to rescue American soldiers from the horrors of war.

I hope readers, when visiting Saigon, can retrace the steps we took that afternoon, if for no other reason than to spend a little more time with Quế Mai's beautiful words and the characters she created.

This article was first published in 2023.

'Đời Gió Bụi,' Vietnamese Version of Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai's Novel 'Dust Child,' Released This Week

2025-12-10T12:00:00+07:00

Originally written in English and already translated into more than 15 languages, Đời gió bụi (Dust Child) was released in Quế Mai's mother tongue on December 8.

First published in 2023, Dust Child is a heartfelt portrayal of how the legacies of war impact oft-marginalized groups. Set primarily in Saigon, it moves back and forth in time to weave together three plot lines. Phong, a mixed-race individual, struggles with discrimination while trying to build a comfortable life for his family; after moving to the city to make money, teenagers Quỳnh and Trang encounter danger and challenges to their traditional upbringing; and American veteran Dan, who returns to Vietnam in 2016 to confront painful memories and regrets. The work doesn't shy away from difficult conversations while emphasizing the need for reconciliation and forgiveness.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

“To write these books, I had to overcome my own fears because these topics I’m writing about are difficult, not often written about. But I think someone needs to write about them. Unless we confront difficult issues, we cannot generate dialogues that foster healing,” Quế Mai told Saigoneer when the novel was first released in English. We joined her on a walk through the city, stopping at some of the places that provide important settings for the novel, including the Central Post Office, Bánh Mì Như Lan, the Hotel Majestic, and April 30 Reunification Park, for her to reflect on her inspiration and goals for the work.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

The much-anticipated follow-up to her first English novel The Mountains Sing, Dust Child garnered significant praise and accolades. It won the 2025 One Book One Lincoln prize and he 2023 She Reads Best Historical Fiction Award as well as mentioned as a Best Book of the season by The Los Angelas Times, Good Morning America, The Chicago Review of Books, and Cosmopolitan, amongst many others. The Washington Post called its plot “intricate and ingenious” while The Boston Globe described it as “an exquisite novel.”

The author translated the novel with Thiên Nga, and the more than year-long process involved reimagining and rewriting of passages with a level of care and attention that surpasses traditional translations. It was very much a labor of love and means of honoring local readers, as she explained in in a post on her Facebook page in Vietnamese: “To pay tribute to the land that nurtured my childhood dreams, I would like to donate 100% of the profit of the novel Dust Child (Vietnamese version) to the non-governmental organization Room to Read [...] to build and operate a library at Tran Quoc Toan primary school, Bac Lieu. ”

Photo via Nguyễn Phan Quế Mais Facebook page.

Đời gió bụi is now widely available in Vietnam at familiar physical and online sellers. Quế Mai is holding a book launch event in Hanoi on Friday, December 12 at the Writers' Association Publishing House and in Saigon on Sunday, December 14 at The Lighthouse. More details can be found on her social media.

Top image via Nguyễn Phan Quế Mais Facebook page.

Review: Quán Kỳ Nam Is an Instant Classic of Contemporary Vietnamese Cinema

2025-12-07T10:00:00+07:00

Quán Kỳ Nam is a cozy, languorous film that might elude some viewers who don’t have the patience to sit around sipping on tea while waiting for hoa quỳnh to blossom. Still, just like waiting for those petals to unfurl, if you manage to sit still until the end, the result is a tender beauty whose scent will linger on even after the flower is gone.

At Saigoneer, we have published quite a number of collections featuring old photos of Saigon, but my personal favorites are always the works of Japanese photographer Doi Kuro. In the 1990s, Doi traveled across the length of Vietnam, hitting all the iconic tourist towns and capturing street scenes on his film camera. The results are vibrant, lively, candid, saturated shots that encapsulate everything I love about the rhythms of life in the country.

Memories of 1980s Saigon in technicolor

Watching Quán Kỳ Nam feels a lot like a perusing a flipbook animation of Doi’s images, it’s a joy to see the characters on the streets interact with the rich universe in popping colors. The film is director Leon Quang Le’s second after Song Lang (2018), with a script penned by Leon and veteran writer Nguyễn Thị Minh Ngọc. The plot follows Khang (Liên Bỉnh Phát), a translator from Đà Lạt who moves into an old tenement in 1980s Saigon while working on a new Vietnamese-language version of the French classic Le Petit Prince (The Little Prince). His life in the apartment block starts intersecting with its many residents, including Kỳ Nam (Đỗ Thị Hải Yến), a widow with a complicated past who runs a kitchen providing monthly meals to locals.

The movie poster.

Despite major developments in visual effects and production design, Vietnam’s cinema industry in the past decade remains hampered by weak scripts, so I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Quán Kỳ Nam is an uncommon outlier excelling in both. The plot is rather uneventful and mainly spends time fleshing out the dynamics and relationships between the tenement’s inhabitants, but what the film might lack in adrenaline, it more than makes up for in a level of intentionality and nuance that’s rarely seen in local productions.

Old-fashioned objects, like these colorful agar cakes, are replicated for the movie.

Quán Kỳ Nam’s intentionality shines through in the way it meticulously tries to depict Saigon not merely as a backdrop, but a living entity that exists whether the main characters are there or not. In the film’s Saigon ecosystem, secondhand electronic collectors roam tenement corridors and belt out their unique street calls, rustic coffee vendors dole out cà phê đá in plastic bags, and cinema-goers bemoan Soviet flicks being interrupted by reel delivery delays, and more! The version of retro Saigon in Quán Kỳ Nam is perhaps the most faithfully and obsessively recreated to date, having brought to life with surgical precision.

Interior details of Luyến (left) and Hạo (right)'s homes.

There are about a dozen of characters in the ensemble cast, but no one feels gratuitous or one-dimensional; they come to life with clear motives, backgrounds, and personality quirks that will quickly endear them to viewers. The three breakout stars are Luyến (Ngô Hồng Ngọc), a coquettish tailor who relocated from the north to Saigon with her brother; Su (Trần Thế Mạnh), a biracial teenager helping out Kỳ Nam at her kitchen while struggling with being bullied for having a white father; and Hạo (Lê Văn Thân), an elderly traditional medicine practitioner with a penchant for bird-keeping and then-scandalous bolero music.

Bà Bằng (left) and Su (right) are fantastic additions to the tenement's crop of characters.

In Leon and Ngọc’s script, everybody speaks with an accent and cadence fitting of their regional and social background, and uses phrases that don’t stray far from the kind of natural banters one might eavesdrop in Chợ Lớn. Even though they are built from existing archetypes, each supporting character is well-written and -acted, breathing life to a vivid vintage Saigon diorama that, at times, can even outshine the main leads.

An old-fashioned, life-enduring genre of courtship

The central emotional anchor of Quán Kỳ Nam is the budding romantic tension between Khang and Kỳ Nam, who are both good people played by excellent actors, but admittedly a little boring to watch. Kỳ Nam marks Đỗ Thị Hải Yến’s return to cinema after 10 years, and she has once again demonstrated a sterling ability to communicate entire stories with just a glance. Kỳ Nam might seem perpetually melancholy and reserved, but viewers will eventually discover the many tragic layers underneath that sadness, all maneuvered with aplomb by Yến.

Đỗ Thị Hải Yển plays a widow with a tragic backstory.

Liên Bỉnh Phát’s performance as the mild-mannered and bookish Khang is serviceable at best, but it’s not his fault that he wasn’t given much to work with, not to mention that he’s just a smidgen too in shape to play a 1980s translator convincingly — don’t tell me that those forearms were the result of typewriter usage. Apart from a love for literature and a seemingly bottomless reserve of altruism, Khang appears one-note when compared with the building’s very memorable other tenants. The only thing that saves Khang from dissolving into the plaster walls is his brotherly friendship with Su. Their interactions bring a lot of depth to both Khang and Su and are heart-warming to see.

Even as I’m writing this review, I am still at war with myself on whether Khang and Kỳ Nam’s lack of chemistry is a feature or a bug. When put into the context of 1980s Vietnam, their relationship seems star-crossed in every sense of the word except literal as it’s severely hampered by political and social taboos: Khang hails from a long line of revolutionist government workers while Kỳ Nam married a military officer of the previous regime; Khang is a single young man, and in the cruel eyes of 1980s Vietnam’s society, Kỳ Nam is essentially “damaged goods” as a widow; not to mention the huge age gap between them.

After Kỳ Nam injures her wrist, Khang insists on helping out with cooking. This draws them closer together.

In spite of every hindering circumstance, they share an astounding level of intellectual chemistry and are compatible in both life philosophy and treatment of people. Kỳ Nam’s childhood in a French-language school allows her to immediately appreciate the translation work that Khang is undertaking, and he gets her Albert Camus reference right away. His core value as a person is sympathy and kindness, qualities that she also demonstrates when she sneakily helps the mice in mousetraps escape the tenement’s ruthless hunt. Besides, over the course of the film, Kỳ Nam, Khang, and Su form a found family over the kitchen’s daily operations, giving us a feverish glimpse into a fictional future when they all make a home together.

