Arts & Culture - Saigoneer

More Than Just Prosperity, Ông Địa Is My Personal Patron Saint of Misplaced Things

2025-06-28T15:00:00+07:00

I was maybe seven when I first clasped my hands and whispered a plea to Ông Địa.

I had lost a cheap red plastic ring, which was a treasure in my childhood world. I searched everywhere, crawling under the bed, shaking out my schoolbag, and suspecting the dog. Still nothing. Teary-eyed, I turned to my grandmother. She didn’t scold me, only smiled and said gently: “Pray to Ông Địa, honey. He’s very fond of little ones.”

So I did it awkwardly. I folded my hands and muttered a promise to eat my vegetables and stop hiding report cards. Minutes later, I found the ring on the lowest step of the stairs, somewhere I was sure I had already checked. It felt like a wink from the universe.

From then on, every time I lost something: a pencil, a chair tie, a wallet; I turned to Ông Địa. Not in ceremony, but in habit. A whisper under my breath. A pause. A breath of hope.

We never talked much about faith in my family, but folk spirituality was everywhere: altars tucked into corners, rice offerings on ancestor days, bowed heads, and burning incense. These weren’t rules we followed, they were rhythms we lived. Folk beliefs weren’t taught so much as absorbed, like steam from a simmering pot.

To others, Ông Địa is the plump, smiling figure perched beside Thần Tài at storefronts, guardian of wealth and luck. But to me, he was something quieter: the gentle keeper of misplaced things, the listener of small requests. He was a presence that lived in the cracks of daily life: in the kitchen corner, beside the potted plant, and inside the quiet act of asking.

As I grew older, I sometimes wondered if praying to him was silly. I didn’t always believe he’d help. And yet, the ritual remained. Not because I thought someone was listening, but because it gave shape to my worry. In the small chaos of losing something, the act of pausing to ask made the world feel kinder. Less random.

I’ve come to realize that my little prayers weren’t just about finding things. In whispering his name, I wasn’t just asking for help. I was recalling my grandmother’s voice, the warmth of home, the belief that unseen things still matter.

Even now, when I misplace my keys or phone, I find myself stopping to issue that quiet plea. And sometimes, the missing thing shows up. Sometimes it doesn’t. But always, I feel a little steadier.

Maybe that’s the gift folk beliefs offer: not answers, but companionship. Not certainty, but care.

The Charming 1990s Nostalgia in the Phim Mì Ăn Liền Cinematic Universe

2025-06-27T11:00:00+07:00

If you lurk around online discussions of Vietnamese cinema, you probably have stumbled upon the term phim mì ăn liền, or “instant noodles films.” This popular Vietnamese expression describes local motion pictures with low-effort production value. But the term is not merely a common moniker. It dates back to the 1990s, when a specific type of commercial flick got audiences flocking to the cinema.

Introduction to phim mì ăn liền

Since initiating economic reforms in 1986, Vietnam experienced major political, societal and cultural changes. This transformation extended to the film industry and Vietnamese cinema. Prior to this era, the state fully subsidized the production and distribution of motion pictures, but state funding for film production declined during the Đổi Mới era, so many film studios struggled to produce feature films with the resources available. More production companies therefore started seeking private investment to stay afloat. This privatization ushered in a new era dominated by commercial films made to generate profits.

In the modern lexicon, “phim mì ăn liền” is often used derogatorily to describe slapdash filmmaking efforts.

Concurrently, technology innovations led to a change in filmmaking methods. After the introduction of VHS tapes, film studios began making shot-on-video films using camcorders, which were cheaper, faster, and easier to produce than traditional film stock recordings.

Đổi Mới also exposed young audience members to foreign pop culture via Hollywood blockbusters, Hong Kong martial arts films and South Korean soap operas. This presented a new challenge for local cinema, as the new generation’s taste in films had changed, and the average watcher's choices were no longer limited to the often war-centric narratives offered during the previous era.

Việt Trinh

Diễm Hương

Lý Hùng

These factors contributed to the emergence of the phim mì ăn liền era of Vietnamese cinema. These 1990s films were made to appeal to the masses, and thus sell more tickets. They were usually made quickly on a small budget and shot on video. The nickname “instant noodles film” was derived from the commonalities between the movies of this era and instant noodles: they were cheap and could be made quickly; they were easy-to-digest and lastly, instant noodles are seen as an affordable meal for when you’re hungry, which parallels how 1990s commercial films came about when audiences were hungry for a newer approach in cinema.

The stratospheric rise and fall of phim mì ăn liền

Moviegoers responded positively to some of the earliest instant noodles films, and many achieved box-office success. An average of 50 feature films were produced every year by the start of the 1990s, giving rise to Vietnam's first generation of movie stars. Thu Hà, one of the rare names from the northern region to find success in mì ăn liền, discusses the popularity of noodle flicks in an interview with VTV: “This type of film was everywhere in theaters. At that time, everywhere we went, the public always knew about it.”

Many photos taken of these actors were printed on calendars, notebook covers, and postcards. These are old artifacts preserved by collector Nguyễn Văn Đương. Photo via Thương Mái Trường Xưa Facebook page.

But the era was short-lived, and by 1994, the genre began to decline with no definitive causes identified. Some theories suggest it was the rapid, negligent filmmaking methods focused on cash-grabbing and the rise of television series that turned watchers' attention elsewhere. Film critic and researcher Ngô Phương Lan noted that the instant noodles flicks “oversaturated” theaters and the audience eventually lost interest due to “the lack of quality in terms of narrative and artistic values.”

After the heyday of phim mì ăn liền, the genre gave way to arthouse films and the resurgence of state-ordered war movies in the 1990s. In retrospect, this era of Vietnamese cinema evoked both negative and positive perceptions. Even today, every once in a while when there is a streak of low-quality domestic releases, the media would use the reference the term “mì ăn liền” to reiterate how the swift production of 1990s noodle films led to their downfall, as a warning to filmmakers.

Still, modern audiences cherish these films and are able to look past their production flaws. Perhaps, the nostalgic feeling of revisiting the A-list actors that they once loved and an increased understanding of the industry’s restraints at the time can make the low-budget craftiness of phim mì ăn liền seem charming to today's viewers.

This era is often credited with introducing fresh narratives and techniques, marking an important stage in the development of the nation's film industry. The 17^th Vietnam Film Festival in 2011 paid tribute to instant noodles cinema in its opening ceremony by including the era’s popular titles in the showcase of Vietnamese Cinema History.

Older Vietnamese might have vague memories of watching these movies, but it has been more than thirty years since the peak of instant noodles cinema. Luckily, thanks to the advent of YouTube, plenty of these 1990s flicks are available online. Given the sheer variety in both number and quality, I thought it would be helpful to look at a few pioneering works, some popular subgenres, a prominent filmmaker along with some wildcards.

1. The pioneers

The foundations of phim mì ăn liền can be attributed to two films. These two works achieved major box office success, and helped inspire and define the genres, tropes, styles, acting and overall feel of the works that followed.

Vị Đắng Tình Yêu (The Bitter Taste of Love, 1990)

This was arguably the most popular film of this era, the Mì Hảo Hảo of instant noodles film. Vị Đắng Tình Yêu is a bittersweet love story between Quang, a humble, nerdy medical student, and Phương, a passionate piano artist named. Phương experiences a downward spiral after a doctor finds a bullet fragment stuck in her brain, forcing her to give up her music career, because thinking too deeply about music could be the death of her.

This was the first instant noodles film that I watched, and I was initially distracted by minor issues. The transitions between scenes feel harsh and disconnected due to the lack of establishing shots. At many pivotal points in the narrative, the film resorts to quick and lazy expositions as opposed to more engaging scenes.

But when I look past these flaws and just accept them as the film’s outdated characteristics, the film turns out to be quite decent. The narrative explores Phương’s need to choose between following her passion or survival. Also, Quang’s gang of six friends has strong chemistry with one another. The actors’ authentic portrayal of energetic schoolboys balances the heavy tones of the film with comedic and wholesome moments. So while there are annoying craft and technical flaws throughout, it’s still worth a watch for its authentic and intriguing humanistic story.

Vinh Quang Cinema (formerly named Casino Cinema) displaying the poster of Vị Đắng Tình Yêu (left), one of the most popular phim mì ăn liền. Photographed by Raymond Depardon in 1992. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

Representative of the genre: An iconic phim mì ăn liền starring the era’s most popular actors, and the abundance of technical flaws was probably the result of the rapid filmmaking methods. [10/10]
Overall quality: A decent story that needs to improve its filmic language. [6.5/10]
How it holds up today: The narrative and acting performances would still resonate, but the film’s weaknesses would create some irritation. [5/10]

Watch Vị Đắng Tình Yêu here.

Phạm Công - Cúc Hoa (1989)

This is a live-action adaptation of a popular poem by the same name. While not as well-known as Vị Đắng Tình Yêu, Phạm Công - Cúc Hoa was a box office success. It follows the life of Phạm Công, from the day he falls for Cúc Hoa and later marries her, to when they have children. Phạm Công must leave for the capital to serve in the army and encounters many difficulties, while Cúc Hoa struggles to raise their two children on her own.

While in the capital, Phạm Công is forced into marrying the daughter of authority personnel as his second wife. The film thus explores the themes of fidelity and family values, while critiquing the polygynous practices among the aristocrats of the old society. It’s a well thought-out narrative, but unfortunately, the issues lie in how the story is told. During the 2 hours and 35-minute runtime, it overuses prolonged musical montages with neither interesting visuals nor relevance to the plot.

From a technical standpoint, the film has a large amount of combat scenes that are hard to look past. The actors are very slow in their movements as if they are play-fighting. Overall, this film feels outdated, and would be better if it were shorter and more concise in its storytelling.

Representative of the genre: The only standout characteristic of this film compared to other mì ăn liền flicks is the duration, as most films of the era were usually 90 minutes long. [9/10]
Overall quality: A film with a good story, but too slow to get through. [5/10]
How it holds up today: It’s an attempt to make a historical epic that fails to either hide or overcome technical limitations. [2/10]

Watch Phạm Công - Cúc Hoa here.

2. The popular subgenres

There are two major themes in phim mì ăn liền: adolescent romance and historical drama. The former is the most dominant genre of the era, as these youthful love stories were accessible to young audiences, and filmmaking-wise, their contemporary narratives and settings make them easier to produce. For a closer look of this genre, the 1992 film Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè (Farewell, Summer) is my pick of choice, because it was not only a major box office hit, but also commonly regarded as a classic adolescent romance of Vietnamese cinema.

The second theme is historical drama. Prior to this era, the genre faced many ups and downs, but experienced a revival during the phim mì ăn liền period with multiple historical films gaining box office success. The 1991 box office hit Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề (Bồ Đề, Man of Vigor), is considered one of the most impressive Vietnamese historical films in terms of technical quality.

Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè (Farewell, Summer, 1992)

Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè focuses on best friends Hằng and Hạ, as they navigate romantic relationships during their last year of high school. Hạ, the wealthier of the pair, falls for a humble guy from an impoverished background. Meanwhile, Hằng pursues a taboo love affair with a lecturer in her school.

This film is considered a classic for a good reason. It elevates itself above the familiar tropes of the “poor boy with rich girl” relationship and the teacher-student love affair via its storytelling devices. It begins as a conventional tale about young love, but moves beyond will-they-won’t-they tensions to explore the meaning of true happiness. It’s a very relatable coming-of-age story featuring carefully presented and fully fleshed-out characters.

The film also enjoys a unique visual style thanks to the consistent use of close-up shots which give the actors the chance to communicate their characters’ emotions through facial expressions. The actors’ deliveries of their lines, however, is cheesy, and their speaking is monotone. Even so, the narrative is strong enough to outshine these flaws.

Representative of the genre: The film has common traits of phim mì ăn liền in terms of technical quality and genre. The narrative is excellent when compared to its peers. [8/10]
Overall quality: An exceptional melancholy tale about adolescent love. [8/10]
How it holds up today: Even though the monotone dialogue might be a turn-off to some people, the coming-of-age story is good enough to remind you of your own teenage years. [7/10]

Watch Vĩnh Biệt Mùa Hè here.

Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề (Bồ Đề, the Man of Vigor, 1991)

In the 10th-century of Vietnam, during the last years of the Đinh Dynasty, the royal family experienced internal disputes. The protagonist, a knight named Bồ Đề, is tasked with taking down a secret group conspiring to overthrow the throne.

This film showcases how instant noodle films often drew inspiration from wuxia movies. Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề, like wuxia films, includes fast-paced, choppy sword fights, a skilled martial arts warrior living by specific code, and a story that takes place in the midst of a political conflict.

One would expect it to be a historical epic with large-scale combat scenes, but the film turned out to be more of a thriller focused on clandestine political activities in gloomy, secretive forests. This atmosphere creates impressive tension and intrigue. Still, the film’s historical setting and dependence on alter egos make the narrative hard to follow.

In terms of the martial arts elements, the choreography is quite well-done with combat mostly happening in the dark, probably to hide technical limitations. The fights thus come across as realistic. Overall, it’s a gripping historical thriller, with entertaining sword-fighting scenes that don’t feel outdated in any way, even though this film was made in 1991.

Representative of the genre: It has tropes of historical dramas of this era, but it’s more competent in hiding the technical limitations. [8/10]
Overall quality: A film that keeps you on the edge of your seat from start to end. [7.5/10]
How it holds up today: Excellent choreography that is still fun to watch 32 years later. [8/10]

Watch Tráng Sĩ Bồ Đề here.