This makes Khang and Kỳ Nam’s lukewarm romantic chemistry a little disappointing, because I was so rooting for them to… just do something. There are meaningful glances, unsaid confessions, and even a non-sexual all-nighter, but they mostly seem uneasy and guarded. Their interactions are understandably chaste in public because of the numerous social constraints of the society at the time, but even in private, the pair is surprisingly demure. This awkwardness culminates in a peck on the lips behind closed doors that feels, to me, like watching your aunt and uncle kiss. Liên Bỉnh Phát had better chemistry with Isaac in Song Lang, and their characters don’t even kiss.

The couple's courtship might seem tame for today's standards, but is typical of the time period they live in.

And yet, seeing Kỳ Nam and Khang’s romance unfold on screen reminds me a lot of the courtship of my parents’ generation, a time when a passing glance or platonic lunch together could inspire decades of handwritten letters and a lifetime of yearning. The kind of love composers penned songs about and writers reference in novels, like Hiền and Vọi in Khái Hưng’s Trống Mái or Trịnh Công Sơn’s love letters to Dao Ánh. I wonder if I’ve been too desensitized by my generation’s liberal and rather blasé attitude towards romance that I’m lambasting their soulful, intellectually attuned connection for being too restrained. The bottom line is you can decide for yourself whether you can resonate with their love story, if you manage to catch the film when it’s still in theater, which, I suspect, won’t be long.

An instant classic of contemporary Vietnamese cinema

Quán Kỳ Nam’s straightforward storyline will be easy to grasp for just about any viewer, but as a whole, it is not a film for everybody. Contemplating and reminiscing are not activities the average Vietnamese viewer today is dying to do during a movie-going experience, but if you have lived through the period of Saigon’s growing pains depicted on screen, the film is a heartfelt tribute to a version of our lives that we perhaps are not yearning to relive, but nonetheless, hold a lot of affection for. Additionally, you will be able to appreciate the film more if you come with some basic knowledge of Saigon’s modern history, which, I would argue, is necessary to understand the actions and emotions of the characters — why Su is mercilessly picked on by the kids over his American parentage, and his own path to reunion; why Kỳ Nam’s family situation inspired much malicious gossips; and the diverse ethnic and social dynamics of the tenement.

Every background in the movie is crafted with great attention to details.

Ultimately, to enjoy Quán Kỳ Nam, you must be at peace with slowness. The film unapologetically celebrates and rewards patience, from placing a slow-burning romance at its heart to featuring many activities that famously take a lot of time: translating a book, making pork floss, and, my favorite, watching the nocturnal hoa quỳnh bloom in the evening. I knew from the moment I stepped out of the cineplex that Quán Kỳ Nam would perform poorly at the box office — it is objectively a great film, but it only seeks the appreciative eyes of a specific few.

All told, I am not too sad over the Quán Kỳ Nam’s imminent departure from local cineplexes, because I fully believe that the film will find its own audience in due time via other platforms, as an instant classic in the collective works of contemporary Vietnamese cinema. Saigon and our lives might drastically change every decade, but these snapshots of the past remain untainted, as does our fondness for them.

Photos via Facebook page Quán Kỳ Nam.

Meet Dạ Ngân, the Author of the Most Important Vietnamese Novel You've Never Read

2025-11-24T14:00:00+07:00

When the wind strafes Dạ Ngân’s window, seedpods shake and rattle like spent bullet casings in the tamarind tree that Americans planted decades ago. They also built the large apartment complex where she now lives. It’s an ironic place to call home, considering Dạ Ngân was a resistance fighter in the south during the American War.

It’s one of the countless incredible details in the esteemed writer and journalist’s life. Born in 1952, Dạ Ngân has spent years in extreme hardship, tragedy, perseverance and rebellion that may have been common for Vietnamese of her generation, but are rarely articulated. The experiences serve as inspiration for her acclaimed short stories and books, including her career-defining novel, Gia đình bé mọn (An Insignificant Family).

The walls of Dạ Ngân’s Saigon apartment are covered with large photographs of family members. She points to each face and explains to me who their fictionalized counterparts are in An Insignificant Family. There is Aunt Ràng, the powerful matriarch that could “split a hair into quarters”; young Thu Thi, the daughter who collects and splits spent coconut shells from the trash piles in front of the market’s drink stands to use for fire material; Đính, the author of “sorrowful, trembling, and yet extraordinarily romantic” stories who becomes Tiệp’s soulmate; and of course Tiệp, the book’s main character and stand-in for Dạ Ngân herself.

A photograph of Dạ Ngân's father and her husband's family. Photo by Kevin Lee.

After showing me the photographs, Dạ Ngân brings out several large notebooks filled with delicate handwriting: the original manuscript for An Insignificant Family. It took her more than five years to complete the novel, and she finished and abandoned numerous full drafts before sitting down for one month on the banks of the Đại Lải Lake near Hanoi to pen it in its entirety. As the silt-rich waters slithered past mountains silk-screened with fog, she wrote for 20 days straight — a full chapter each day.

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

Dạ Ngân explains to me through her grandson’s translations that the book is at least 80% true. Understanding that makes the novel all the more remarkable. First published in 2005 in Vietnamese and translated into English in 2009, it focuses on Tiệp, a woman from Điệp Vàng — a small hamlet in southern Vietnam — who joins the war as a teenager after her father dies in Côn Đảo's infamous prison.

The book jumps forwards and backwards in time, chronicling her candlelit discovery of literature while stationed in guerrilla camps; her miserable first marriage to a callous bureaucrat; raising two children on the pittance salary afforded a writer; falling in love with a married man living in the north and the struggles of maintaining their relationship while separated by the full length of the country; the familial and societal ostracism associated with extramarital affairs and divorce; and rectifying the disparities between post-war hopes and the realities of poverty and corruption. As Wayne Karlin notes in the book’s introduction, after the war Vietnam transitioned through three distinct periods, and “Tiệp’s story occurs within and can represent these three epochs - liberation, deprivation, and renovation.”

The most popular books focusing on Vietnam that are available to English readers are almost exclusively written by white men. While many of them do tell important stories, they are nearly always from an outsider’s perspective, which reduces Vietnamese to supporting characters at best, or racist caricatures at worst. Even if one includes the handful of books by Vietnamese writers that are translated and widely distributed, their emphasis is typically on men and battlefields. Rarely do readers get glimpses into the post-war period that don't involve fleeing the country, nor do they see the role and experiences of women during the country's painful reconciliation.

Having these underrepresented topics at the heart of An Insignificant Family makes its limited distribution in the West all the more depressing. Rosemary Nguyen’s translation came out on Northwestern University Press, a small but respected publisher that releases, among other things, a “Voices from Vietnam” series. Dạ Ngân was scheduled for a promotional tour across the United States when it first came out, which would have brought the book greater attention, but her editor passed away before it could begin, effectively canceling the trip. While it is still available through online booksellers in America and elsewhere, and a few professors have taken note of it, adding it to reading lists, it has largely gone unnoticed. Dạ Ngân herself even has difficulty getting her hands on the translated copies, especially because she so frequently gives them away as gifts.

Photo by Kevin Lee.

Thankfully, Dạ Ngân has achieved considerably more recognition in Vietnam for her work. Step into any chain bookstore in the city and you might find something with her name on it. An Insignificant Family won numerous awards, including the best fiction prize from the Union of Writers in Hanoi and the Vietnamese Writers Association, and has been covered numerous times by Vietnamese news outlets.

Even with these successes and accolades, many Vietnamese people remain unaware of the novel’s existence. Putting aside the dismal statistics for how many books the average Vietnamese reads a year, many native literature enthusiasts I spoke with haven’t heard of Dạ Ngân or her pinnacle novel. It isn’t anthologized in the national curriculum, and the last copy of the Vietnamese edition was printed in 2010, though it can be read in its entirety on her site.

Even if many family elders have stories that resemble Dạ Ngân’s, for cultural or personal reasons, they rarely share them with the amount of depth and honesty as her book does. Reading it can, therefore, connect Vietnamese more closely with their country’s history and foster understanding and empathy for their fellow citizens.

Dạ Ngân between her two children, with her mother and aunt seated in front. Photo via Dạ Ngân's personal site.

Put simply, Tiệp is a feminist badass — and by extension, so is Dạ Ngân, but even though her own biography closely matches that of her fictionalized counterpart, for the sake of this discussion, I’ll reference only the character. She consistently upends concepts of the submissive female. Even surrounded by strong women, many of them widows who must raise children, take care of parents and earn money, Tiệp stands out as a singularly bold and independent female.

While Tiệp pursues a career in literature and journalism that removes her from the “traditional feminine attributes of industry, appearance, speech and behavior, and... peace and comfort,” it’s in her personal life where she most fully displays her rebellious form of femininity. Tiệp’s family fails in pressuring her into reconciling with her first husband and shuns her for unabashedly having a relationship with a married man, yet she does so anyway for the sake of true love.

The couple's partners understood the situation behind closed doors, but public perception was a different matter. Moreover, at the time, adultery was an offense that could lead to jail, and mere suspicion of her committing the crime could cost her her job. Tiệp doesn’t wilt under the risk, however, or genuflect and beg for forgiveness. At one point, called in by her superiors to confess her behavior, she speaks with reckless abandon, exposing the moral bankruptcy of her accusers, consequences be damned.

Strength, however, is not simply confronting adversaries and scoffing at norms, but also swallowing one’s pride. Tiệp’s decisions mean she has to see her daughter clad in rags eating “pig-grade greens and slightly spoiled fish.” For much of the novel, Tiệp is miserable. To meet Đính, for example, she suffers a 60-hour hard-seat train ride to Hanoi beset by men attempting to sexually assault her, curled up on newspapers on the ground next to the bathrooms, “feeling like an animal trussed up and thrown on the floor of a truck for the trip to the butcher.” When she finally arrives, their honeymoon moments must be cloaked in secrecy and reliant on friends willing to lend a spare room and alibi. None of it is easy, and Tiệp’s ultimate vindication becomes an argument for female empowerment.

A photo of Dạ Ngân from her personal collection.

In addition to its portrayal of determined womanhood, An Insignificant Family’s representation of post-war poverty adds important descriptions to the public discourse. Many books on Vietnam stop at the 1975 American withdrawal, and even those that continue past that date avoid some of the greater hardships endured on a national level. Dạ Ngân, however, includes them in precise, heart-wrenching detail. She reports that apartments in Hanoi were “monotonous, haphazardly assembled conglomerations of floors rising out of the earth, dotted with unsightly, untidy caged balconies and strung together with clothes lines that completely ignored any concern of aesthetics or propriety… odors of burning charcoal, of rats and cockroaches, of mold and mildew, and of course the ubiquitous stench of public toilets that were evidently very short of water.”

Similarly, at a state-run enterprise phở shop, “a small, round hole had been punched” in every spoon so as to safeguard them from theft, while all shops kept strict count of silverware because patrons too poor to afford their own at home would often pocket them. Of course, such a measure means that the broth slips through, rendering the dish wholly impossible to eat. But it is just as well, because the meager broth strewn with beef scraps was “the worst we ever had.” Such hardships should be internalized by any current resident slapping down a few bills for an overflowing bowl of bún chả or scarfing down a Domino's pizza topped with plump shrimp.

Rampant crime also ravaged the country after unification. In the novel, abortion clinic nurses abscond with jars of urine so they can sell the liquid to vegetable farmers for use as fertilizer, and the vessels to bootleg liquor distillers. Moreover, the illegal diamond and cigarette smuggling efforts of an official’s wife are an open secret. The book doesn’t shy away from these realities; rather it articulates the way their prevalence impacts citizenry — effects of which can be felt in contemporary culture.

Tiệp was never naive about the ability of authorities to deliver prosperity, but she also didn’t foresee the depraved depths of internal fighting and discrimination that befell the country post-unification. Healing was eschewed for the sake of retribution and personal gain. Those that were aligned with the “right side” in the war clutch their trivial positions of power and use them to lash out at their former adversaries. For example, in the novel, the daughter of a former colonel is forced to occupy a lean-to shoddily erected in the back courtyard of the villa she once lived in. Here she makes her money by doing the nails of local prostitutes.

Dạ Ngân doesn’t hold back on grim details or taboo subject matters. For example, she describes the graphic physical and emotional experience of having abortions and expresses opinions about post-war class and society with particular emphasis on gender that would have been impossible to publicly vocalize at the time. Similarly, the book reveals the inner thoughts that accompany adultery, romance and hardship in a raw and immediate way that has no place in polite conversation. While such honesty may have been left out by a less fierce author, Dạ Ngân’s portrayal brings to Vietnamese the necessary details that will be forgotten by future generations if not recorded.

Examining Dạ Ngân’s own life provides insight into what might have happened next for the fictionalized characters. Like Tiệp, when she was finally freed from her first marriage, and after 11 years of long-distance romance, she moved to Hanoi in 1993. There she married her husband, the similarly successful and famous writer, Nguyễn Quang Thân, who is portrayed in An Insignificant Family as Đính. Despite working in frequent poverty, occupying a 25-square-meter apartment that shared its bathroom with a neighbor, the two established prolific careers and became cornerstones of the country’s writing community. Dạ Ngân fondly recalls the number of writers she sat with, drinking, chatting and debating. By promoting and critiquing each other's work, the group of writers, in many ways, defined what constituted post-war literature and journalism.

Photos of Dạ Ngân and her husband, Nguyễn Quang Thân, as observed on their wall. Photo via Kevin Lee.

In 2017, at the age of 82, Nguyễn Quang Thân passed away. Still in mourning, Dạ Ngân keeps his altar freshly adorned. Next to flowers, mangoes and bananas, several of his books, including one that came out this year, are on prominent display. Her grandson explains to me that he grew up reading these books, preferring them even to his grandmother’s, and is confident people will continue reading them in the future.

Losing her husband, being evicted from the Vietnam Writers Association, and living far removed from her group of aging writer friends in Hanoi, one could forgive Dạ Ngân for retreating into a quiet retirement. She, however, seems to be doing no such thing. Invigorated by her family, she continues to invite friends and writers to visit her home, promote her husband’s work and travel throughout the country. She hasn’t lost her rebellious spirit, either. After discussing some rather sensitive viewpoints with me, I assured her I wouldn’t include anything troublesome in this article. “Oh go ahead, print whatever you’d like,” she said, before adding with a laugh, “It’s not my magazine that’ll get shut down.”

I asked Dạ Ngân if she ever considered moving out of Vietnam, like Dương Thu Hương or Phạm Thị Hoài, to benefit from a more conducive publishing environment and easier access to international audiences. She immediately brushed aside the suggestion. “Writers must live among their people,” she said. Vietnam is what she writes about, and who she writes for. As important as her work is for foreigners, its articulation of past and present conditions are crucial for her fellow citizens. As she explains in an unpublished essay, “always and no matter where in this world, writers are the pioneers who work silently, but their position is absolutely essential, [it] is able to touch deeply into one’s soul and intimately express one’s emotion.”

The truth of that quote makes it all the more lamentable that not every person, be they Vietnamese or foreigner, has read An Insignificant Family. It preserves important stories and details that might be lost, and with them opportunities for empathy and understanding.

This article was originally published in 2018.

What Can Vietnamese License Plates Tell You About the Vehicles and Who Drives Them?

2025-11-21T14:00:00+07:00

There was a game I used to play with my dad whenever we would stop at a traffic light. He would point to a random license plate in front of us and quiz me on where it came from.

A typical Vietnamese plate has two lines: the first has a two-digit number, a hyphen, a letter from the English alphabet, and a number from 1 to 9; the second can have four or five numerical digits depending on how long ago the vehicle was registered.

The key to figuring out the plate’s “hometown” lies in the first number. My father, like many Vietnamese dads, as I’ve come to realize, has memorized all the special codes assigned to each of the country’s provinces.

Codes begin at 11 — Cao Bằng in the northern mountains — and generally increase as one moves south. Huge metropolises like Hanoi and Saigon have a range available for assignment: 29–33 and 40 for Hanoi; 41 and 50–59 for Saigon.

Put your hands in the air and learn all the provincial codes!

A fascinating thing about these numbers is how much they can tell you about Vietnam’s administrative history. For example, 13 is missing from the list because it used to belong to Hà Bắc Province, which was split into Bắc Giang and Bắc Ninh in 1996. The new provinces took on 98 and 99, respectively.

Apart from the numbers, the plates’ colors are also indicative of the owners’ affiliation. Blue plates with white letters are government vehicles. Red plates with white letters belong to the military. Yellow plates with black letters are vehicles providing commercial transportation, such as taxis, trucks, and ride-hailing cars. White plates with black letters are for common vehicles.

Euphoria, Ruin, Nostalgia: Tracing Hanoi's Changing Skyline by Its Soundtrack

2025-11-16T20:00:00+07:00

From loudspeakers broadcasting construction anthems during wartime to melancholic ballads mourning vanished street corners, Hanoi's soundtrack reveals a city that has never quite learned to live in its present tense.

Hanoi has become, in these last few years, a vast construction site. The city transforms rapidly — a metamorphosis most visible to those who've left and returned. After several years abroad, I began to understand the emotions of those who abandoned the city in 1954 to head south, or departed in the 1960s for Eastern Europe to build socialism in Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, and Sofia, while American bombs tore their beloved Hanoi apart. Skyscrapers now sprout from the skyline like mushrooms after rain, concrete rainforest replacing the greenery that once covered the metropolis's outskirts.