3. The works of Trần Cảnh Đôn

The director’s chair for instant noodles films was graced by both established filmmakers and new faces. A remarkable personality among them, for me, is Trần Cảnh Đôn, one of the era’s most productive directors, with eight feature films made during the prime of his career from 1990 to 1994. Nearly all of them achieved commercial success, and due to his preference for casting emerging actors, many of his films became the launching pad for some of the decade's biggest names.

Director Trần Cảnh Đôn on set. Photo via Dân Việt.

Two works by Trần Cảnh Đôn are great examples of phim mì ăn liền. First, the 1991 romantic comedy Cô Thủ Môn Tội Nghiệp (The Pitiful Female Goalkeeper), Đôn’s first award-winning film, represents his early success during the instant noodles era. Second, the 1992 film Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn (The Lonely Star) is regarded as one of Đôn’s best works and the film that “sets the standard” for 1990s commercial films.

Cô Thủ Môn Tội Nghiệp (The Pitiful Female Goalkeeper, 1991)

Even today, the subject of women's professional football is rarely explored on film. It was even more niche in 1991 when Trần Cảnh Đôn took on the topic for this film. The story revolves around Thục Hiền, a girl obsessed with football. She has the opportunity to become the goalkeeper for a semi-professional team. Though, it results in a rejection by her would-be fiancé, his parents, and even her own mother.

The antagonists in this film are well-crafted and multi-faceted. Logical motives were established regarding why these three characters are adamant in their rejection of Hiền, as well as how they slowly evolve and grow. Unfortunately, the movie fails at the midpoint when it adds more characters including the football team’s coach and several of Huyền’s teammates.

From a technical standpoint, there is a glaring issue in the film’s usage of dubbed audio. The actors’ audio is too isolated and does not blend harmoniously with the environmental sounds. Unfortunately, this flaw is present throughout the film, making the watching experience less enjoyable. All in all, compared to other instant noodles films, it shares similarities in terms of technical and storytelling shortcomings, but the progressive narrative focusing on women’s football feels like a breath of fresh air.

Representative of the genre: Aside from the unique, niche topic, this film is your average phim mì ăn liền. [9/10]
Overall quality: Too ambitious in its character building, but it examines women in sports in an interesting way. [6.5/10]
How it holds up today: The progressive story might be interesting for modern audiences, but the audio issue is nearly impossible to look past. [4/10]

Watch Cô Thủ Môn Tội Nghiệp here.

Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn (The Lonely Star, 1992)

With Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn, once again Trần Cảnh Đôn brought something new to the table: a rare detective plot in the phim mì ăn liền landscape. The film starts with investigator Quốc in his office with some colleagues, admiring a musical performance by a singer named Mỹ Nhung on TV. A phone call drops the breaking news that Mỹ Nhung has been found dead in her own bedroom. Quốc embarks on a quest to solve her murder and soon uncovers the secret life behind the glamorous facade of the famous musician.

Just like the previous entry, Đôn attempts to showcase numerous characters as nuanced and complete individuals, and this time he succeeds. The chronicling of Mỹ Nhung’s life involves exploring more mature themes of women in the patriarchal music industry.

Beyond rich character development, it’s a stylistically strong film too. Suspenseful music, dark settings, a stern investigator who lights smoke at every chance he gets; it calls to mind a classic 1950s Hollywood detective movie. I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment that this film “set the standard” for 1990s commercial films, as this is my favorite in the list.

Representative of the genre: The only similarity this film shared with others is the starring of popular actors in the instant-noodle era. Otherwise, the narrative, genre and overall production value is done too well to group it among its peers. [3/10]
Overall quality: My personal favorite film in this list. [9/10]
How it holds up today: It’s prolific in both storytelling and technical quality, it definitely will hold up if released today. [10/10]

Watch Ngôi Sao Cô Đơn here.

An Homage to the Sounds of Saigon Past That Are Going Extinct

2025-06-19T11:00:00+07:00

After someone or something reaches the end of their days, which aspects of their existence in the minds of those who remain would be the first to succumb to the erosive brush of time? Is it sight, smell, touch, taste, or sound?

Sight is perhaps the most enduring of all. I keep a small passport photo of my late father in the inner pocket of my wallet. The wallpaper of my sister’s phone remains a picture of him beaming over a cake and candles we took on his last birthday we celebrated together. If I close my eyes right this moment, I can immediately transport myself to the days of my scrawny past, walking out the school gate at sunset and seeing his face there, strands of his curly, unwielding hair poking out from underneath a white helmet. There are visual reminders of his time with us safely stored in stacks of albums in our attics at home.

But these days, with every daybreak, it’s getting harder and harder to remember what he sounded like. He was a boisterous northern man whose every phone exchange would echo across whichever public space that was unfortunate enough to host us at the moment, so I remember the volume, but try as I might, I’ve lost the ability to conjure up the texture of his laughter, the timber of his reprimand, the twang of his call for me every time I step out of the school gate. He passed away in 2015, just a few months before I got my first phone with video recording capability, so to me, his existence today is purely confined to static poses in printed photos and soundless technicolor moments that my memory could retain. The voice of my late father, in the grand scheme of Saigon’s audio ecosystem, is entirely extinct.

Museums are there to slow down the decay of visual artworks; libraries are the archivists safekeeping the sanctity of knowledge past; and when it comes to sounds, perhaps our biggest ally in sound conservation is the internet, because, as the old adage goes, “the internet is forever.” My existence in Vietnam somewhat overlaps that bizarre timeline spanning the two extremes from “what is the inter-web?” to “every minutia of life is online,” so of the multitudes of sounds that I miss from my formative years, many have fortunately been documented, even though their original sources are no longer around. Amongst these functionally extinct audios include the theme song of comedic variety show Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần, the jingle of ice-cream brand Wall’s, and the diverse meows of my orange cat Taxi, who passed away in 2020.

The opening sequence of Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần. VTV has blocked embedding so you can listen to the theme song again here.

There was nothing particularly evocative of humor in the 30-second opening sequence of Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần (Weekend Hang), but for a generation of millennials, that bass-heavy, bouncy tune was the prelude to the weekend. The show used to air on national channel VTV3 every Saturday at 10 am, so it often stretched over that magical weekly moment when I woke up realizing that I didn’t have to go to school, followed by an hour of lazing around in bed watching the show until my mother called me down to have lunch. Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần only ran from 2000 to 2006, and even though it was recently rebooted this year, the new season didn’t revive the old theme song, which, for all intents and purposes, now only exists on old YouTube accounts.

The Wall's mobile cart jingle.

At times, I wonder if Wall’s was so culturally significant to me just because I was a child born into an era when we didn’t have many options in terms of entertainment, or because its jingle was truly a timeless earworm. It was only 10 music notes, rendered in rudimentary MIDI and broadcast by scratchy speakers attached to mobile vendors traversing every alley of Saigon to dish out refreshing popsicles with flavors like Dâu Rừng (Jungle Berries), Khoai Môn (Taro), and Sô-cô-la Chuối (Banana Chocolate). And yet, nothing could perk up a prepubescent Saigoneer the way those 10 notes did. We learnt them by heart and even invented childish lyrics to sing along, like “kem đến rồi, kem đến rồi, không có tiền thì không có kem / ice cream is here, ice cream is here, no money no ice cream.” In 2003, Wall’s was bought out by local F&B group KIDO, which rebranded the ice cream branch and phased out mobile vending. Those magical 10 notes were also gone from the sonic landscape of Saigon.

Jingles and theme songs often suffer the same tragic but simple fate: ceasing to exist the moment the creations they’re supposed to promote cease operation. But tracing the extinction of some other sounds is less straightforward.

The iconic cân sức khỏe as seen on a reality TV show.

I remember my first-ever visit to the supermarket with my parents vividly, when I was still in primary school, not because of the variety of colorful snacks or the smorgasbord of sights and sounds, but because the cân sức khỏe điện tử (electronic scale) that were parked outside of it. These scales towered over me back then, comprising an metallic disc above to measure one’s height while they stood on the scale, both functions were rather basic, but what made these scales so out-of-this-world to me was the fact that after a turn on the height-weight measure, the scale would deliver a health assessment and give blunt recommendations based on your stature, like “you’re 2 kilograms underweight, please nourish yourself” or “you’re slightly obese, please exercise and pay attention to your health.” Everything, from the promotional recording to the body weight commentary, was delivered in a distinctive northern female accent — which was strangely foreign to a southern child’s ears.

From a fairly recent interview with a mobile laminator, I’ve since learnt that this cân điện tử didn’t appear out of thin air. In the early 2000s, entire villages in the north where she lived were producing them and moved to Saigon to make a living weighing strangers. The music, promotional lines, and health assessments were all recorded there. However, this trade was not sustainable so scale vendors have gradually moved on over the years, her included. It’s impossible for me to tell if cân điện tử, and its idiosyncratic sounds, has been lost forever in the city, but I haven’t seen one for over 15 years, and finding a complete recording of its soundtrack online has proven to be a herculean feat.

Sticky traps might not be the most effective way to catch mice, but they might have the most memorable promotional material.

The audio of cân điện tử is just one artefact amongst thousands of street calls that are all extremely challenging to keep track of as, at times, they’re often considered not culturally significant enough to warrant documentation. The calls that come from tapes — like that of cân điện tử, mice sticky traps, bánh mì Sài Gòn, and hột vịt lộn — might be more accessible thanks to their uniformity and prevalence. Alas, the unique ones that hail from the dialect, creativity, and distinctive tonal qualities of their vendors will be gone for good once the vendors stop hitting the streets, be it due to a change in career, relocation, or worse, death. I’m still convinced that the COVID-19 pandemic has taken from us more than economic growth and citizens: when the people are gone, so are their culture, community, and lived experience.

I Grew up With Print Newspapers and Magazines. Now, They're Disappearing.

2025-06-17T14:00:00+07:00

Print media was a crucial part of my childhood and a friend that opened a window into a vivid world of knowledge that was fascinatingly strange in the eyes of young me. But right at this moment when I hit the streets as an adult, the newspaper vendors of those days seem to have vanished, their colorful spread of magazines gone amid the busyness of today. A quiet transformation and farewell has begun.

Facing the pressures of time, print media is increasingly absent in our daily life: disappeared from the backpacks of students and office workers, rarely seen at morning coffee tables both in- and outside the house, and retreated to the tiny kiosks at street corners to continue catering to a handful of loyal readers.

A brief history of print media in Vietnam

News production in Vietnam has been on an arduous journey with numerous changes and upheavals. Before 1975, news agencies mainly served the state, transmitting official dispatches, propaganda, and public service announcements to the people. During this era, print media was limited in its quantity and reach. After 1975, it flourished into one of the main media channels connecting Vietnamese from all regions of the country. Newspapers like Tuổi Trẻ (Youth), Thanh Niên (Young Adult), Phụ Nữ (Women), Công An Nhân Dân (The People’s Police) are not just sources of information, but also lively forums for cultural and societal discussions.

A newsstand at the corner of Tự Do-Nguyễn Văn Thinh (now Đồng Khởi-Mạc Thị Bưởi) streets in 1969. Photo by Brian Wickham.

Once upon a time, print media seeped into every nook and cranny of the country alongside the rucksacks of news sellers. Every morning, Vietnamese of all ages pored over still-warm pages in pavement cafes or even on their bikes parked right next to newsstands.

Alas, with the arrival of the 2010s during the explosion of the internet, print’s reign was gradually chipped away, until only a few news kiosks and vendors remained.

Print media in my memory

My formative years were the 2000s, when print was still the predominant source of information, especially in far-flung provinces like Bạc Liêu, my hometown. In a locality where life was generally slower, media platforms like TV, radio, print, and the internet coexisted, but print still played an important role in bringing current affairs to locals.

The newspapers that I bought back then all undertook an extended trip of nearly 300 kilometers from Saigon to Bạc Liêu by coach every early morning. They would first arrive at a wholesaler’s, who matched the front cover with the inside pages, before being distributed by mobile vendors all over town. This was why readers where I lived could only get their daily paper fix at noon or early afternoon.

Traditional newspaper wholesales start sorting before sunrise, and each newspaper must be matched by hand. Photo via Lao Động.

At the time, my brother often bought Mực Tím (Purple Ink), a weekly magazine for teens, from an elderly vendor. He used to teach before 1975, and switched to doing admin tasks for a co-op after. Once the co-op was disbanded, he started making a living by selling lottery tickets and newspapers on his bike. Every day, he carried a huge bag on his chest and biked for 30 kilometers to deliver newspapers to regular customers.

Once, when he stopped by our home to deliver the weekly Mực Tím, I spotted an issue of Nhi Đồng (Children) in his bag, standing out thanks to a colorful cover. Since then, I would wait by our door every Monday for the sound of his bike, looking forward to his figure appearing in our yard to deliver our weekly reads.

Colorful teen magazine of the 2000s. Photo via Phụ nữ Việt Nam.

I was beyond elated the first time I got my hands on that issue of Nhi Đồng. In front of me were cheerful child models and stylized headlines, prompting me to quickly leaf through the magazine for the week’s most fascinating columns, like short stories and quizzes. It felt like having a fresh secret to uncover every week — a new sense of anticipation to be fulfilled. And sometimes, I would sneakily smash my face into the pages and breathe in a lungful of that inviting scent of paper and ink, even though my mother had explicitly forbidden me many times before in fear of germs from the printer.

Over the years, I managed to convince my parents to let me subscribe to a slew of other publications like the daily Tuổi Trẻ and Thanh Niên, the weekly Tuổi Trẻ Cuối Tuần and Tuổi Trẻ Cười, and the special editions of Nhi Đồng and Mực Tím, etc. These less frequent publications often explored specific topics in a deeper way, while the daily versions usually arrived in my hands too late, after I had already learnt about the day’s news on TV.