Hanoi's skyline. Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

The prevailing mood among young people responding to this rapid change is optimism. Like myself, many of my peers feel no astonishment when encountering pedestrian areas in North America, Europe, or, right nearby, in Singapore. In Vietnam's major cities like Hanoi, Hải Phòng and Saigon, you'll find the same malls, high-tech centers, and sprawling suburbs as anywhere in the west. Though perhaps you won't feel quite the same confidence when your plane descends into Shenzhen or Shanghai, where even westerners begin to suspect they're lagging in history's race.

“Socialism works, finally!” I hear this refrain from both my Canadian left-wing professors and Vietnamese orthodox Leninists populating Facebook comment sections. This excitement echoes the early years of socialist construction in the north during the 1960s and 1970s, when the Hanoi government received financial, material, and ideological support from the Soviet world to erect the first nhà tập thể — communal apartment blocks.

The euphoria of construction and how it outpaced reality

The brutalist nhà tập thể pales beside today's luxurious skyscrapers in Cầu Giấy, west of Hanoi. But when the country was caught between wars, these buildings symbolized socialist development, monuments to the glorious, ever-growing Vietnamese working class born of French colonialism and their fight for liberation. This achievement was celebrated in revolutionary songs broadcast through urban loudspeakers on every corner. In Phan Huỳnh Điểu's ‘Những Ánh Sao Đêm’ (Night Stars), the windowpanes of nhà tập thể were compared to stars in the galaxy, illuminating Hanoi's sky:

Làn gió thơm hương đêm về quanh,
Khu nhà tôi mới cất xong chiều qua,
Tôi đứng trên tầng gác thật cao,
Nhìn ra chân trời xa xa.
Từ bao mái nhà đèn hoa sáng ngời,
Bầu trời thêm vào muôn ngàn sao sáng,
Tôi ngắm bao gia đình lửa ấm tình yêu,
Nghe máu trong tim hòa niềm vui, lâng lâng lời ca.

The fragrant night wind circles near,
Our new-built homes still gleam from yesterday.
I stand atop the highest floor,
My eyes drift far where sky and city fade.
From roof to roof, the lights bloom bright,
The heavens sparkle, joining every flame.
I watch each home, each heart’s warm fire,
And feel my blood flow into song—
A joy that carries me away.

Nhà tập thể, mimicking the style of khrushchyovka blocks in the Soviet Union, was under construction in Hanoi. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Phan Huỳnh Điểu, one of Vietnamese socialist realism's greatest names, wrote ‘Những Ánh Sao Đêm’ in 1962–1963, while living in the communal house of the Vietnam Songwriters Union. His son, songwriter Phan Hồng Hà, recalled how the lights from the Kim Liên communal house, then in mid-construction, inspired Điểu when viewed from atop the union building. Born in Đà Nẵng and having built his early career in Quảng Ngãi, the revolutionary artist always looked southward, yearning to fight for it after moving to the north in 1955. He eventually returned to the south in 1964, serving as an artistic cadre spreading revolutionary spirit beyond the 17^th parallel. His longing, as expressed in ‘Những Ánh Sao Đêm,’ was finally fulfilled:

Em ơi, anh còn đi xây nhiều nhà khắp nơi,
Nhiều tổ ấm sống vui tình lứa đôi,
Lòng anh những thấy càng thương nhớ em.
Dù xa nhau trọn ngày đêm,
Anh càng yêu em càng hăng say,
Xây thêm nhà cao, cao mãi.

My love, I still must go and build new homes afar,
Where joyful couples share their life and dreams.
And in my heart, I find I miss you more.
Though day and night keep us apart,
The farther I go, the more I love you—
And build the houses higher, ever higher.

Revolutionary songs erupted at every corner of northern urban life, replacing what had been a “petit bourgeois” metropolis, as Phạm Tuyên sang in ‘Từ Một Ngã Tư Đường Phố’ (From a Street Corner). While red ideals' fate remained uncertain in the south, they occupied the highest position in northern hearts. Tuyên sang: “From a small street corner, I can already see the future coming near / In every figure, head held high, striding swiftly down the sidewalk.”

The metropolitan life of Hanoi, 1973. Photo via Bcdcnt.net

Written in 1971, ‘Từ Một Ngã Tư Đường Phố’ was more than Phạm Tuyên's artistic depiction of northern metropolitan life during the American War. Like a masterful conductor, he directed radicalized youth through song to move faster than history's natural pace:

Xây cuộc sống mới toàn dân gái trai vững vàng,
Nhịp đời cuộn nhanh nhanh như vượt trước bao thời gian.
Đường phố của ta vẫn đang còn hẹp,
Nhường bước thúc nhau đích xa cũng gần,
Tự hào đi trong tiếng kèn tiến quân vang ngân.

We build a new life—men and women, steadfast all,
Life's rhythm surges fast, as if outpacing time itself.
Our streets are still narrow, yet we make way for one another,
Urging each other on—our distant goal now feels so near,
Proudly we march to the echo of the trumpets calling us forward.

Phan Huỳnh Điểu dreamed of building the future while Phạm Tuyên urged youth to outpace the present. These imperatives revealed the revolutionaries' special relationship with time: they claimed to represent the future. Hoàng Vân's ‘Bài Ca Xây Dựng’ (The Song of Construction) became the anthem of this future as it would — and should — eventually materialize on Vietnamese, Chinese, and Eastern European soil. It captured the emotions of those who had just moved into newly constructed nhà tập thể. For Hoàng Vân, Hanoi's new urban setting promised a new life where new personhood would flourish.

This new life wouldn't remain localized to North Vietnam; it would spread globally with the working class's forward march through history. Vân sang proudly: “Tomorrow we set out once more / Toward new horizons waiting ahead,” followed by "Our hearts have merged in a common joy like rivers joining the boundless sea." Written in 1973, when northern victory seemed certain as American soldiers departed from the south, the song mentioned warfare only once, “[believing in the new life] in the smoke of bombs” but also “under the moonlight.” Public reception proved so enthusiastic that during the postwar period, it was performed repeatedly by socialist art's finest voices, like Ái Vân, throughout the European socialist world — just before its collapse.

‘Bài Ca Xây Dựng’ (1973), performed by Ái Vân in East Germany in 1981.

Yet these optimistic construction songs fundamentally mismatched their era's reality. While they excited people and helped them endure hardship, the actual situation differed drastically: American bombardments, urban populations fleeing to the countryside, extreme poverty, industrial failures, bureaucratic delays, so on and so forth. Construction projects stalled and showed degradation shortly after completion. Essentially, socialist construction became more psychological than material. These utopian songs held people together — especially urban dwellers who suffered most — rather than letting them fracture.

The rise of urban nostalgia

The 1970s' optimism evaporated as the country entered the 1980s, witnessing Soviet socialism's mass collapse and economic liberalization marked by the Communist Party's Sixth Congress in 1986 (Đổi Mới). Socialist optimism gave way to a newly emergent genre: urban nostalgia. The most famous example was Phú Quang's ‘Em ơi Hà Nội Phố’ (Darling, Hanoi Streets), an adaptation of Phan Vũ's poem of the same title.

What makes the song extraordinary is that poet Phan Vũ wrote the original in December 1972 during the US Air Force's Operation Linebacker II, which bombed Hanoi, hoping to pressure the north into cease-fire negotiations on terms acceptable to the United States. With its depressing, nostalgic tone, Vũ never published it, sharing it only with his intimate circle. He read it directly to Phú Quang in 1987, after the songwriter relocated to Saigon. Deeply moved by ‘Em ơi Hà Nội Phố,’ the composer selected 21 of 443 lines from the original work to craft Hanoi's new anthem.

Khâm Thiên street in Hanoi, after an American bombardment. Photo via Vietnam News International.

Rather than praising revolutionary symbols, ‘Em ơi Hà Nội Phố’ evoked a much older Hanoi — one that might have been condemned as “petit bourgeois” before Đổi Mới:

Ta còn em cây bàng mồ côi mùa đông.
Ta còn em, nóc phố mồ côi mùa đông, mảnh trăng mồ côi mùa đông.
Mùa đông năm ấy, tiếng dương cầm trong căn nhà đổ,
tan lễ chiều sao còn vọng tiếng chuông ngân

I still have you—the orphaned banyan in winter.
I still have you—the lonely rooftop in winter, the orphaned crescent moon in winter.
That winter, the piano sounded in the crumbling house,
And after the evening mass, the echo of the bell still lingered.

Phú Quang's melancholic masterpiece awakened a new aesthetic in Hanoi-inspired songs, including 'Cẩm Vân's ‘Hà Nội Mùa Vắng Những Cơn Mưa' (Hanoi Season Without Rain) and Trần Tiến's ‘Hà Nội Ngày Ấy’ (Hanoi of Those Days). These songs mourned not old socialist ideals but far older urban values — French colonial street scenes (especially the distinctive trees planted during that era), feudal myths (like Lê Thái Tổ's sacred sword), and traditional Hanoian customs overlooked during the socialist construction years. Consider these verses from Trần Tiến's ‘Hà Nội Ngày Ấy’:

Hà Nội giờ đã khác xưa
Kiếm thiêng vua hiền đã trả
Bạn bè giờ đã cách xa
Ngỡ như Hà Nội của ai?

Hanoi is changed from days gone by,
The holy sword of the wise king restored.
Friends have wandered to places far,
Whose Hanoi do I see before me now?

Hanoi, as depicted in urban nostalgic songs, was like Hanoi in Bùi Xuân Phái's painting. Photo via Kiệt Tác Nghệ Thuật.

Rather than celebrating post-Đổi Mới modernization and the country's opening to the wider world, Trần Tiến lamented lost Hanoian values. But he reached beyond recalling heroic days of resistance against invaders. He summoned remembrance of feudal Hanoi as Vietnam's cultural center. He mourned the old Hanoian elite who guided the city through both colonialism and revolution. Regardless of their politics, what mattered was their defense of Hanoi's metropolitan values, elements slowly vanishing under postmodern gentrification.

The nostalgia of Phú Quang, Cẩm Vân, and Trần Tiến wasn't simply a reaction to rapid urban development during both the 1970s and the contemporary era of economic liberalism. It responded to the promise of building a dreamworld during wars, revolutions, and hardship, which was fulfilled mentally but not materially. For so long, Hanoi's spirit resided in the future while actual life remained trapped in the past. People endured the pain and trauma of American bombs and radical social revolution while being told to feel perpetually optimistic. They never inhabited their present.

What will tomorrow's nostalgia look like?

Now that urban modernization has actually been accomplished, at the cost of demolishing old socialist icons like communal houses, what will future Hanoi generations remember and feel nostalgic about? In the early days of the 2010s, people expressed nostalgia for the subsidy era when life was simpler, governed by socialist morality and modest infrastructure. But it seems a wealthier, more dynamic life is now winning Hanoi's heart.

Perhaps this is the cruel logic of Hanoi's emotional architecture: we are always living in someone else's future, always mourning someone else's present. The revolutionaries of the 1960s and 1970s sang of futures they would never inhabit, building dreams in melody while American bombs destroyed stone and mortar. Their children learned to miss a past they were forbidden to mourn at the time. And now, as glass towers replace concrete blocks, as luxury malls erase subsidy-era markets, we're constructing yet another promised land that today's youth will someday lament when it, too, becomes obsolete.

In front of Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục Square, 1973. Photo via Vietnam News Agency.

What makes this cycle particularly poignant is that each generation believes its present will finally be the one that lasts, the one that fulfills all previous promises. The socialists thought their communal houses would stand as monuments to a permanent revolution. The nostalgists of the 1980s believed they were preserving something eternal about Hanoi's soul. Today's developers and their young, cosmopolitan customers imagine they're building a modern city that will endure.

But if history teaches us anything, it's that Hanoi will continue to transform, and each transformation will feel like both progress and loss.

The Many Meanings of Red: “ĐỎ” Offers Three Photographers' Perspectives on the World

2025-11-12T07:46:00+07:00

A single color has no intrinsic meaning, but rather contains and reflects the many emotions, memories, and experiences an individual associates with it. Red, for example, means something different to everyone, particularly those who look deeply and with great intention.

Trần Thanh Thảo, Hoàng Lê Giang and Tín Phùng, three notable photographers with different backgrounds, interests, and artistic journeys, are united around red at ĐỎ, a photo-exhibition at the newly launched art space 224 SPACE from November 12 to 23, 2025. Guests will not only see red in new ways, but through the eyes and experiences of talented individuals with confident visions.

“I’m a nostalgic person, so I love capturing ordinary objects because they evoke familiar memories. I’m drawn to simple beauty, photographed with my most honest emotions. I hope that sincerity creates a connection with the viewer, allowing them to feel a piece of their own memory, their own emotion,” explains Trần Thanh Thảo, founder of 224 SPACE and Leica M11 ambassador in Vietnam.

Thảo's appreciation for subtle details and the markers of everyday life reveals itself through the photos featured in ĐỎ. In one, the enormity of a mountain Village in Pakistan is rendered via a simple aluminum tray with a teacup, red mug and humble pastries that remind her of her grandmother’s home. In another, an elderly Dao woman draped in bright red, doing routine domestic chores in Sa Pa allows Thảo to reflect upon the gentle grace and charm that embody concepts of Vietnamese femininity.

Meanwhile, for seasoned explorer Hoàng Lê Giang, photographs are a means to tell stories about the relationships between people and the environment, frequently highlighting the ways in which they contrast. With extremes of light, color, and negative space, stillness and movement juxtapose alongside living and unliving existence. This duality is articulated in his photo that foregrounds a blur of individuals moving rapidly against sturdy walls painted bright red.

Another of Giang's photographs on display at ĐỎ contains a bright red home beneath snow-covered mountains and a cloud-filled sky. He explains: “Some might say placing red against white snow is a bit classic, even cliché, but I don’t mind. If I like it, I go with it. To me, a red dot in the middle of nature evokes a sense of not fearing solitude, not fearing self-expression. Even if it feels a little different or draws attention, it’s something I love — it’s who I am, so I let it show.”

The third photographer, Tín Phùng, is drawn to wild exuberance. Recognized for his bright tones that inspire warmth and connection in viewers, his photographs in ĐỎ consider the cherished art of Hát Bội. “To me, photography is a storytelling tool, much like a writer’s pen. Through color, light, and captured moments, photographs can convey the spirit and beauty of Hát Bội — from the makeup and expressions to the performance space. It’s how photography contributes to safeguarding values that are slowly disappearing,” he says. “I wanted to preserve those values so future generations, and even my own, could see the beauty of our cultural heritage.”

With lavish red curtains, swirling red drapes, and bold red on masks, Tín Phùng's photographs of Hát Bội offer the grandeur and vibrance he is known for while underscoring the spirited traditions that the performers and audiences are so eager to preserve as memories but also ongoing activities elemental to Vietnamese culture.

Thảo summarizes ĐỎ well when noting that “the common thread is that all three of us explore red in our work. The difference lies in how each of us tells our own ‘red’ story — no two are alike.”

From left to right: Trần Thanh Thảo, Tín Phùng, Hoàng Lê Giang and Tín Phùng.

Giang expands on these differences, saying: “Tín Phùng’s work draws from the vibrant red of Vietnamese street life and Hát Bội, a fascinating approach using familiar materials. Meanwhile, Thảo captures red in a softer, more delicate way, very different from the bold reds I often use.”

Finally, Tín Phùng perhaps speaks for all of us who are lucky enough to visit 224 SPACE during the exhibition when saying: "Each of us has our own personality and starting point, so differences are natural [...] I hope to learn from them through this exhibition.”

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In 'Cú Và Chim Se Sẻ,' a Director's Radical Empathy for Saigon's Less Fortunate

2025-11-09T10:00:00+07:00

“They can do what they want. The city owns the zoo. They could sell all the animals here. They could turn it into a golf course. We’re just little people — you and me.”

Hải, a zookeeper played by Lê Thế Lữ, offers this bleak assessment to 10-year-old orphan Thúy (Phạm Thị Hân) as they gaze at the elephant he has raised in the Saigon Zoo since its birth. Thúy has just run away from abusive conditions in her uncle’s rural factory to Saigon with little plan or understanding of the world, and found a kind mentor in Hải. The pair proceeds into the city, cruising through streets devoid of cars and motorbike helmets to pick up bushels of bananas for the animals before loitering across from a cell phone shop offering the “newest models” that even take photos and record videos.

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

Filmed in 2006, The Owl and the Sparrow (Cú và chim se sẻ) is a valuable time capsule of early 2000s Saigon, when impoverished children roamed the streets selling flowers beneath neon lights, bowls of VND5,000 hủ tiếu were announced by the banging of metal sticks, bulky tube televisions blared nature documentaries on VTV in musty hotel rooms and piles of paper records, receipts and invoices cluttered office shelves. But more than that, it's a timeless story of the “little people” in a big city searching for compassion and acceptance.

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

Set over the course of five days, the feature film follows Thúy as she befriends Hải and a lonesome airline stewardess, Lan (played by Cát Ly). After the girl introduces them to each other, the pair share an emotional moment as they stare out over the balcony:

“There are over 8 million people in this city. Do you ever feel so small in this world?”
"When I'm in the sky, l can look down and see fields of rice. I can see people. They don't know I'm watching them. They're so small, like ants. When I look closer, I can see faces. Old women working in the fields. Children playing with buffalo. Sisters holding hands.”
“Like God looking down on His children.”
“I'm no God. I’m just a girl, 26 years old, still looking for a fairy tale.”