I enjoyed buying and reading print media. On free afternoons at home, I would sit at my desk with an issue of Tuổi Trẻ in front of me and start reading out loud one article after another, while trying to mimic the diction of TV news anchors as if I were leading the evening news.

After a while, my connection with print newspapers was severed as our news vendor stopped delivering due to poor health. His adult children all settled elsewhere in the country, so there wasn’t anyone in his household to take over the family trade.

A reunion with an old friend

While in university, buying newspapers was no longer something I did often, even though they remained in my life — on the hands of our campus security guard or right on the wooden hangers of our library. I was always drawn to them whenever we crossed paths; I would pick one up and marvel at the pretty pictures and neat blocks of text on the glossy paper surface.

When I started working, I got a Wave motorbike, which opened up ample opportunities to explore Saigon by myself. Here and there, during my trips meandering the city alleys, I would come across a streetside magazine stand with its mosaic of covers, just as enthralling to me as ever. One time after I got off work, I stopped by the small stand on Phạm Ngọc Thạch Street, right in front of the HCMC University of Economics. That was where chú Hùng made a living.

Chú Hùng’s kiosk on Phạm Ngọc Thạch Street. Photo via Phụ Nữ.

Chú Hùng’s newsstand is not terribly large, made up of just a few stacks of magazines pushed together. Still, its display — a kaleidoscope of newspaper covers and his measured, relaxed manner — had an inexplicable charm in the eyes of passersby. Perhaps it was the way it was a placid foil to its hectic environs: a clamorous main street filled with hurried people and lined by flashy shopfronts.

He told me that Phạm Ngọc Thạch was once bustling with numerous newsstands catering to endless throngs of customers. Gradually, after 25 years in the trade, he was the only one left. His income also deflated due to dwindling readership, but he held fast to the kiosk as he has gotten used to the freedom and flexibility it afforded him. Luckily, even though the fate of print media is grim now, he’s still serving a number of regulars from different age groups. A few senior customers still stop by in the early morning to grab their favorite newspapers. A plethora of students from nearby universities like the HCMC University of Architecture would seek him out to buy magazines on fashion, design or visual arts for their academic needs. Others rely on him for certain rarer specialist publications.

After our chat, I decided to get a few issues to support him, all from familiar titles whose print editions I haven’t touched for years — some are kids’ magazines, a satirical comic, and one weekly magazine that I’ve never seen before, Phụ Nữ Chủ Nhật.

Though the market for print media is no longer as lucrative, chú Hùng is still hanging on. Photo via Thanh Niên.

At chú Hùng’s kiosk, my “childhood friends” still wear the same outfit, so I could recognize them immediately. The logos, paper dimensions, and color palettes are still the same after all these years, but inside, things have changed a lot: the children’s magazines used to print only a few pages in color, but now are all colored; the satirical magazine was once printed on thin, flaky paper, but has now changed to a glossy stock. The columns are still presented and arranged neatly, but their content now seems strangely distant to me.

The last magazine in my haul was a weekly special edition of Phụ Nữ newspaper, released on Sundays. Reading through every article, I could sense the authors’ progressiveness and dynamism, and their passion for building a home for in-depth, meaningful discussions. Every publication has its own tone of voice, and that of Phụ Nữ Chủ Nhật is assertive, open-minded, and steely in the face of societal hurdles and dated norms as it advocates for the pursuit of happiness and equality in our community.

I was on cloud nine thinking that I'd found a fantastic read with a distinctive voice, enough to draw me to chú Hùng’s kiosk every week — until I arrived at the penultimate page. There was an announcement that the publication would cease from January 2025. The letter from the editorial team didn’t go into specifics as to why they decided to stop after 28 years in the business and reaching 50,000 copies per issue.

Many long-enduring magazines have stopped enduring. Photo via Phụ Nữ Chủ Nhật.

At that moment, I realized that our encounter had happened too late; before I could celebrate, it had already gone.

In remembrance of newspapers past

Two weeks later, I showed up at chú Hùng’s again to get for myself that last-ever Phụ Nữ Chủ Nhật issue, but he regretfully told me that he stopped stocking the title after the announcement. I called the distributor and was directed to the paper’s headquarters on Điện Biên Phủ Street. Fortunately, there were still a few left. The editorial team dedicated page 3 of the last issue for the goodbye letter, written very affectionately and assertively:

“It was inevitable. How could any of us escape from the cycle of the universe? To reduce ourselves to cinders to return with a new self that’s fresher, better is a feat worth undergoing. Isn’t our most challenging task, especially us women, to leave behind bad habits and overcome hurdles? [...] We’d like to say goodbye with the sincerest gratitude to our beloved readers and hardworking collaborators, who have brought to the table so many interesting, meaningful, and thoughtful articles. We firmly believe that we will meet again, just to recognize and love one another as we used to.”

Once in print, papers can’t immediately change their content, so they serve an important role as witnesses of history. Photo via Lao Động.

That farewell letter reminded me of how I first started reading print media. To a child of a provincial town, newspapers and magazines were the most valuable source of information I could get my hands on. They were my windows to the big wild world out there, unveiling the events happening beyond my tiny town, things that at times I couldn’t quite fully understand, but have helped me learn about the interesting complexities of our society. Those papers nurtured my soul, and have no doubt inspired me in my own endeavors in writing today.

In print, once the newspapers have appeared in the flesh, it’s impossible to modify what’s on the page like the way online media can. This limitation, however, contributes to the invaluable role of print media as a witness to the historical episodes taking place at the time it was printed.

“I don’t think the newspapers will vanish right away,” chú Hùng shared with me. “But they will slowly dwindle.” A river will not evaporate in the blink of an eye, because the water will find ways to fit into tiny creeks. Print media is perhaps similar to that drying river. It will keep at that flow, telling stories to the few regular readers, and perhaps, gaining new readers like me and Phụ Nữ Chủ Nhật.

A xe ôm driver reads a newspaper in the morning in Mỹ Tho City. Photo via Báo Ấp Bắc.

While many newspaper vendors might feel a sense of inevitable sadness and acceptance about our state of print publication, some magazines are returning and changing to adapt to the conditions of today. Tomorrow is a mystery, but there’s one thing I am sure of: whenever I pass by chú Hùng or any other news kiosk on the street, I will make sure to stop by to get a copy for myself.

In Tây Hồ, an Artisan Community Holds Fast to Their Lotus Tea Traditions

2025-06-16T14:00:00+07:00

Every sip of lotus tea encapsulates all the essences of the natural landscapes of Tây Hồ.

The arrival of lotus season in Quảng An Ward, Tây Hồ every year ushers in a flurry of activities for local tea dryers. Venerated by many as “the best tea of the ancient eras,” Tây Hồ’s lotus tea is not just flavorful, it also represents the essences of heaven and earth, and the dedication of Quảng An residents over the past centuries.

Tây Hồ’s lotus is of the Bách Diệp cultivar.

The cultivar that Quảng An tea artisans use to perfume the leaves is Bách Diệp lotus. The flower is a rare local breed characterized by its numerous petals in a bright shade of pink — “bách diệp” means a thousand leaves. The outer petals are broad and graceful, and their sizes get smaller closer to the core. The land near Hồ Tây is blessed with the ideal climate to produce lotus blossoms that are exquisite and capable of producing ample lotus rice (flower anthers).

Starting from 4am every morning when the flowers have barely bloomed, Quảng An artisans sail their boats into the lake to pick lotus blossoms, their oars slicing in between verdant swaying leaves. Their fingers pluck the stalks with care and then arrange the flowers into piles on the boats. Male members of the family are often in charge of harvesting flowers. The harvest ends around the time when the earliest sun rays hit the water's surface. Bundles of hoa sen are transported back to their home workshops to be processed.

Flower harvest must be done early in the morning to minimize scent loss.

Lotus buds collected from before sunrise are the most fragrant.

Phương Huy, a tea maker in Quảng An, told me: “We have to pick the flowers as early as possible when the sun hasn’t shown up, because the flowers haven’t fully bloomed yet and can retain their scent. The longer they are exposed to the sun, the more the scent will fade.” After the flowers are harvested, workers will extract lotus rice grains to infuse with tea leaves.

I arrived at the village on Đặng Thai Mai Street in Tây Hồ at 7am. It was very obvious which households were traditional tea artisans. During that time of the year, their homes are inundated by thousands of lotus blossoms. The entire family gathers in a common space to de-petal the flowers, package tea leaves, and harvest lotus rice.

Lotus tea artisan Phương Huy.

Pink petals take over tea-making families in the morning.

As the flowering season of lotus is very short, Quảng An is only busy with tea operations for around three months of the year. How many lotus blossoms are harvested also depends on the day and month. Commonly, the beginning of the season in May will yield fewer flowers than in mid-season (June, July).

After walking along Đặng Thai Mai’s many lotus ponds, I stopped by the homestead of Ngô Văn Xiêm and Lưu Thị Hiền, both famous tea artisans in the area. Their household is among the handful of families still producing lotus tea this way in Hanoi. Xiêm shared: “I don’t remember when this tea-making trade became a thing here, but even when I was a little boy, I grew up with lotus. Every May comes a busy time when we pluck lotus, remove lotus rice, and scent our tea.” Over the years, his fondness for the family trade swells. He’s always toiled over how to maintain the aroma of tea in the household, as to him, lotus tea is not just a beverage, it’s a cultural space with enduring longevity. Xiêm has passed down the family trade to his children — the fifth generation of tea makers.

Ngô Văn Xiêm, one of a handful of Tây Hồ residents who continue to make traditional tea today.

From a humble but elegant treat for visitors in one’s home, Tây Hồ’s lotus tea has earned a reputation as one of Vietnam’s most valuable teas. While dismantling the petals from a lotus flower, Xiêm explained to me: “It takes 100 flowers to produce 100 grams of lotus rice. So to scent one kilogram of tea leaves, 1,000–1,500 flowers are needed. There are many steps involved in making a batch of high-quality tea. That’s why Tây Hồ’s lotus tea is so expensive.”

Lotus blossoms from the pond are dismantled carefully.

During the height of the harvest season, Xiêm’s family could pick up to 10,000 lotus flowers per day. Arriving from the lake, the flowers are de-petalled and the lotus rice grains are extracted and filtered to select the purest grains. The work must be done in the morning to prevent aroma loss, so even the petal removal involves several workers. One person plucks out the outer petals while another removes the inner petals to leave behind only the pistil. Finally, the final person painstakingly picks out the rice and shakes off the dirt. “Lotus rice removal might look simple, but it’s actually quite finicky,” Xiêm commented while showing me the steps. “A tea maker can’t hurry. This is a test of patience and meticulousness.”

"Lotus rice" refers to the white-colored anthers in the middle of the flower.

It takes 100 flowers to scent 100 grams of tea, so a kilogram of lotus tea might require up to 1,000–1,500 flowers.

Next, grains of lotus rice are used to infuse tea, a type of high-quality leaves grown in Thái Nguyên, dried completely, and packed with tiny lotus petals for preliminary scenting before the rice enters the picture. The final product goes through seven rounds of scenting, each spanning three days and followed by one round of one-night drying. From the moment the lotus flowers are harvested, 21 days of scenting, infusion, and drying are needed to arrive at the final lotus tea. “Tea scenting needs someone with years of experience,” Xiêm shared. Currently he’s the only person in the family who’s qualified to do this step.

Besides tea leaves scented with lotus rice, there's also a "lite" version (ướp xổi) in which the leaves are poured into the lotus bud and wrapped tightly using lotus leaves.

As this method doesn't require long infusion sessions, the lotus fragrance is not as strong.

Because of this level of complexity in the making and scenting of Tây Hồ lotus tea, drinkers should practice care and respect when offered lotus tea. To make lotus tea, naked, unglazed earthen pots are often used, in addition to small ceramic cups. “To enjoy lotus tea, you must be patient too, because hot-headed drinkers can’t fully relish the flavor of the tea,” he cautioned. A sip of Tây Hồ lotus tea yields complex notes of flavors, from the floral fragrance to the tannic, bitter notes of the tea to a faintly sweet aftertaste that lingers on your palate. More than that, what's special about lotus tea is that even before taking that sip, just bring the tea cup close to your nostrils, and you can already smell the tender aroma of lotus buds — an evocation of the sky, earth, water of Hồ Tây and swaths of blooming lotus unfurling right before your eyes.

Driking lotus tea means drinking in the essences of summer and flavors of nature in Tây Hồ.

New Tarot Deck Uses Traditional Motifs, Legends and Folk Wisdom to 'Speak Vietnamese'

2025-06-15T09:49:00+07:00

Tarot decks can feel written in a foreign language.

The cards’ images, typically drawing from Renaissance Europe, Christian mysticism, and Greco-Roman allegories, can feel alien, even to those of us who speak the symbols fluently. U Linh Tarot was the first time I saw cards that could “speak Vietnamese.”

Illustrated by artist Trần Nguyễn Anh Minh, also known as Chú Mèo Kì Diệu, U Linh is a Tarot deck rooted in Vietnamese folk spirituality, inspired by motifs as varied as Đông Hồ woodcuts, Việt Điện U Linh Tập, imperial robes, and village legends. For Anh Minh, the deck is more than a passion project.

Trần Nguyễn Anh Minh, also known as Chú Mèo Kì Diệu.

“From 2009 to 2021, there wasn’t a single Tarot deck from Vietnam. We kept using foreign decks, and it felt disheartening. Vietnam doesn’t lack culture, so why don’t we have our own voice in the Tarot world?” Anh Minh explained when I interviewed him at his home last month. That question became the seed for U Linh Tarot. And from that seed bloomed a vivid cosmology: one that’s not only Vietnamese in content but Vietnamese in structure, rhythm, and soul.