Owl and the Sparrow is a fairy tale in the sense that it begins with characters in states of unacknowledged desperation. From the heartbreaking moments of Thúy only being able to witness happy parents in the speech her own voice grants to her toy dolls to Lan crying after yet another romantic rendezvous with a married pilot, the movie offers the gritty miseries and routine pains that constitute life.

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

These eternal human sorrows extend to the impacts of the city’s commercial priorities. Early in the film, an executive from the zoo visits Huy to explain: “Times are changing, the city is developing quickly. The Zoo isn’t making any money. Operating costs are too high.” When Huy responds, “The zoo isn’t supposed to make money,” I hear echoes of every poet, musician, and painter I admire. This manifestation of the unbalanced fight between art and capitalism is part of what first resonated with me when I came across the film on YouTube soon after moving to Saigon. And in addition to my unabashed appreciation of the Saigon Zoo, I admired that the Saigon it presented, one of threatening enormity and furious rapidity, held the power to provide companionship and acceptance: a found family in addition to a home, something I didn’t realize I was searching for.

Video via Hsanchia YouTube.

Capturing the natural feel of Saigon

“This is the one movie all Vietnamese need to see,” Kenneth Nguyen announced on his podcast The Vietnamese when interviewing Cát Ly several years ago. Upon hearing this, I came to a dead stop, ironically just a few blocks from where the movie’s final scene occurs. I hadn’t discussed the movie with anyone before, and was thrilled to discover others held the same love for it as I do. Kenneth and Cát Ly were both extremely generous and excited to chat with me about the making of the movie, what it meant for them, and particularly the special talent and humanity of writer/director Stephane Gauger.

“I remember him telling me, ‘I'm going to write this in four weeks,’” Kenneth, a long-time friend of Gauger and a member of America’s Vietnamese film community, shared about the origin of The Owl and the Sparrow. At that time, Gauger was living in Saigon, spending days at the Insomnia cafe between work as a gaffer for movies made with other Vietnamese Americans. Born in Saigon in 1970 to a Vietnamese mother and German-American father, he was essentially brought up by his older sisters in their Orange County home, according to Kenneth, which explains why an extremely tall, very white looking man spoke fluent Vietnamese and could integrate into the communities held deep within Saigon’s hẻms. This allowed him a deep understanding and respect for the city’s rhythms, characters, and opportunities which he captured with his guerilla-style film-making. Fueled by moxie and maxed-out credit cards, he dove in headfirst with full faith in his creative vision for the film.

Gauger on set. Photo via the Orange County Register.

While carefully scripted with little space for improvisation, The Owl and the Sparrow borrows elements from cinema vérité, or “truthful cinema.” In its attempts to capture scenes and events as they feel when experienced first-hand, that style of documentary relies on handheld cameras that shake and move as they focus on characters and unfolding action. The film’s imperfect angles and unstable framing resulting from this filming method create an intimacy and authenticity. Moreover, Gauger relied on regular citizens and bystanders to serve as extras in scenes filmed on public streets. These elements, along with his astute understanding of the city and its inhabitants’ lifestyles, allow the film to feel like a non-fiction chronicle of true life.

“My tastes are urban and contemporary,” he said in an interview with the Orange County Register. “I shot digitally, using the latest tools to create a new cinéma vérité for Vietnamese cinema. The themes I wanted to address were dislocation in the big city, and certain moods of loneliness. We have a modern single man, a modern single woman, and a fish-out-of-water character.

“He just put us in this natural spot of what Saigon nightlife is like […] He wanted people to feel like they were there, that’s his style,” Cát Ly recalled of her portion of the shoot. “It was just him and his handheld and there were definitely no permits. He was like ‘Cát, just do what you gotta do and I'll do what I have to do. It was crazy … I don't even think people even knew he was recording, honestly, because when he was recording, there would be just like two or three crew people around him, just walking the streets,” she continued with a laugh. Gauger had a degree in theater arts and French literature and maintained dreams of being a writer and director while working as a gaffer. He was in that role on the set of Journey from the Fall when he first met Cát. “He was just one of the sweetest guys,” she recalled, “and very noticeable because he's so tall… And just super sweet. We hit it off.” She made an impression on him as well, as unbeknownst to her, he wrote the script for Owl and the Sparrow, with her intended as the lead.

Cát Ly. Photo via IMDB.

While Cát had acted before, at that time she was focused on her singing career in the US, where she had moved to with her parents as a young child. The filming of The Owl in the Sparrow was her first time back in Vietnam, and her entire stint was limited to 10 of the shoot's full 15 days so she could return to America to maintain her scheduled performances. They didn’t even have time for rehearsals or table reads. Despite these challenges, she was drawn to the project not for the minimal money it paid but because it sounded fun and she wanted to support Gauger, especially because of the compliment he paid her in writing the role with her in mind. The script also won her over because the story was more than a romantic love story: “To me it was a story of family love […] in the end, it's all about family. I think everybody needs that type of love. I think family love is the best. You can always rely on your family. They're always there for you.”

Lan and Thúy share noodles. Photo via IMDB.

Meanwhile, the young girl who played Thúy had no film acting experience and was discovered at an open call in Saigon. While in Vietnam, Gauger had cast the rest of the actors and assembled a local team to support the filming, even though the location that required permits was the zoo. The whirlwind shoot ended quickly with Cát Ly resuming her regular shows and Gauger tasked with editing and ultimately searching for distribution and screenings.

The necessity of being ahead of its time

The Owl and the Sparrow’s success depends on the metrics you apply. After its January 2007 premiere at the International Film Festival Rotterdam, it played at more than 30 film festivals around the world. It picked up numerous awards, such as the Best Narrative Feature (Audience Award) at the Los Angeles Film Festival and the Best Narrative Feature at the San Francisco Asian American Film Festival, as well as three Vietnamese Golden Kite awards in 2009, including Best Film voted by journalists and Best Foreign Collaboration Feature.

Gauger (in the ball cap) on set in Saigon. Photo via Thể thao & Văn hóa.

A true artist, he was most concerned with sharing his craft and vision independent of accolades and sales. However, Kenneth and Cát both speculated that he was disappointed that the film did not resonate more with the Vietnamese American community. “I don't think the Vietnamese American or Vietnamese diaspora around the world really understood the film,” Kenneth said. “They didn't get what they wanted: something slick and steady and polished. And if it wasn't that, they weren't going to be interested. [But] I think people wanted to give it a chance and the high-brow people understood it.”

The film’s subject made it harder to resonate with diaspora audiences, Cát said, noting its differences with the previous film they had worked on together. “Journey from the Fall had more impact on people because more people went through that: boat people escaping from Vietnam. The audience members can relate to that, I believe, more than The Owl and the Sparrow.” Moreover, at the time of its release in 2007, members of the diaspora were not interested in returning to Vietnam like the younger generations are now, and thus, the topic of exploring a developing Saigon didn’t have the same appeal as stories that spoke to their own lived experiences. Cát added that the movie would likely resonate more today, thanks to the audience’s familiarity with different styles of movie-making and a desire for a greater variety of style types.

While The Owl and the Sparrow may not have connected with Vietnamese American audiences as much as the director wished, it provided consequential inspiration and tangible infrastructures for filmmakers in the community. Kenneth explained that despite 12 awards, it couldn’t find distribution, a shocking reality that reflects the challenges for Vietnamese films at the time. This led Gauger and a group of peers to establish a distribution company and fund cinema screenings. This determined belief in his work and the importance of Vietnamese cinema impacted future writers, directors, producers and filmmakers who went on to high-profile successes. “We looked up to him because he gave us the power,” Kenneth said. “He gave us the power to say ‘Let's just go do it.’ There's that ethos: he never had money, but he got things made.”

The big, lovable, bold, huggable teddy bear at the center of it all

After The Owl and the Sparrow, Gauger worked on other films, including writing and directing the hip hop story Saigon, Yo (2011) and co-writing with Timothy Bui the screenplay for Powder Blue which starred Forest Whitaker and Jessica Biel. Tragically, he passed away unexpectedly in 2018 at only 48 years old. In addition to the decades of exciting contributions to cinema that no doubt lay ahead for him, Kenneth reflected on what his loss meant on a personal level. He was “the glue” that held a community together. “They loved being around him. He smoked and he drank, but he was just this big, lovable, bold, huggable teddy bear.”

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

“He was one of the most attentive ones, you know?” Cát said. “Every morning on set, he'd come and ask, ‘Cat, you ready for today? I know you got this […] you need anything, let me know.’ He was just that kind of guy — genuinely sweet. I don't think I've ever seen him upset or mean; always a smile and always happy-go-lucky. That's the type of guy he was.”