Before U Linh, there was Thiên Địa Nhân. Anh Minh’s first deck, his undergraduate thesis at Văn Lang University, was a travel-inspired journey through Vietnam’s landscapes and temples. While Thiên Địa Nhân celebrated beauty rooted in the physical world and specific places, Anh Minh was drawn to portraying beings of the spirit realm.

Thiên Địa Nhân, Anh Minh's first deck. Photo via Comicola

“U Linh actually came first, as an idea,” he confessed. “But it had a harder birth. Thiên Địa Nhân was like the strong older brother while U Linh is the little sibling that needed protection.”

The delay was strategic. He needed time. And he needed help, especially from his university friend, an Lang Hoàng Thủ Thư, whom he credited as indispensable: “Without her, there wouldn’t be this deck. She’s the one who helped me connect with culture, spirituality, and our roots.”

That collaboration allowed U Linh to become one of collective resonance. The U Linh Tarot is not a literal translation of the popular Rider-Waite deck from 1909. Instead, Anh Minh treats each card as a question: “What is this card’s soul? And where in Vietnamese culture does that soul live?”

In traditional Western decks, the Three of Pentacles card is often illustrated through the building of a cathedral, symbolizing cooperation and shared vision. In U Linh, this concept is reimagined through the Đông Hồ painting Hứng Dừa (Catching Coconuts), where three figures embody the essence of teamwork: one climbs the tree, another catches the coconuts, and a third stabilizes the base. Their coordinated effort becomes a living metaphor for harmony and mutual support in any collaboration.

The Three of Pentacles card (left) and the Nine of Cups (right). Photos via Anh Minh.

Known as the “wish card,” the Nine of Cups represents emotional satisfaction and fulfilled desires. U Linh interprets this archetype through the joyful figure of Ông Địa, the Southern guardian deity in Vietnamese folk tradition. With his cheerful demeanor and round belly, Ông Địa symbolizes abundance, ease, and benevolence. People often pray to him for the return of lost items or blessings, making him a natural embodiment of the card’s spirit: relaxed joy and the quiet confidence that good things will come.

Meanwhile, The Star card traditionally represents spiritual clarity, guidance, and a sense of renewed purpose. To design his version of it, Anh Minh faced the challenge of finding a Vietnamese symbol that captured this radiance, as five-pointed stars are not commonly used in traditional sacred imagery. The turning point came with the discovery of embroidered star motifs on the ceremonial robes of the Nguyễn dynasty. Drawing from this imperial heritage, U Linh’s Star card shines with cultural depth, affirming the deck’s ability to bridge past and present with luminous hope.

Anh Minh chose images with ritual care. The Tower is reimagined through a culturally resonant symbol: a coconut tree struck by lightning. Rather than depicting a European-style tower crumbling in chaos, the image evokes a distinctly Vietnamese belief that lightning is a form of divine punishment, striking down where evil resides. Here, the Tower becomes Thiên Ách, or "Heaven's Judgment." When it appears, the card speaks not just of sudden upheaval, but of spiritual reckoning. It may signal a necessary and forceful intervention – an act of justice, sweeping away hidden corruption or false foundations.

The Star card (left), Tower card (center) and Three of Swords (right). Photos via Anh Minh.

Even the Three of Swords, a card synonymous with heartbreak, was reinterpreted for the deck. Rather than focusing solely on emotional pain, this version emphasizes reason triumphing over emotion. A sword pierces a book, not a heart, signaling the clarity that comes from difficult but necessary decisions. It reflects the kind of heartbreak that stems from doing what is right, such as leaving a harmful relationship or letting go of an illusion. The card honors the quiet strength it takes to choose wisdom over attachment, even when it hurts.

Though spiritually inspired, U Linh required relentless design discipline. Anh Minh drew all 78 cards between Tết and April; just over three months. “My iPad didn’t have any games. When it ran out of battery, I slept. When it was full, I got up and drew. If I didn’t finish two cards a day, I wouldn’t let myself sleep.”

Matching this maniacal pace was a near-obsessive attention to symbolic structure. As a trained designer, he approached each Tarot card not as an illustration, but as semiotics. “Tarot isn’t just illustration; it’s language. Why is the hand raised instead of lowered? Why hold a cup and not a wand? Everything must have a reason.”

Anh Minh consulted Lang Hoàng Thủ Thư, sketched, rejected, revised, and repeated. Along the way, he introduced extra cards and alternate versions of traditional archetypes to reflect Vietnamese dualities. The Fool, which marks the beginning of the Tarot journey – a symbol of innocence, freedom, and stepping into the unknown – appears in two forms: Cậu Ấm and Cô Chiêu, representing parallel masculine and feminine paths.

The Cậu Ấm card (left) and the Cô Chiêu card (right). Photos via Anh Minh.

At the journey’s end is The World, the final chapter in the Fool’s arc, symbolizing fulfillment, integration, and wholeness. Anh Minh offers two interpretations: one depicts Cậu Ấm transformed into a grounded farmer: mature, self-reliant, and committed to the labor of everyday life after completing his quest. The other portrays Cô Chiêu as a radiant goddess having completed her inner journey of healing and self-realization and now embodying spiritual harmony and grace.

The Cô Chiêu World card (left) and the Cậu Ấm World card (right) Photos via Anh Minh.

“This deck strays a bit from the standard, but that’s the Vietnamese yin-yang philosophy. If there’s a man, there must be a woman. If there’s a path of reason, there must be one of spirit.”

Many assume U Linh concerns itself with nostalgic touchpoints, but that’s not accurate. It is interested in metaphysics. “This isn’t memory,” Anh Minh said. “These are spirits who haven’t yet reincarnated. We call it memory only because we can’t see them.”

To him, the deck is not a memory book but a channel. It reveals how Vietnamese ancestors encoded ethics and cosmology in stories, and how they interpreted suffering as imbalance and harmony as sacred. In his words: “Tarot is a philosophical book. It may have only 78 cards, but each card is a chapter on human nature.”

Though the first print run sold out quickly, Anh Minh is already preparing a reprint and a companion website, where he plans to elaborate on symbols too controversial or complex for the booklet included with the deck. He’s also mentoring new artists working on folk-inspired decks, collaborating on projects like Sông Núi Nước Nam, and joining group exhibitions that present Vietnamese spiritual art in contemporary formats.

“We must know who we are,” he told me at the end. “U Linh is an excuse to explore Vietnamese culture for those who don’t know it yet, who’ve never heard of it.”

As a reader, a Vietnamese, and a seeker, I know this deck is not merely about fortune. It is about becoming fluent in our own sacred language.

Pages of Passion Bookstore Epitomizes What It Means to Run a Passion Project

2025-06-13T12:06:29+07:00

On the sixth floor of an old apartment building on Nguyễn Văn Tráng Street in District 1 stands Pages of Passion, a true haven for book lovers. New and used literature from around the world; non-fiction spanning philosophy, natural science, history, biographies, and psychology, and even some poetry fill the floor-to-ceiling shelves in the inviting space. One could spend time wondering why it took so long for a shop like this to open in Saigon, but those hours are better spent perusing the titles that include best-sellers, classics, and global phenomena alongside overlooked treasures.

As an avid reader, to satiate my book habits for the last ten years, I’ve relied on stuffed suitcases lugged in from abroad and enlisting family and friends to act as book mules, as well as PDFs of murky morality. I’ve become acclimated to this cumbersome system. Thus, when friends’ social media started to feature a cozy shop filled with enticing titles, I didn’t think it could possibly be in Saigon. And even when I was given the address, I went planning to be underwhelmed.

Within five minutes of arriving at Pages of Passion, I’d spotted Information Desk by Robyn Schiff and Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights, two wonderful but rather obscure titles, even within the neglected worlds of poetry and lyric nonfiction. The longer I browsed, the more I understood the space was special. A section devoted to diaspora and translated Vietnamese authors contains numerous works that Saigoneer has featured in our Loạt Soạt series, including Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai, Ocean Vuong, Nguyễn Ngọc Tư, Thi Bui and Phong Nguyen. Meanwhile, a wall in the back room is lined with classics, including personal favorites by Pessoa, Calvino, and Melville. Interspersed are books from current bestseller lists and those attracting attention on bookstagram feeds.

Still in disbelief that such a stellar bookstore existed in Saigon, I arranged a time to meet with owners Huy and Thảo to learn more about its origins.

The passionate couple behind the shop

Books can serve different purposes to different people. This is certainly true for the husband and wife couple hailing from Hanoi. “Growing up, my family struggled with finances,” Huy said. “So I came to books as a main source of self-education.” Beginning with old books borrowed from friends and family and the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, he transitioned to fiction and non-fiction titles. These works stood in for the expensive extra classes and language center courses his family couldn’t afford. Empowered by this independent reading, he won a scholarship to study abroad, where he majored in business and entrepreneurship. Upon returning to Vietnam, he entered that industry but never abandoned his love of reading.

While Huy and Thảo are shy to have their photo taken, the shop's resident cat, Simba, is not.

Thảo’s history with books is different, but no less profound. Years ago, her family had moved to Saigon while she remained in Hanoi. To combat her loneliness, she turned to books. They were “companions during the ups and downs,” she said. As she “found meaning in the journey of healing myself,” she transitioned from fiction to spiritual and philosophical books. They led her to understand that “sometimes we want to have a deep look at ourselves, but cannot realize that self-reflection until we read it in a book.”

From home storage to physical space: Pages of Passion opens

Thảo would eventually move to Saigon and, like her husband, enter the corporate world where she worked for global FMCG corporations. While the pair found joy and comfort in reading in their free time, their work life was exhausting. After ten years, burnout was approaching, along with fatigue from laboring for other people’s visions and desires rather than making an impact in realms they value. Looking to their shared passion, they decided to go into business for themselves, selling books. In March 2024, Thảo and Huy opened Pages of Passion as an online store while remaining in their corporate positions. “We worked all day and spent our nights for books. I felt recharged when surrounded by the books we’re so in love with,” Thảo explained.

Thảo and Huy begin to order books from various local suppliers and vendors, taking comfort in the fact that if they didn’t sell, they could add them to their personal library and enjoy them themselves. However, they did find eager customers, allowing the couple to take the next step and open a physical location. “A lot of people asked us to have a physical bookstore and we thought it was time to do something fun, and at least, at the end of our lives, we could look back and be proud to have had a bookstore — a dream that we had from an early age.”

A fortuitous visit to a cafe in the same old apartment building introduced them to the available space that would open as Pages of Passion in late 2024. They both quit their jobs so they could staff the shop full-time, a sacrifice in many ways, including arousing concern amongst their parents who preferred a traditionally stable future. Running the shop is not easy, as at least one of them must be on the premises seven days a week from 10am to 10pm. In addition to assisting customers, ordering books and stocking shelves, they must keep up to date on publishing trends and research genres they are less familiar with while still finding time for the personal reading that rests at the core of the passion project.

More than just a bookstore

“It’s not like selling things in the market,” Thảo said. “We are offering more than books; more than just the physical objects, it's like an informal coaching session […] we are good listeners. We are not giving them every answer to their life, but at least we can open their hearts and share some part of ourselves,” she said of conversations with regular patrons. Huy adds that these relationships were not expected, intentional parts of the business, but he is proud they can offer more than purely transactional interactions. The pair often recognizes a part of themselves in their customers and can serve as experienced elder peers. “We have been through the same situations and can share our journey,” Thảo concluded.

These relationships are hardly one-way. In addition to appreciating genuine connections with their customers, the pair receives recommendations for books to read and stock. A few titles they pointed to on the shelves during Saigoneer’s visit had been suggested by customers and became personal favorites along the way. And while Thảo and Huy still take custom orders online, finding and shipping requested books, selling them in person is particularly gratifying. The exchange of recommendations, life stories, and ideas creates a warm, inviting atmosphere that feels more like a community than a simple place of commerce.

Given this interest in building community, it is no surprise that Pages of Passion aspires to host various events. Things are still in the brainstorming stage, though Thảo mentioned book clubs, movie nights featuring films based on novels, and times for silent reading. A poetry reading will take place at the end of June, the first of hopefully many opportunities for the city’s book lovers to gather in person and share their interest in literature.

Running a private bookshop, like reading literature, will always be a labor of love. Saigon residents and tourists should all be very excited that Pages of Passion has opened its doors. Anyone longing for a recommendation or simply the peace that comes with meeting like-minded individuals in a cozy space seemingly miles from the city’s noise and corporate chaos should set aside an afternoon to visit

Pages of Passion is located at L6, 35 Nguyễn Văn Tráng, Bến Thành Ward, D1, HCMC and can be contacted via Facebook or Instagram.

'Đây Ngồi Ráp Việt' Pixel Art Project Turns Vietnam's 63 Provinces, Cities Into Model Kits

2025-06-11T11:00:00+07:00

How many of us can identify all 63 localities in the current administrative map of Vietnam? Who has been to all of them? Who can name all the 54 ethnicities of Vietnamese across the country? These are all surprisingly hard things to do considering the average citizen doesn’t travel to other provinces often, and if they do, few actually stray from popular tourist destinations.

“Đây Ngồi Ráp Việt,” a new art project by local artist Callmebu, might be a small but whimsical starting point to get Vietnamese to learn more about the culture, history, and culinary wealth of all corners of the nation. Each of the 63 provinces and cities is portrayed in pixel art as a model kit featuring its geographical boundary and a few standout landmarks, cultural entities, and local delicacies for which it is best known.