Gauger’s full-throated love of life and people allowed him to succeed as a filmmaker as well. “You give me five minutes to hang out with the director or writer and I can tell you if they're going to make a good movie that I like or not, because you can tell who's really living authentically, who's really putting their ass on the line and living a life that's genuine,” Kenneth said. “If they’re not in it for the adventure of living, or they're not living on the edge of emotion or traveling or whatever it is that really puts them on the map, living past the boundaries of their regular peers who go on to medical school or whatever; If they're not pushing the envelope, you can tell. Stephane was one of those guys who truly pushed the envelope.”

This empathetic embrace of the world informs the emotional core of The Owl and the Sparrow, particularly its focus on the “little people” and the humanization of orphans and the poor. Kenneth explained: “I think it's because of how he was raised with no money and he always struggled financially, so he had this bond with people who are less fortunate. He had this deep love for for society, for people who are abandoned, for orphans who didn't have family because he was half Vietnamese, half white… so he was able to kind of like traverse these two worlds and understand the world of the abandoned and the unwanted, and then also get to experience the world of what deep family values are like.”

Owl and the Sparrow intersperced documentary footage of orphanages. Photo via IMDB.

Similarly, the movie offers a warm-hearted view of romance. While it no longer feels true, for a long time, an airline stewardess in Vietnam was a glamorous profession occupied by women from prestigious families with connections to the military and the entertainment elite. This position contrasts starkly with a zoo-keeper, a low-paid job that involves shoveling animal shit. And yet, despite coming from different social classes, the characters in The Owl and the Sparrow connect. Kenneth theorized this reflected Gauger’s own romantic experiences. “I think in his mind, it's just like: these women, airline stewardess types, get themselves tangled up in hot messes with married men. ‘Why not date a guy like me? You know, why not date a good man? Why not date a poor man who can make you happy? Who's deep, you know.’ So I think it was very personal.”

I relayed this theory to Cát who lent support, adding that Gauger used to talk to her about relationships and his difficulties with women. Such reality surprised her at the time, and she would remark, “Hold on, really? You’re like, the sweetest dude.” To which she remembers him responding, “Maybe that's why, Cát. Maybe I'm too sweet.” So perhaps it's no surprise that the zoo-keeper who speaks to animals with a heart of gold charms the airline stewardess who is finally fed up with being the mistress of a rich pilot.

While I will never have the chance to ask Gauger himself about this idea, he said in an interview before his passing: “These characters embody a little bit of me. There’s a little bit of me in every character that I write.”

Friends and fans left notes for Gauger after his passing. Photo via Zing.

The ongoing life of The Owl and the Sparrow

When I first set out to explore this film and its history, I wanted to dig deeper and offer a more expansive chronicle of its making. I wanted to unearth the rare photos of Gauger when he shocked Cát by dressing up in something other than a tanktop for a movie premiere. I wanted to track down Phạm Gia Hân to hear what she remembers from filming with this strange, loveable giant who spoke fluent Vietnamese and hear how Pete Nguyen developed such a soothing, emotion-wrenching score. I wanted to provide space for all the insights and funny anecdotes Kenneth and Cát so generously shared, such as how, if you look closely, you might recognize Lan is a bit shaky on the motorbike because Cát had actually never driven one before, let alone in Saigon’s manic traffic.

Cát Ly rides a motorbike for the first time. Photo via IMDB.

Unfortunately, time and space require that some elements will continue unreported, for now at least. And in the meantime, you can watch the film for yourself. Gauger owned the movie rights, and the version with English subtitles available on YouTube is legal and does not deprive anyone of an income. If you’re really lucky, you can catch one of the occasional full cinema screenings, such as at 2023’s Saigon Film Festival.

Perhaps Kenneth summed it up best when I asked him to expand on his statement that every Vietnamese should see The Owl and the Sparrow. Reflecting on Gauger’s enthusiastic confidence and insatiable effort that made it possible, he said, “Everybody should watch it to see what kind of realities in life are possible when you put your mind to it.”

In 'No Man River,' Dương Hướng Highlights the Raw Pain of Postwar Survival

2025-11-05T06:00:00+07:00

Dương Hướng’s No Man River (Bến không chồng) was first published in 1991 and won the Vietnam Writers' Association Prize for Fiction. Translated into English by Quan Manh Ha and Charles Waugh, it captures the brutal reality of conflict in Vietnam from 1945 to 1979.

War’s communal impact is portrayed through various individual stories in the novel, ranging from the fictional Đông Village’s first war hero's suppressed love for his comrade’s widow to a family patriarch’s descent into insanity. Throughout No Man River, Dương is deeply concerned with the realities of northern village life in the context of a fierce international conflict bathed in socialist propaganda that demands personal sacrifice for collective revolution. These concerns radiate throughout the narrative as the author shifts the focus to the trials and tribulations of those left behind — the elderly men, and more notably, the women.

The novel prominently delineates Nhân’s struggle to mourn her husband’s death on the battlefield, while watching her twin sons enlist in the army. It complements this story with her daughter, Hạnh, who faces difficulties being accepted by the village after falling in love with a rival family’s son. The female villagers grapple with traditional Vietnamese views of womanhood bound to motherhood. For example, the village elders often regard single women in Đông Village as failures due to their inability to become mothers and raise the next generation. The villagers know that all the young men had gone to war and that there was no one left to marry, but this doesn't relieve societal pressures to become a “proper” woman.

No Man River is simultaneously about the presence of the emotional and psychological war in women’s lives and their collective fight to define themselves without men. This focus on women is all the more notable because they have been largely ignored in Vietnam’s war fiction prior to 1990. The trauma of war is bloody and persistent as its impacts linger far beyond the final battle and take root in those left behind, as the women’s stories underscore.

Author Dương Hướng. Photo via Quảng Nhin Online.

No Man River is also a story of one rural community’s resilience in the face of persistent violence. Traditional Vietnamese views clash with the new socialist dream as the author highlights the villagers’ struggle to build a new, progressive society. The novel concerns itself with a vast scope, from the French War, the American War, to the Sino-Vietnamese border war, without straying from its primary purpose as a realistic testament to the reverberating impacts of war in the northern countryside. Vạn fought in the battle at Điện Biên Phủ, while Nghĩa, a soldier in the novel’s present-day, had fought in the American War and its aftermath. Both soldiers are thematically united in No Man River by the collective trauma their families experience during their absence and the men’s inability to return unchanged by combat.

No Man River seamlessly introduces the river as metaphor and important setting. The pier is a key gathering place that serves as an example of Vietnam’s communal nature and collective consciousness, while the river’s depiction shows the author’s reverence for Vietnam’s land and people as it becomes a character of its own, personifying love and loss alongside calamity and comfort. The Đông villagers began to call the area the “River of Love,” known for its “gentle breeze and slowly flowing water [that] caressed their bodies like invisible hands, helping them forget their sorrows and hardships.” Hướng pairs this image with the local legend of a woman’s suicide, recalling that the women, “to this day will bathe there when they hope to wash away misfortune.” Both scenes illustrate the women’s hope and resilience caught in the river’s violent undercurrent.

“No Man River is simultaneously about the presence of the emotional and psychological war in women’s lives and their collective fight to define themselves without men.”

Amidst hope, there is pessimism and disappointment as witnessed from multiple perspectives: a young soldier who never returns to meet his son as well as the Nguyễn family’s lack of care for Great Uncle Xeng as he descends into madness. Tradition and cultural revolution continually clash in the village as the rich flaunt their electricity into the night and Vạn’s socialist ideals butt heads with an ancestral family curse. Similarly, the novel’s prominent theme of suppressed emotion strongly resonates throughout war hero Vạn’s internal battle over his unspoken love for Nhân, his fallen comrade’s widow. Vạn repeatedly confesses that “he knew in his heart he was in love with Nhân, but in his mind he considered those feelings a weakness” and a betrayal of the oath he swore to the Việt Minh Party.

In a world consistently defined by war and conflict, No Man River exists as a necessary contradiction to the propaganda-fueled narrative of the honorable soldier and loyal wife. The author doesn’t shy away from depicting soldiers coming home disfigured and encourages empathy for everyone living through wartime, regardless of whether they wear a uniform. There is no place for “American heroes or saviors” or pure, innocent victims in the novel. Instead, most of the characters are portrayed with agency to accept or reject their fates. The novel also debunks the myth of passive women left at home and the joyful soldiers returning with medals on their chests. At its core, No Man River emphasizes that suffering occurs regardless of one’s position in armed conflict. It appears in empty beds and children born out of wedlock. It’s unapologetically visible in the scars that cover the soldiers’ bodies and the roar of airplanes overhead. It’s undeniable in the rare letters home and sprawling war martyr cemeteries. The novel serves as a constant reminder that, in war, there are no heroes but only survivors.

Nguyễn Đức Tín Weaves Spirituality, Faith, Everyday Life Altogether in His Paintings

2025-10-29T11:00:00+07:00

Can a painting reflect who we are, even if we can’t see ourselves thoroughly? And how does faith guide us forward in life?