Hồ Chí Minh City, for example, is depicted with bánh mì and cà phê bệt and the Notre-Dame Cathedral, while the Hanoi kit comes with phở, the Old Quarter, and Hoàn Kiếm Lake. The hometown of the author, whose real name is Hồng Hải Đăng, is Bến Tre in the Mekong Delta, so it’s a no-brainer that he has to highlight the coconut tree and its most iconic confectionery kẹo dừa as representatives. “When my friends hear that I’m from Bến Tre, their first reaction would be ‘Are you visiting home? Please bring back some coconut candies!’ That should show how much the coconut is linked with Bến Tre,” he told Saigoneer.

There is a certain vintage nostalgia to the pixelated figures that Đăng created to illustrate the regional treats and cultural activities, from Huế’s nhã nhạc performance to Hưng Yên’s Đông Tảo chicken. They evoke the charming games on older consoles like SNES, or modern pixel art titles like Terraria or Stardew Valley. “I picked pixel art because in my eyes, each province and city is like a ‘pixel’ in the bigger artwork of Vietnam,” Đăng shared. “The idea to turn them into model kits simply comes from my personal interest in Gundam figurines and jigsaw sets.”

Đăng’s passion for drawing manifested very early on during his childhood, and right when he was in secondary school, he already knew that he would pursue a career path related to art or creativity. Despite graduating university with a degree in architecture, he decided to work on illustrations and the arts. “Đây Ngồi Ráp Việt” was entirely completed during his free time in the evening after getting off from work, so it took about three months to take shape — from finalizing ideas, researching, drawing the demos to arriving at the finished versions. On average, each locality takes one day to be done.

The research is an aspect of “Đây Ngồi Ráp Việt” that makes the project both challenging and intellectually intriguing to Đăng. For one, within the set boundaries of the model kit design, only three cultural representatives are featured for each province, so how does one go about choosing from the diverse range of unique snacks and iconic landscapes? According to the author, the selection criteria can involve a number of pillars like food, nature, architecture, history, and spirituality, but at times it’s simpler: just what impresses him the most about the places.

Which leads to the many examples that made this process of constant learning exciting, such as finally putting the name on the face of a dish that he’s enjoyed numerous times before or discovering that two seemingly isolated snacks from two separate provinces are actually more similar than previously thought, like Cao Bằng’s bánh khảo and Huế’s bánh in. Which province to attribute phở to was also a difficult decision, as there are theories and sources pointing the soup’s origin to both Hanoi and Nam Định.

Ultimately, delving deeper into the regional cultures of Vietnam was the one guiding purpose of “Đây Ngồi Ráp Việt,” for both its creator and netizens who enjoy tiny cultural discoveries. “When I eventually completed the artworks, I felt quite emotional, as if I’d finally assembled Vietnam in my own way,” he admitted. “It started at first as a personal project, but once I shared it online and saw how people recognize their hometown in each pixel, it made me happy.”

Between Motion and Stillness, Huỳnh Công Nhớ Explores Memory and Belief in ‘Mắt Nhớ'

2025-06-10T10:00:00+07:00

Drawing on themes of childhood memories, human beliefs and spirituality, filmmaker and painter Huỳnh Công Nhớ moves between the worlds of cinema and painting, inviting viewers on a journey in search for the quiet beauty in life’s simplest moments.

“Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) marks the first-ever solo exhibition in Vietnam by Đà Nẵng-based filmmaker and painter Huỳnh Công Nhớ. A special collaboration between Gallery Medium (Hồ Chí Minh City) and Galerie BAO (Paris), the exhibition features paintings created from 2022, in which the artist explores the intersection between his cinematic sensibility and the stillness of painting. Through bright colors and gentle brushstrokes, his paintings evoke a quiet sense of motion and feeling, like paused frames from a slow film, playfully and calmly translating the language of cinema onto canvas.

Installation view of “Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) at Gallery Medium.

Huỳnh Công Nhớ entered the art world through cinema and was trained under the mentorship of acclaimed filmmaker Trần Anh Hùng in the Autumn Meeting program — a renowned workshop for promising young international filmmakers. In 2022, he expanded his visual storytelling by making a transition into painting. Well known for a rustic approach in filmmaking that carries emotional depth, his works focus on human experiences within Vietnam’s socio-political context, opening up endless possibilities for storytelling while reminding us of the importance of human connection and the power of stories told through various materials.

When asked about the shift into painting, Huỳnh Công Nhớ shared with Gallery Medium that it began with simple sketches made during the filmmaking process, and he began using acrylic paint to sketch out ideas for bigger film projects, as a way to channel his restless energy. Over time, painting became not only a form of artistic expression but also a return to the innocence of childhood.

Installation view of “Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) at Gallery Medium.

When one gazes at Huỳnh Công Nhớ’s works, the first impression is often the profound interconnection between humans, their beliefs, and spirituality. Faceless characters appear in various states of motion against vast landscapes, each crowned with a halo, symbolizing faith, hope, and potential. Although the artist himself is not Catholic, being raised by nuns in the Catholic church has deeply influenced both his life and his art. This spiritual undercurrent, combined with his filmmaking background, is evident in the way he “frames” his landscapes and subjects, echoing the language of cinema within his paintings.

Nguyện Cầu #07 (2023), acrylic on canvas, 60 x 90 cm. Image courtesy of the artist.

Through still life paintings, the artist’s approach captures the beauty and simplicity of everyday objects with playful, colorful brushstrokes that also evoke peace. His dreamlike works depict real-life scenes — bonsai trees, toy animals, fruits cracked open, and food on the table — which blur the line between reality and imagination. These scenes emerge from his daily observations and childhood memories, shaped by a quiet belief in an invisible force residing within the ordinary. In doing so, his works invite viewers to pause and consider the quiet magic of everyday life.

Tĩnh Vật (2022), acrylic on canvas, 60 x 80 cm. Image courtesy of the artist.

Installation view of “Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) at Gallery Medium.

Like a slow film made up of many different frames, his paintings recreate slices of moments unfolding on a moving screen by transforming the medium of moving images onto the canvas. Though still paintings, they convey a dynamic sense of emotions, drawing viewers into the emotions embedded in each piece. Childhood memories, whether joyful or sorrowful, profoundly shape the way a person perceives life, makes decisions and chooses what to hold onto their mind. Interestingly, neither the artist nor his work is bound by any specific religious belief, and his works express a broader theme that many human beings constantly search for: something to believe in and a sense of healing. This is where childhood memories intertwine with beliefs, shaped through an innocent and naive gaze.

Giao Thông #01 (2022), acrylic on canvas, 50 x 75 cm. Image courtesy of the artist.

Installation view of “Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) at Gallery Medium.

Huỳnh Công Nhớ’s artistic journey, exploring various mediums, has profoundly shaped the themes in his work. His art resonates with the audience, whether religious or not, offering a universal human experience. “Mắt Nhớ” takes viewers from cinematic frames to intimate painting, expanding storytelling possibilities and inviting reflection on the search for peace, happiness, and genuine faith. The beauty and joy of everyday life exist alongside the chaos of the outside world, revealing the many layers of our experience. For the artist, painting became a vital way to capture his ideas and emotions amid the challenges of filmmaking, as a meaningful method of choosing what and how to remember.

Installation view of “Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) at Gallery Medium.

“Mắt Nhớ” (The Gaze That Remembers) is now on view at Gallery Medium until June 15, 2025. More information on the exhibition can be found on this Facebook page.

An Ode to Our Childhood Games and the Days of Being Wild

2025-06-06T10:00:00+07:00

This season, chò seeds drift through the air, their tiny wings twirling in the wind before settling softly onto pathways. It feels as if someone, unseen, has scattered a handful of memories across the breeze. I watch from under the eaves as each chò wing tilts and dances. The sight takes me back to a courtyard echoing with the laughter of children, caught up in the games we knew by heart — nhảy dây, bịt mắt bắt dê, ô ăn quan, bắn bi. Summer, in those days, wasn’t only about the blazing sun. It lived in the whirl of chò seeds overhead, the humming cicadas at noon, and the tender chaos of our childhood.

The yard in those late afternoons would glow as pale sunlight filtered through the leaves, stretching across the damp earth still carrying the scent of rain. Cicadas buzzed in the green canopy above, mingling with dog barks and the bright chatter of children calling out to one another: “We're here, come out and play!”

Back then, our playground was nothing more than a patch of open ground in front of or behind the house, a bamboo fence, and an old guava tree that would drop its ripe, fragrant fruit now and then. But that was all we needed. Somehow, it was more than enough for the games to go on and on. Enough for us, a ragtag band of village kids, to live fully in those brilliant, fleeting afternoons.

Bắn bi (marbles).

The gatherings happened without much planning. No game was ever decided in advance — one kid might bring a rope for nhảy dây (jump rope), another an old milk can for tạt lon (a game where you throw objects to knock over cans). Someone would twist a dry banana leaf into a grasshopper, while another carried a jar filled with green and yellow marbles for bắn bi (marble shooting).

Once everyone had arrived, we’d vote on what to play first. When boredom crept in, we’d switch to something else. Some games didn’t need any tools at all — just our voices and feet — like rồng rắn lên mây (where members form a “dragon” by holding onto each other and try not to let the tail get caught) or trốn tìm (hide and seek). Before long, the whole gang was laughing, chasing each other through the yard, sometimes scattering all the way across the neighborhood.

Nhảy dây (skipping).

Our childhood games offer a glimpse into the simple life of rural Vietnam. They were as humble and unassuming as the countryside itself. No need for modern gadgets or fancy setups; our creativity shaped these pastimes into activities full of cultural identity and meaning. In them, you can see a small society where people lived in harmony with nature, using whatever was around to create joy.

A checkered scarf became a blindfold in bịt mắt bắt dê (blindman's bluff), a few stones scattered on the ground turned into a board for ô ăn quan (mancala), and even a short bamboo stick could transform into a mighty sword for fierce pretend battles. Each game carried traces of daily work, customs, and the spirit of the people.

Ô ăn quan (mancala).

Ô ăn quan, for example, challenged us kids to think hard, strategize carefully, and gather as many pieces as possible to capture the king quickly. Kéo co (tug of war) taught us the spirit of teamwork — without pulling together, the whole team would lose. That same spirit is what adults still carry into their fields, building homes, and tending to the levees.

No matter what game we played, we learned to be patient, to wait our turn, to follow the rules, and to never win at any cost. From these lessons grew discipline, honesty, and pure friendship. These simple folk games were more than just play, they were the most authentic environment for children to develop character.

Rồng rắn lên mây.

Folk games are tied to memory not just through images, but through sound — the nursery rhymes whose origins no one can quite trace, passed down orally through countless generations, known by every village child by heart. Each game seems bound to its own melody, its own rhythm of childhood. These rhymes, linked to the games, are simple and easy to remember by young minds.

I still remember the lines we all raced to shout when playing rồng rắn lên mây:

Rồng rắn lên mây / Dragon snake climbing clouds
Có cái cây lúc lắc / There’s a tree that sways and bows
Hỏi thăm ông chủ / Asking the owner
Có ở nhà hay không? / Is anyone home now?

And when we were tired from running, we’d sit quietly under the banyan tree, hands open, playing úp lá khoai (slapjack):

Úp lá khoai / Turn the taro leaf around
Mười hai chong chóng / Twelve spinning tops go round and round
Đứa mặc áo trắng / One wears white
Đứa mặc áo đen / One wears black
Đứa xách lồng đèn / One holds a lantern on its back.
Đứa cầm ống thụt / One holds a bamboo tube
Thụt ra thụt vô / Push it in, then pull it through
Có thằng té xuống giếng / Someone falls into the well
Có thằng té xuống sình / Someone’s stuck in muddy hell
Úi chà, úi da / Oh dear, oh my

No technology or phones, only the harsh midday sun, dusty yards, and a few simple things. Still, we played for hours without tiring. We grew up surrounded by laughter, dust, sweat, and scraped knees, and those moments made childhood genuine.

Úp lá khoai (slapjack).

Our society today has changed so much. Kids have new games, new tools, new ways to grow. But I still believe there are some things you can’t replace: real experiences; the feeling of being in the world around you. Those simple folk games were more than just play. They were the glue of the community, the first place where feelings, thinking, and values all began to take shape. Everything has its time, and these games had theirs. They were born from a life of simplicity, and as life changed, the space for them slowly disappeared. Now, some of those games only live on in books or pop up here and there during school festivals, like echoes from the past.

Bịt mắt bắt dê (blindman's bluff).

But I still hold on to hopes. Maybe one afternoon, under soft, golden sunlight, a child will look up from their screen, pick up a marble, and call a friend to play. Maybe someone will find an old rope, spin it around a few times, and laugh out loud as they jump in time. And just like that, we’ll remember that joy isn’t far away. It’s in the laughter that rings clear, the sweat that beads on our skin, and the little scrapes that come with a childhood fully lived.

Nay Mai Tạp Hóa Is a Love Letter From Its Founders to Vietnam and the Creative Spirit

2025-06-01T10:00:00+07:00

When you step inside the jewel-box-sized Nay Mai Tạp Hóa, you have no choice but to confront the immediacy of the products on display around you: clothing, artwork, zines, jewellery, stickers, you name it, from local and international designers. The shop, which opened last year, fulfills the “anything-you-might-need” role of its distinction as a tạp hóa, the Vietnamese equivalent to a corner store.

In addition to those that fall under the Soulvenir and Nay May labels, the store stocks a range of items from both Vietnamese and international designers.

Tân Nguyễn and his partner Ý chose to call Nay Mai a tạp hóa and not a boutique to underscore their casualness and intimacy. Your local tạp hóa is probably mere minutes from your door, and the staff likely knows you, maybe from your late-night penchant for potato chips or always forgetting your rain poncho.

Nay Mai's storefront at 167 Nguyễn Văn Thương in Bình Thạnh.

The charm and familiarity of a corner store is probably not why you came to Nay Mai, though. Odds are you came for Soulvenir, the Vietnamese fashion brand that has become one of the most well-known both inside and out of the country. It explores the culture and history of Vietnam primarily through single-color screen prints that adorn garments. Their wearable designs are meant to be worn by anyone, with the idea that the wearer will feel both powerful and fashionable. The images and words are simple but striking and can easily catalyze a conversation. I’ve found that if I up my observation skills when out in Saigon, I see their pieces everywhere.

The now-iconic Việt Nam ball cap from Soulvenir.

When speaking about the brand to reputable publications such as i-D and L'Officiel, Tân usually serves as the official spokesperson because the name Soulvenir originated in 2017 with a final project for his graphic design studies at

Lake Washington Institute of Technology. Today, the label is a joint effort of the couple.

While Tân is the one who referenced the story of Alice in Wonderland when I asked him about how he and Ý research and take inspiration for their designs, it is me who feels like Alice during the time I spent getting to know them and their trajectory from international students in America to Saigon-based designers, business owners, and parents.

Tân and Ý with their children Biển and Mây.

To best understand the creative sphere of this couple, both in profession and life, it’s smart to think about successful complements.

Tân and Ý

They are the fundamental complement. The evolution from close friends to college sweethearts to collaborators began after they both had moved, Tân from Saigon and Ý from Nha Trang, to the US to attend high school. In addition to a shared interest in design, their similar experienes as foreign students and a shared native language and culture helped them forge a strong bond when they met while working the same part-time cafeteria job and attending classes where the cafeteria was housed — Seattle Central. Their bond only strengthened as they struggled, strived, and supported each other through college.

While students in the US, Ý (left) and Tân (right) visited New York City in 2017. Photo courtesy of Nay Mai.

Despite working full-time hours as full-time students and still being stressed about making tuition — Ý remembers lots of tears — they loved the well-respected Associate Degree program. It gave them the opportunity to explore their enthusiasm for fashion and layout with encouraging professors in an environment that let them play and experiment. It was there that they taught themselves the basics of screen printing on old, unused equipment and learned how to work together in the creative process.

Being raised around two generations of tailors means it’s hard to separate fashion from who Tân is. With a playful tone of jealousy, Ý explained how designing clothes comes naturally to him: “It’s so easy for him; he just knows how something is going to look.” She further explained that this stems from his research and appreciation of fashion, everything from that of his favourite hip-hop artists to the reworked aesthetic of Belgian designer Martin Margiela. Tân was also a founder of the now-idling social media account VSSG — The Vietnamese Street Style Group — which highlighted fashionable young Vietnamese.

Tân and Ý (and baby Biển) screen printing at an outdoor market in the International District in Seattle. Photo courtesy of Nay Mai.

The vision for a jacket or a pair of shorts may come from Tân, but Ý is clearly the one who determines when something is finished. When they were preparing their first collection, Chapter 1: Lao Động, Tân’s parents, who had moved to America by then, offered as much guidance from afar as they could to help the couple understand pattern-making. Despite the help, there was still a lot of back and forth with the tailor they worked with. Ý explained: “Normally, a tailor would provide two or three samples for a design. But we had boxes full of them.” Even when she “would drive him crazy needing things to be right,” they were made right. As much as Tân was upset they had to push back the release, he loved the final samples.

This exacting nature has extended to Ý’s idea to change the interior stitching on the shoulder seam on some recent T-shirts. It is finished in a way so that if you wanted to wear the shirt inside out, the seam would belie that. It is a thoughtful touch that not only acknowledges that people do wear their shirts inside out but also gives those who may have never, a new option.

Reflecting on the impact of their studies at Seattle Central, Tân said, “I can’t remember the specifics, but in class we would discuss how we have information that is always there. Like, I knew that Nay Mai would sell what it does even before seeing any of it.”

Ý continued, “You kind of always know what you’re going to do. It’s just in you, and you have to just do it. When I was doing the branding for the store, I didn’t have to go through the whole branding process. I closed my eyes and did it. I knew exactly what to do because it’s always been there.”

Tân, Ý, Biển, and baby Mây in Seattle a few months before they moved back to Vietnam. Photo courtesy of Nay Mai.

Nay Mai and Soulvenir

Even though the world met Soulvenir first, Nay Mai is the umbrella for all that they do — the “mother or soul,” as Ý pointed out. Behind the little tạp hóa up front is their studio, where their ideas incubate and take shape. But Nay Mai also serves as a label that they design from. The name Nay Mai comes from a saying that you can see printed on the front doors, “Here Today, There Tomorrow.”

“Soulvenir is the connection with the cultural part of us, and Nay Mai is our playground,” Ý succinctly explained.

Nay Mai is also profoundly the soul because it is also their home, as indicated by the request to remove your shoes upon entering; the second floor is where they live. The property is actually where Tân grew up.

Tân shared that as his work has always been about his Vietnamese community and culture, it was important for him to be here, to return. After they both had finished college, including Tân’s further studies to receive a B.A. at Lake Washington University of Technology, they had tried to find design jobs in Seattle, but the market was tough. They were even able to open a proto-Nay Mai shop through a grant from the municipal government. It was called Không Gian (space) and sold Soulvenir t-shirts and hoodies. But then the pandemic, parenthood, and the recession. They felt stuck. In late 2022, they returned to Saigon.

Coming home gave them a chance to reconnect with friends and designers here. It also gave them a new opportunity to expand and better realize their designs. The easier access to materials and manufacturing partners “gave them the chance to create more things, to create more products, even just for the sake of being creative.”

“We want to present ideas that are not necessarily always Vietnamese, but that Vietnamese people can learn from and other people can exchange information from,” he further explained.

My first purchase from them was their Yêu (love) t-shirt, which includes lines from a Xuân Diệu poem. The sentiment soothed my perpetually longing heart. The message behind the shirt, though, was to either understand why Diệu also had such a heart or offer someone unfamiliar with him, like I was, an opportunity to learn why.

Front and back of the Yêu (love) t-shirt from Soulvenir includes lines from a Xuân Diệu poem.

With Soulvenir, they feel strongly about being responsible with how their designs connect to Vietnam, regardless of where the printed image or words might fall on a political spectrum. Each choice is thoughtfully considered for how and what it communicates.

Tân thinks the Việt Nam ball cap is the perfect middle ground for their messaging. On the pure fun side, there is the Tôi Ko Phải Là DJ / I’m Not a DJ T-shirt. They’ve also done shirts that touch on more serious topics, such as Thích Quảng Đức, who was a Buddhist monk who self-immolated as a form of protest in 1963, or the war in Gaza.

Responsibility is underscored by their awareness of how such subjects will be received. “I always think about the message we’re putting out, political or not,” Ý explained,

The Hoà Bình Cho Trẻ Em (peace for children) design was created using an illustration from a Vietnamese poetry book for kids and their son Biển’s handwriting. It was made in reference to the war in Gaza.

“It has to make sense to us,” Tân continued. “The message has to be something we believe in. If we’re going to put something out there that’s more controversial, then we have to do it in an appropriate way.”

Their creativity is evident when they do so, such as with Gaza. Last year, they created an image with an illustration from a Vietnamese poetry book for children. Along the bottom was a message written in their son Biển’s handwriting: Hoà Bình Cho Trẻ Em (peace for children).

The designs that come under Nay Mai are for when they want to design for design’s sake. Unlike Soulvenir, they are not created with the idea of representing Vietnam’s history or culture, whether that’s because it’s something totally unrelated (such as an image from a film) or would be inappropriate (a bikini).

Movies, on that note, are a big part of their lives and can serve as inspiration for them in the same way that Vietnamese sign typography or the DIY aesthetic of the Seattle punk scene they were around can. A trip to the zoo can cause them to be struck by French colonial chairs from a century ago, and a trip to MUJI gives them appreciation for minimalism.

“Everything is inspiring to us,” Ý said. “We tell ourselves a product is good when function, form, and context are in balance. That is what we want to do with our designs.”

Ý holds the Bảo Vệ Tương Lai (protect our future) sign she designed. Its reference to a traffic sign is a straightforward message about protecting children (the future). But the playfulness inherent is for those who know that children are often used in Vietnamese propaganda to signify the future of the country.

We returned to Alice going down the rabbit hole when I asked Tân how he finds old photos of Vietnam that regularly appear on the Soulvenir Instagram, their “visual moodboard.” He might search “1997 in Saigon,” and then be taken by a particular photographer, who he then searches for within Getty Images, which leads him to the photographer’s peers, which might lead him to gas stations of that era. It is an endless enjoyable journey for his curiosity and imagination.

Pride and Community

Tân and Ý share purely for the act of sharing and to connect with peers who do the same or appreciate what they see. The desire “to connect, recollect, and express our collective self beyond boundaries” is also part of how they officially describe Soulvenir, but it’s clear how this is the ethos of Nay Mai, too.

Connecting through experience and expression feeds into another of the store’s complements: an interplay between senses of pride and community. Tân and Ý believe there is a lot of good design happening in Vietnam right now, and they are eager to showcase what they can in Nay Mai. But for that to happen, Tân and Ý have to feel that they can speak for the designs, which, as previously mentioned, can be anything and everything.

Soulvenir items come in all shapes and sizes.

“I want to be able to easily talk about the products,” Ý asserted, with Tân finishing her thought, “in the same way we can talk about our own.” This personal connection to each and every one of the makers and the ability to speak on their behalf sets them apart from similar stores in the city. And when those products sell, Ý, especially beams with pride, “One of the highest compliments I received from a customer was that they could see how proud I was of what we have.”

Customers are both locals and tourists who learn of the designs through the couple's Instagram accounts and their international network of friends, peers, and clients

If you follow Nay Mai’s Instagram, you know how proud they also are of their community of customers. The daily stories contain photos of customers who visited and purchased that day. The smiles are wide as they show off Nay Mai’s sustainable rice bags that serve as shopping bags. “Even if we only have one customer for the day, I’m proud to show them off. We’re nothing without our customers,” said Ý.

They feel that they are horrible at marketing, but their social media sharing and presence at maker fests, such as the regularly held LÔCÔ art market, are easy ways for them to create touch points that are genuine. Their customers are locals and tourists, especially those from afar who know of their designs through the couple’s network of friends, peers, and clients — the studio is also where Ý does her freelance layout work.

At Soulvenir's first appearance at a LÔCÔ art market since moving back to Vietnam, Tân (foreground, right) helps a little girl complete a screen print. Photo courtesy of Nay Mai.

Nay Mai represents all that Tân and Ý pursue with their work, but when speaking to them, it is clear that Biển and his little sister Mây represent the primary why at this moment. They are the ultimate source of pride. Both voice how the children’s wonder and excitement are endlessly inspiring, and how they’ve learned so much more about themselves from them and through parenting.

The children’s school tuition fees play a role in the already difficult financial challenges of running a small business — it’s like a third kid, Tân joked. They have to have enough capital to manufacture their products, which can be especially difficult at times because there is no wholesale-style business. If they don’t have enough because of something like the monthly fees, things get put on hold; things such as their latest collection or finding a new place to live so that they can expand the shop space. The goal of a more robust online shop will be easier to attain soon.

With Nay Mai as their home, the community that surrounds Nay Mai has always literally and figuratively been Tân’s community. It is now Biển and Mây’s, too. But for them, their childhood community includes the shop’s staff who have become extended members of their family, and the designers, friends, and customers whom they might meet when they’re not at school.

Tân and Ý’s faces light up when they talk of the kids’ interest in art and design and their curiosity about what they see in the shop or out in the world. They are clearly cultivating an appreciation of visual communication, maybe even for a future generation.

Tân and Ý drive forward.

When Tân was explaining how his designs are always, already, in him, he told me that “everything we do is a prototype of the next thing.”

In Chợ Lớn, Leaf-Wrapped Rice Dumplings Abound Every Tết Đoan Ngọ

2025-05-30T10:00:00+07:00

The fifth day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar is a day of great importance in Chinese communities all over Asia.

Celebrated as Tết Đoan Ngọ in Vietnam and Duanwu Jie (端午节) in Chinese, the day is widely celebrated by numerous cultures with several purposes. In Vietnam, Tết Đoan Ngọ honors mother Âu Cơ, the legendary fairy figure who married king Lạc Long Quân of dragon descent and produced an egg pouch which hatched a hundred successors that became known as the Bách Việt, the ancestors of all Vietnamese people.

In Japan, the day is now celebrated according to the modern Gregorian calendar, on the 5^th of May, and is known as Kodomo no Hi (こどもの日), or Children’s Day in English. In the western world, it is better known by the name Dragon Boat Festival, an reference to the traditional boat races that Chinese communities organize to mark the day.

A standard bánh bá trạng with salted egg yolk and mung beans.

Different cultures celebrate the special day in a variety of ways for different reasons, but there is one universal similarity: leaf-wrapped rice dumplings. Chinese legend has it that a patriotic minister and poet by the name of Qu Yuan committed suicide in a river when his nation, the Chu, was captured and defeated by the Qin king, who then established the first unified empire in Chinese history. The people recognized Yuan’s love of his country and tossed rice dumplings from their boats in hopes that ravenous fish would eat them instead of his body. Their boats became the basis for the dragon boats of Duanwu traditions.

The rice dumplings are now known by an assortment of names: bánh ú in southern Vietnam, bánh tro or bánh gio in northern Vietnam, bánh bá trạng to some Hoa Vietnamese. In our neighboring cultures, the rice-based treat has many names, such as zongzi (粽子) or bazhang (肉粽) in Mandarin and Fujianese, and chimaki (粽) in Japan.