Based in Hồ Chí Minh City, Nguyễn Đức Tín is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice spans painting, mixed media, and conceptual installation. In recent years, he has become well-known for incorporating mosquito net (vải mùng) into his paintings, while his latest works also experiment with a wide range of materials, including canvas, dó paper, colored acrylic board, and stainless steel. His most recent solo exhibitions include “DUCTIN” at Lotus Gallery (2025) and “Under The Sun II: Mùng Trời Chiếu Đất” (2024) at Sun Life Flagship - De La Sól (2024). He also participated in group exhibitions such as “Thanh Kiều Art–Culture Exhibition” (2025) at Hải An Bookstore, Hanoi Grapevine Selection (2024), Ồ Ạt – Oh Art (2024–2025), 2T (2022), and international programs such as the India Art Camp (2023).

His recent works reveal not only technical experimentation with different choice of materials, but also how faith has been the main driving force throughout his artistic journey. His works uphold dialogues between faith and everyday life, which is inspired by his very own Catholic upbringing and his deep engagement with Vietnamese traditional culture.

After graduating from the HCMC University of Fine Arts, Nguyễn Đức Tín spent another few years expanding his cultural and spiritual studies in Australia and the Philippines. His work often draws from traditional Vietnamese aesthetics, theology, and social reflection, interweaving memory, myth, and modern life. When preparing for a new exhibition, he usually starts by establishing a central theme, then spends time researching and gathering materials.

For instance, in “Mùng Trời Chiếu Đất” (2024), he focused on the everyday objects that he grew up with, mainly mosquito net (mùng) and the mat (chiếu) and explored their connection to Vietnamese culture, such as children’s games and afternoon naps. For “DUCTIN” (2025), the inspiration came from a trip to Hanoi as he saw the collective housing blocks there as a miniature society, where people share common spaces but each has their own story: someone with authority — kings and officials in his paintings, the talkative person, the quiet introspective one, the inner demon within each individual, or the person who is punished among others.

“The Lady of Faith” (back), 2025. 40 x 100, 40 x 70 cm, 40 x 60 cm (set of 5 panels). Plexiglass, fabric, glass paint and acrylic. Installation view at Lotus Gallery.

“The Lady of Faith” (Nữ Vương Đức Tin), created in 2025 and including a set of five two-sided panels that evoke both Catholic stained glass and the form of a hanging screen door, features Catholic figures such as Mother Mary intertwined with elements rooted in Vietnamese folk tales — characters, myths, and spiritual motifs, such as the phoenix and the parasol tree (cây ngô đồng). According to the artist, the rose symbolizes the joy and gentleness that Mother Mary brings to humanity, while the parasol tree, in Vietnamese culture, represents a virtuous and kind person ready to welcome holy figures. It also reflects Mary’s gentle and humble character, as she receives God with the words “xin vâng.”

The integration between his Catholic faith and Vietnamese traditional culture emerged naturally in Tín’s works. During his time in monastic life, he studied a lot of philosophy and theology, while Vietnamese culture was something he explored personally. When working with theological materials, mainly Catholic, that knowledge sank deeply into his subconscious. Prior to “Mùng Trời Chiếu Đất” (2024), he had not painted much about Vietnamese culture, and it was during this project that the fusion began to emerge. By reading the Bible and other Catholic texts alongside a rediscovery of tradition, he gradually found a connection between the two.

“The Lady of Faith” (front), 2025. 40 x 100, 40 x 70 cm, 40 x 60 cm (set of 5 panels). Plexiglass, fabric, glass paint and acrylic. Installation view at Lotus Gallery.

To Tín, each artwork represents a human being, which explains the complexity of materials used in his works. In the “Heart” (Tâm) series (2025), each material represents each part of a human: craft paper and canvas stand for the bones, clear orange acrylic board embodies muscles, mosquito net fabric resembles human skin, die-cut mirror acrylic represents the soul. This series of orange-hued paintings shows human beings in different stages of emotions against the backdrop of Vietnamese folklore. In each painting, there’s always one human being depicted with a mirror-like material above the mosquito net fabric, prompting viewers to see their own distorted reflection. In this way, the audience does more than observe the artwork; they encounter a version of themselves, confronting the inescapable complexity of their own humanity.

Heart 5 (Tâm 5), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel and color pencil.

Heart 2 (Tâm 2), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel and color pencil.

Heart 11 (Tâm 12), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel and color pencil.

Heart 12 (Tâm 12), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel, and color pencil.

Mosquito net is commonly known as a household material, and probably the last material that one can think of when it comes to making a painting, as it gets torn easily and can be stretched more than regular canvas or silk. To work with this material, the artist needed to go through many different trials and errors, and eventually mastered the art of painting on such fragile material. This new experiment and artistic direction began in 2022, when the artist went through financial difficulties, and his mother gave him a bag of fabric, including mosquito nets. He made use of what was available and often added an extra layer of material underneath when painting. Over time, he has learned to adapt and create with whatever he could find, even using photographic gel filters or plastic bags if needed.

Details of “Heart” (2025).

Regarding his choice of stainless steel instead of real mirrors in his works, Tín shared that mirrors oxidize quickly, and eventually, stainless steel became a material that aligns with the themes and messages in his work. Unlike a perfect mirror, stainless steel is not completely reflective, but only offers a distorted and blurry glimpse, symbolizing how we can never fully understand our inner selves. The moments we look into a mirror are when we’re most self-aware, yet the reflection of our soul is something that not everyone, sometimes not even ourselves, can truly see through.

Details of “Serenity 1“ (Thanh tịnh 1), 2025. 60 x 40 cm (set of 2 panels). Glass paint and acrylic on dó paper and plexiglass. Installation view at Lotus Gallery.

“Having faith in oneself is already a form of progress,” Tín told me. When viewers encounter his works, one of the first impressions is often a strong sense of faith — a core element that has naturally been part of his creative process since the beginning, shaped by his upbringing. Yet in his practice, faith does not have to be tied to any particular religion, as it can be about anything that gives a person strength, purpose, and a reason to exist in the present moment.

There were times when he felt uncertain about the future, and maintaining a main job for stable income also meant that the time left for painting was limited, but it was precisely this discipline that allowed him to keep creating. Rather than being paralyzed by doubt or overthinking, he pushed himself to paint consistently and set deadlines to stay on track. This self-discipline is deeply rooted in his faith, providing him with the strength and commitment to continue pursuing his artistic path.

Inspirations from Nguyễn Đức Tín’s studio.
Left: Lights reflected through layers of acrylic board gave inspiration to the “Heart” series.
Right: Shadows and reflections.

In the near future, Tín hopes to explore new facets of Vietnamese everyday life and culture, including subjects like motorbikes, while experimenting with different materials such as lacquer, and researching more on church stained-glass paintings.

Photos courtesy of Nguyễn Đức Tín.

Liên Bỉnh Phát Makes History as 1st Vietnamese to Win Best Male Lead in Taiwan

2025-10-27T11:00:00+07:00

Vietnamese actor Liên Bỉnh Phát recently made history at one of Taiwan’s most prestigious national award ceremonies.

On October 18, Taiwan held the 60^th Golden Bell Awards, an annual award organized by the Ministry of Culture to honor outstanding television and radio productions, often considered the Taiwanese equivalent to the Emmy Awards. According to Vietnam News, Liên Bỉnh Phát clinched the Golden Bell Award for Best Male Lead in a Television Series for his role in the medical drama The Outlaw Doctor. This is the first time a Vietnamese actor has been bestowed this honor in the award’s history.

In The Outlaw Doctor, Phát plays Phạm Văn Ninh, a licensed plastic surgeon in Vietnam who carries out illegal procedures in Taiwan for migrant workers to make money to cover his own mother’s medical treatment. Liên Bỉnh Phát was lauded by critics for his nuanced portrayal of a complex character that straddles many boundaries, from morality, language to, at times, literal life and death.

At the award ceremony, the actor wore an orange áo dài as he gave his acceptance speech: “On receiving the award, Phát said: "I see this as a reward for my long journey and for everyone who has always believed in and supported me. More than anything, I feel a greater responsibility as a Vietnamese artist to share our stories and spirit with the world.”

He added that he would donate half his prize to a fund aiming to provide assistance to migrant workers in Taiwan, who are likely to face situations that his character and those he operated on in the TV series have been through.

Liên Bỉnh Phát rose to fame in Vietnam after landing the lead role in the film Song Lang (dir. Leon Quang Lê, 2018), playing a gruff debt collector with a heart of gold. Before winning the Golden Bell this year, Phát also won the Tokyo Gemstone Award in the Best Newcomer category of Tokyo International Film Fest 2018 for his role in Song Lang.

Watch Liên Bỉnh Phát's acceptance speech below:

Top photo via Tai Sounds.