Saigoneer recently visited cô Cầm and cô Trân of Phùng Hưng Market, hoping to get a glimpse of the taste and tradition.

Cô Cầm lives in Chợ Phùng Hưng. Every year her family makes traditional bánh ú for Tết Đoan Ngọ.

“I’m of Cantonese descent, we’ve been making these dumplings since my ancestors came,” she exclaimed. “We fill them with pork, salted eggs, lotus seeds, mushroom, chicken and mung beans. The vegetarian ones are made with ash water and red beans.”

The result was neither greasy nor overwhelmingly salty; it was as though all the ingredients had morphed into a single, new and delicious entity.

“We boil the dumplings for more than eight hours after wrapping the ingredients in bamboo leaves. It’s painstaking. Người Tiều (Teochews) used to saute the raw sticky rice with lard, soy sauce, dried shrimp and other ingredients. I guess we don’t do that anymore because it makes the dumplings rather oily. Those were very tasty, the real Chinese bá trạng! I just call mine bánh ú.”

The cooking process is not unlike bánh chưng.

We were tipped off by knowledgeable locals about a bá trạng-making celebrity, cô Phượng. With her home nestled deep within District 11 near to Đầm Sen Park, we braved the blazing Saigon sun and chaotic traffic on a pilgrimage to discover the "queen of all Saigon rice dumplings."

“We’ve done this for three generations, only four days every year for maybe almost 80 years,” cô Phượng shared in Vietnamese. “For our largest and most premium dumplings, we use a total of twelve ingredients ranging from the simple stuff such as mung beans, chicken and pork to the good stuff such as abalone and even shark fin. We make almost everything from scratch…even the dried shrimp. We don’t use any chemicals or preservatives, I roast the chicken and pork in my own ovens.”

A platter of premium ingredients for cô Phượng's upgraded bánh bá trạng, including roast pork and chicken, abalone, and shiitake mushrooms.

It was an impressive sight. Each of Phượng's bánh bá trạng weighs almost a kilogram. They are cooked for at least ten hours and sold in pairs for auspiciousness. Her dumplings resemble bánh chưng. I asked why it was made as a square rather than a typical pyramid as with most traditional Chinese bá trạng.

“Well, because the Vietnamese love it this way. To be honest, back in the old days our dumplings were very simple when only the Chinese consumed them. Now I have more ethnic Vietnamese than Hoa customers. People are becoming more affluent, they want the best in these dumplings. They use these as offerings before consuming them.”

Making bánh bá trạng is a multi-generation affair at cô Phượng (in orange)'s house.

“We don’t use the ‘pure’ chinese stuff like chestnuts and sausages these days It’s hard to achieve consistency with those things. A bad chestnut can ruin the entire dumpling and it’s hard to tell before it’s cooked.”

The truth was indeed bittersweet. Food and culinary habits adapt and transform according to changing preferences and regional influences. What defines traditional and authenticity? The soul. When we asked cô Phượng about the secret behind good food, she left us with a sliver of wisdom: "Nghĩ ngon là mình làm." (If it's tasty, we make it.)

This article was originally published in 2018.

A Brief History of Hanoi Rock City, a Bastion of the Indie Spirit

2025-05-27T10:00:00+07:00

Hanoi Rock City (HRC) is more than a household name for the youth of Hanoi, especially anyone who’s fond of the “Rock n Roll” culture. Nearly 15 years after its founding, HRC has become a special cultural realm, one that brings musicians and fans closer to one another on its storied stage.

The universe of sounds in “the city of rock”

A live performance at HRC.

The earliest inkling of Hanoi Rock City started when its co-founder Võ Đức Anh and his friends were studying in the United Kingdom. They jammed together often, organized charity concerts for the Vietnamese Student Association in the UK, and were regulars at indie nights where amateur musicians could let their music fly.

“Each city in the UK has hundreds of such venues, creating a welcoming scene for artists that are just starting out. Many of them later found fame thanks to these cozy spaces. When we returned to Vietnam, our group was determined to open a similar venue together like what we experienced in the UK. We were very inspired by Nottingham Rock City, so we chose the name Hanoi Rock City,” Đức Anh reminisces.

Võ Đức Anh, one of HRC’s four founders.

The word “rock” in the name might evoke the corresponding music genre, but it’s not complete. What the founders wanted to foster is the Rock n Roll spirit, building a home for diversity, everyone, and every genre.

During HRC’s launch years ago, they encountered some roadblocks as rock and indie culture in Vietnam was still in its infant stages. At that time, there weren’t many local independent artists with distinct sounds and strong foundations, so it was a challenge for HRC to find performers.

“The first five years we mostly lived on shows by our foreign friends living in Hanoi, or international bands that were touring in the region, but our goal was still to give Vietnamese audiences a more varied, more seasoned, more dynamic market,” he says.

Left: Hà Lê. Right: Mèow Lạc.

Until now, HRC has more or less accomplished that earliest promise when there are gradually more Vietnamese groups in the scene who can confidently showcase their musical personality. From the cradle that is HRC, a number of “first-generation” artists were born, including Nu Voltage, Gỗ Lim and Mimetals, who have managed to carve for themselves a space to perform and bond with kindred listeners. An honorable mention is Mèow Lạc — an indie group that had their start at HRC and has since thrived and found success on the national stage of reality TV competition Rock Việt.

“Our advantage lies in the unwavering assistance and support from everyone towards HRC. We receive help from many people, from artists and embassies to cultural funds, but most importantly, from the audience. Everyone lends a hand to build Hanoi Rock City,” Đức Anh shares.

“No Phone Show” by The Cassette.

The mecca of rock culture and a community creative hub

Elaborating on the future of Hanoi Rock City, Đức Anh promises that the venue is trying its best to promote the culture of rock to a wider audience and to attract international music acts to Hanoi to perform and create music together. Most recently, HRC spearheaded a new concept called No Phone Shows, described as simply concerts that have: “No recording! No photography! No taking down evidence! The show only exists through verbal descriptions.”

The premise means audience members and artists are requested to leave their phones firmly in their pockets for the entirety of the set. This format was fashioned with the aim to help listeners most wholeheartedly immerse in the atmosphere of a music night during an era when electronic devices have invaded every civil space.

Still, the introduction of No Phone Shows has spawned many humorous incidents like some concert-goers mistaking that their phones would be confiscated like in schools. Đức Anh could only laugh and respond: “Everything runs on the spirit of self-discipline. Everyone sticks to the rules and enjoys a complete show. Musicians are more passionate too because they feel safe to let their hair down to feel the bond with the audience, via the singing along, or the swaying arms in the air, instead of looking down just to see a ‘forest’ of phones directed towards them.”

“The Red Room”: A room not only for playing music, and listening to music, but also a community space for hanging out with friends or sipping on a beer or two.

It’s not a stretch to claim that Hanoi Rock City has contributed an indispensable part in the growth of rock culture in Hanoi and Vietnam. Formed based on the foundation of nurturing, and encouraging artists to “just start writing,” “just start composing,” HRC can provide a small stage for budding artists to express themselves to a small-but-enough crowd of listeners. It’s that “just enough”-ness that propelled young Vietnamese to be more confident in themselves and feel the freedom to bare their musical talents.

Over their years in operation, HRC has championed many new performing acts to enrich the concert experience in Hanoi and Vietnam. Some recent musicians that have left their memorable marks on this stage include Ngọt, Cá Hồi Hoang, Chillies, Vũ., Hà Lê, The Flob, The Cassette while from the previous generation, one could count Gỗ Lim, Quái Vật Tí Hon among friends of HRC. Until now, HRC has always made efforts to further that “independent spirit” by being on the lookout for new artists.

Hanoi Rock City — where gutsy musicians face off with gutsy listeners.

To N., a Hanoian who’s a regular at HRC, the one thing that glues them to this community is the distinctive “wildness” of Rock n Roll.

“I love music so I want to experience as many different genres of music as possible. Other venues would invite famous bands and they would sing songs that I might have heard many times on the street, but at HRC, it would be brand-new artists, singing new songs. The feeling when you’re among the first people to know of something makes me happy, that’s why I always want to be part of HRC,” N. shares.

Đức Anh expresses his happiness on the occasion of HRC's 12^th birthday in 2023: “HRC’s birthday is always an emotional musical feast. [...] It’s the best thing ever because, looking back at each year, we realize we made many friends, even though they’re still young and full of future aspirations; HRC will always be here to encourage them to write and compose because we’re here to create opportunities for you to keep your fire going. Most importantly, it’s the audience that counts; they are always ready to welcome newness with an open mind, ushering in a talented new generation of Vietnamese music.”

This article was originally published in 2023.

Has the Saigon Metro Made Suối Tiên Relevant Again in the 2020s?

2025-05-19T10:00:00+07:00

Has Vietnam outgrown Suối Tiên Theme Park?

Opened in 1992, the nation’s largest amusement park welcomes a reported 1 to 2 million visitors a year, with an observed target audience of domestic tourists from rural areas and their young children. It may linger in your memory as the site of a family or school trip back in the day, or somewhere you visited when you first arrived in the city and were getting your bearings. But it’s probably not somewhere you visit regularly or even recently.

Until earlier this year, I’d never been to Suối Tiên. The closest I ever came was when I heard it hosts an annual fruits festival with heavy durian presence, though the 40-minute drive out there proved too steep a barrier. While I do love exploring overlooked and oft-maligned Saigon stops (it’s the origin of this entire series, really), I could never bring myself to make that trip. That all changed this past year with the opening of the long-awaited metro, which now comfortably brings visitors from downtown District 1 right to its front gates.

The Saigoneer team had long discussed a visit to the park to celebrate the metro’s opening, so a few Saturdays ago, myself and two of our photographers gathered at Bến Thành Station for the ride out there. What follows is an inexhaustive list of suggestions for a Suối Tiên visit. I hope the do’s and don’ts help you get the most out of your trip, and perhaps allow you to decide, one way or the other, if it’s worth your time.

Do take the train. Our motivation for the Suối Tiên visit proved to be the right call. Not only is it the metro most convenient way to get out there and an opportunity to use it as it was intended (as opposed to employing its station steps as a social media photo backdrop), but it allows you to have a new vantage point of the city. Similar to a ride on the waterbus, the elevated line reveals the backs of neighborhoods, parks, and landmarks. You may think you know Saigon well, but witnessing it from the cool and comfortable train windows is akin to installing a camera in your home and finally getting to watch what your cat does all day while you’re at work.

We knew the metro was the right choice before we even got into the train car. A group of elderly veterans in full, medal-accoutered uniforms was being led through the station. Their experience of marveling at the modern structure juxtaposed with memories of dirt and gore-filled battlefield days is a testament to the nation’s resilience and what’s possible in peace.

While the ticket vending machines remain bafflingly unoperational, everything else about the metro ran smoothly. We tapped our debit cards to board and even got a free newspaper on the way. But be warned, though the last stop on the line is called Suối Tiên, you don’t actually want to get off there. You want to get off one stop earlier, at Đại Học Quốc Gia Station.

Do buy the peanut butter coffee. Egg coffee, salt coffee, coconut coffee, and coffee with sweetened condensed milk: I thought all the realistically delicious Vietnamese coffee drinks had already been introduced. And if a new one were to be developed, I certainly wouldn’t have expected to first come across it at Suối Tiên. However, the cafe at the entrance to the park sells peanut butter coffee that is astonishingly tasty. A mixture of regular Vietnamese phin coffee, some sweetened condensed milk, and real peanut butter results in a rich, nutty, sweet drink that is as refreshing as it is invigorating. The flavors blend so seamlessly that I wonder why I’ve never seen anyone else sell it, and have already begun experimenting with versions of it at my house. And maybe the best part is you don’t even need to pay to enter the park to buy it. You could, in theory, get off at the train stop, purchase the reasonably priced drink, and be back on your way. You can also visit the adjacent MiniStop for some drinks and snacks, so you don’t need to visit one of the uninspired canteens inside.

Don’t buy the ticket book. I’ve never encountered a more confusing amusement park ticketing system than Suối Tiên’s. The majority of the parks I’ve visited have a general admission rate that allows unlimited access to all attractions inside. Once in a while, there are one or two separate prices for unique sections. Suối Tiên doesn’t do it like this. They have half a dozen different ticket level options, each allowing visitors one-time access to different rides or experiences.

We assumed that the most expensive ticket book option, the so-called “Combo Thrill Seeker,” would let us enjoy everything in the park. We were very wrong, however. Coming in at nearly VND500,000 each, we soon found out we weren’t allowed entry for everything. We also found ourselves going on rides we had no interest in simply because it was in the package. Every ride, funhouse, and transportation method can be paid for separately, and we no doubt would have saved more money had we opted for this route.

Don’t believe everything you hear. This park is really quite large (105 hectares), and the thought of walking in the stifling heat was quite overwhelming, so we decided to take the train (at added expense, of course, because this was not included in our ticket book). After convincing the staff at the train station to give us a paper map as opposed to relying on the woefully janky QR-code version, we decided to ride to the far end’s organic farm and work our way back towards the entrance.

As we disembarked the train, a playful chattering of birds filled the air. Was this farm truly so large and verdant as to attract wildlife like a rural commune somewhere deep in the delta? No. The birdsongs were being pumped in via overhead speakers. The farm does have an acceptable number of plants, including 30 exotic fruit varieties such as Indian red pomegranates, Brazilian cherries, and Taiwanese golden star apples, that are cultivated using Japanese farming methods, Israeli drip irrigation, and organic fertilizers. Alas, its claims to be an immersive learning opportunity about sustainable agriculture struck me as a little far-fetched. One could probably learn a lot more by visiting an actual working farm or meeting an agriculture lecturer from one of the nation’s agriculture departments.

Don’t pick the grapes. Large signs posted tell you not to do this, and that should be reason enough not to pluck down a colorful orb and pop it in your mouth. But if you refuse to be a rule-abiding citizen, you’ll be very sorry. They are sour, grainy, terrible!

Do take photos for tattoo inspiration. I’m of the mind that strange statues made permanent via ink beneath skin is one of the best souvenirs one can have; the giraffe climbing a tree as observed at the Saigon Zoo forever on my leg may reveal my bias. If you agree, you’ll find plenty of ideas here. Pomelos with four faces and one crown; a durian with arms and legs; all 12 zodiac animals striking the imposing expressions of disgruntled retail workers on Christmas eve: there are many candidates — except for the mouse doing a pose that suspiciously looks like the Nazi salute… Probably don’t get that inked.

Don’t pay for the crocodile farm. The park’s selection of attractions seems a bit haphazard, but I’d like to think the crocodile farm is a subtle allusion to the land’s use before it was an amusement park. It was first a commercial forest farm built by Sóc Trăng native, Đinh Văn Vui, in 1987 for raising pythons. Moreover, a stream that flowed through the former wasteland area is connected to a legend of seven virgin girls who died and gave it the name: Suối Tiên, or fairy creek.

Regardless of why it’s there, for inexplicable reasons, a ticket to the crocodile farm was not included in our booklet. Putting aside the fact that reptiles generally, and crocodiles particularly, are unimpressive animals for viewing on account of their sedentary, submerged lifestyles, you don’t need to pay to see them. You can instead view them from the monorail, which our ticket booklet did include entrance to.

Don’t rock the monorail car. In addition to the views of the cold-blooded logs that are crocodiles in the tepid pond below, the monorail allows you to get a better view of the park in general. You can see the scrabbly animal cages that house rabbits, turtles, and birds, as well as games and rides. But be careful not to move too aggressively within the car because it shudders and sways with unnerving squeals when you do so. As the day wore on, we increasingly noticed areas of questionable safety controls, but this was the first instance where we understood that our health and well-being required self-vigilance. For the remainder of our monorail ride we sat very still, enjoying pleasant chit-chat.

Do empty your pockets before getting on the rides. While some negativity may bubble to the surface of this article from time to time, credit where credit’s due when it comes to two rides in particular. The Rotation of the Universe and the Giant Pendulum provide thrilling speed and daring drops. The high-velocity, adrenaline-filled rides whisked us into the sky and set us careening back down with gravity tugging on our stomachs. Just be careful not to have a loose hat or any valuables in shallow pockets because they might tumble out and shatter on the ground.

But if you do lose something, don’t worry too much. There is a lost and found case beside the train station containing a number of early edition iPhones, early digital point-and-click cameras, and official IDs. It's like opening a time capsule from the early 2000s. One wonders what juicy text messages are now locked up in those Nokia brick phones and if their owners will ever return to claim them.

Don’t bother with the overhead bicycle. While you’ll get some exercise pumping the pedals to help you burn off the peanut butter coffee calories, this ride offers little else. It has a view of some construction areas and carnival games of little popularity, I suppose. If this hadn’t been paid for in our ticket book, we surely wouldn’t have wanted to take part in this one, and neither should you.

Don’t take your eyes off your little ones. The construction site visible from the bicycles is woefully unguarded. Intense equipment, including soldering irons, stemrollers, and drills are strewn all over waiting for a child to stumble over.

Meanwhile, entrance to the Rotation of the Universe, whose speed I rightfully praised, has no gate or door, meaning a toddler could simply teeter into the full downswoop of hundreds of kilos of shuddering steel. Suối Tiên is unquestionably aimed at children, but it does very little to ensure they remain safe. Hell, a person could even fall into the crocodile ponds and prove me wrong for thinking the animals are slow, dimwitted bores. If you bring children to the park, do keep a close watch on them to ensure they don’t get seriously injured by any of the precarious overhangs, slippery floors, sharp cliffs or recklessly arranged machinery.

Do pack a swimsuit. Or maybe don’t pack a swimsuit. We didn’t bring swim trunks and thus didn’t go to the waterpark, so I cannot say anything good or bad about it. It did appear stuffed with screaming children on a school trip, which might very well be overwhelming, particularly if you are a foreigner.

Do smile and wave. Hello! What’s your name?! It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a crowd of children shout this at me. In Saigon, people are familiar with foreigners, and unlike in rural areas, we rarely arouse a second glance. This was not the case at Suối Tiên. Likely because the main demographic of guests is rural dwellers, we were very much a source of unwarranted excitement. Anytime we walked past a school group or found ourselves in the same haunted house, they shouted all the random English phrases they knew at us. I never feel more appreciated for doing absolutely nothing other than having been born elsewhere than in such situations. The best thing to do is to politely smile, say hello, and return the high-fives.

Thankfully, it’s quite easy to be jovial because, for the most part, people at Suối Tiên are in good spirits. Security guards, peanut butter coffee makers, ride operators, and construction workers were all friendly and helped create a jubilant atmosphere.

Don’t be scared. (Don’t worry, you won’t be). Many of the attractions at Suối Tiên have names that don’t reveal what’s inside. Phoenix House, Magic Castle, Journey to the Center of the Earth, and Unicorn Palace are all haunted houses reliant on janky animatronics to provide unconvincing jump scares.

While there is creativity behind the morality-themed Unicorn Palace, which points out the gruesome afterlifes awaiting drunkards, cheats, and those who don’t honor their parents, the screeching, scowling, whirring maelstrom of machines presenting them could use a major overhaul. Worse is the copyright-flaunting Harry Potter-themed Magic House that is so incredibly dark inside it’s impossible to see any of the installations that are just ripped-off versions of Hogwarts’ spiders, witches, serpents, and villains. It’s hard to imagine even the most skittish child being actually frightened by any of it. We put our heads down and quickened our pace to get through the dark and boring buildings.

Do forget what you learned in history class. The Journey to the Center of the Earth is the most baffling of all Suối Tiên’s attractions. It could have been an imaginative trip to the magma-rich core of the planet, or some time-traveling fever dream filled with dinosaurs, but it’s not. The mannequin dressed like a 1990s grunge rock fan is a red herring, and the attraction is actually a cart-based trip through a fantasy version of Egypt, complete with mummies, gold, and animatronic Nile beasts. It’s another humdrum parade of attempted jump scares.

The comical jumble of Egyptian tropes obliterates any argument one could make about the park being a learning experience. And while the brief gestures to Buddhist principles in one ride is admirable, it’s hardly a stand-in for a visit to the temple. If your child claims they are going to Suối Tiên as an educational trip, it's probably best to keep them home that day. But at the very least, the large globe accurately depicts the world’s nations, including the prominent identification of Trường Sa and Hoàng Sa as Vietnamese.

Don’t eat the snow. The Snow Castle allows you to know what it would be like to work in a frozen seafood factory. I didn’t notice a thermometer while putting on the provided winter jacket or plastic boots, but it's surely well below 0°C. This feels wonderful when coming in from the scorching Saigon sun. After ten minutes, it even got uncomfortable. Thankfully, there isn’t much to do in the Snow Castle. We whisked down the slide a couple of times, careful not to slip on the thin layer of shaved ice that covered every surface, and we were ready to exit. There isn’t enough of these slivers to make a snowball or snow angel. And you definitely shouldn’t put them in your mouth.

Do plan around a festival. On June 1, the fruit festival at Suối Tiên officially begins. Based on videos of parades featuring absurd mascots and moderately horrifying characters alongside human performers that I’ve seen, the occasion ramps up the slapdash joys of the entire park experience. You’re allowed to pick fruit at the farm with no shame, and at the very least, all the other attractions will be available as well.

Don’t let us tell you what to do. After nearly four hours, we were hot and tired. We’d used up our entire ticket book, but hadn’t explored every nook and corner of the park. We didn’t even pay to have those tiny massage fish nibble at our feet. The newest roller coaster was under repair. There is plenty to discover that we no doubt missed.

Yes, Suối Tiên is overpriced and shoddy, with many of the attractions needing not maintenance but a complete teardown. It’s hard to favorably compare the park to newer entertainment sites in Saigon, including even basic mall arcades. Yet, even without being able to connect it to nostalgic childhood visits, I find myself reflecting with great fondness on our trip. Maybe it was seeing our photographer’s eyeglasses fogged up in the giant industrial cooler, or laughing at the other's discovery that every single toilet in the male bathroom was empty and locked; we had a lot of fun. Like most things, anywhere in life really, if you go with the right attitude and the right people, you can make it fun.

In an Ever-Changing Saigon, Street Artisans Hold Fast to Dying Crafts

2025-05-15T15:00:00+07:00

We delve into the lives of Saigon’s artisans — an animal coconut leaf folder, a woodcarver embracing modern influences, an accomplished street corner calligrapher, and an itinerant craftsman to see what they’re doing to keep their art alive.

On a normal drive down Saigon's vibrant streets, one might find themselves stopping at a traffic light where a veteran of the arts works alluringly, with the craft laid out neatly on the pavement nearby. Just a few years ago, this would have been a common Saigon experience, however, for many Saigoneers, our loss is a slow and unnoticed disappearance.

With an increasing number of small food stalls and restaurants, as well as global brands popping up all around Saigon, the city's streets seem busier and more dynamic than ever.

Nonetheless, with globalization changing the once-quaint landscape of Saigon's past, its personality as 'the Pearl of the Far East' has also been altered majorly, reducing the presence of xích lô drivers, children’s DIY kites floating in the skies, and the once-popular and easily recognizable Vietnamese entertainment of cải lương musical drama and hát bội classical opera. For today's young Saigoneers, these previously defining traits are gradually becoming just marks in the country’s rich heritage.

Despite this, and with true Saigon resilience, a crop of artisans are still trying to keep the city’s heritage alive. Amongst them are the true street artists who live and breath the passion of Saigon’s heroic past.

Saigon's Coconut Leaf-Folding "Peter Pan"

As a true "Peter Pan" of Saigon, Le Minh — a retired artist-turned street artist — spends his days surrounded by the magic of his folded animals made of coconut leaves, an art form that has roots in his childhood.

“I never sell in one place because I want to spread the joy and the nostalgic memories of my childhood to as many people as possible,” he tells me in Vietnamese. Minh used to be a painter, however, as old age blurred his vision, he resolved to spend his time remastering the art of coconut leaf folding that he once knew and loved.

As a child, he spent time with his teacher, helping him fold leaf animals. However, as he grew up, he started working as a painter and trying out other better-paid art forms in order to support his family.

Since his retirement eight years ago, Minh has mastered folding 31 different types of animals. Of these, he claims that he can fold the most common ones, like grasshoppers and fish, in only five minutes, whereas more complex animals like dragons, peacocks, or phoenixes can take him up to one hour. Despite the varied complexities of his product range, Minh sells each for VND20,000. However, he shared that he sometimes sells them for even less, as his main aim is to raise awareness of this beautiful traditional art form.

Despite the joy he gets from his art, Minh would not be able to spread his passion for coconut leaf folding without the support of his family. Even with the fame he’s found through coverage from the Vietnamese media over the past few years, he says that he would have struggled to support himself without them. Thanks to passionate coconut leaf folders like Minh, many young Vietnamese like myself still know about this traditional art and culture.

The Woodcarver Embracing Modern Influences

While some artists have been holding onto the traditions of the past, others have adopted modern influences to bring their art forms into contemporary Saigon life.

A decade ago, one could find an array of wood-carving shops on Pasteur Street, north of its junction with Le Loi Boulevard. However, after years of bad business and increasing rent prices, many of the woodcarvers left and the buildings were torn down to make way for the 18-story Liberty Central Hotel. Now, all that remains of this past is hidden in a dark alley leading to a building behind Pham Minh tailors.

Quang, with 40 years of experience in his profession, is a talented woodcarver. Originally majoring in carpentry at the Ho Chi Minh University of Arts, he uses his experience to lead a team of six carpenters and combine a whole array of wood varieties — including rosewood, ebony and parasol wood — in his art. Not only does he create the signboards which can be seen while driving past his business, but he also creates wooden art pieces, like a giant carved image of “The Last Supper,” menu holders for restaurants, cardholders for businesses and many other wooden items.

Situated in one of the most touristy areas of the city, the business’ main customers are normally foreigners or tourists who are attracted by the curious, yet alluring, wood art. This makes the retail side of the business more seasonal, increasing over Tet and Christmas when there are more tourists in Saigon.

Meanwhile, the wholesale side of the business is mostly constant year-round. This, according to Quang, is a product of the curiosity of foreigners for the skilled woodwork and the array of wood variety that his products display.

Despite his continued efforts, it is only Quang’s experience and connections that help him secure his small spot on Pasteur. With none of his six-man team of hired part-time woodcarvers interested in continuing his legacy, it looks like Quang will be one of the last to carry on this specific tradition of woodcarving, which used to dominate this section of the busy road.

The Professional Calligraphers

From fantastic coconut leaf folded beasts to Mickey Mouse-themed wooden toilet boards, nothing screams Vietnam more than thư pháp artwork.

With thư pháp’s modern reputation of appearing mainly as entertainment during Tet or at special traditional Vietnamese festivals, one of the last places you’d imagine to find these fluid brush lines is on the humble Truong Dinh-Dien Bien Phu intersection, on the wall of the Department of Science and Technology of Ho Chi Minh City.

At around 8am each day, a husband and wife can be seen putting up calligraphy art on a small opening on the foliage-covered crumbling wall of the department. Nhat Minh, the sole calligrapher of the two, with 12 years of experience in the profession, lends his name to the branding of their small enterprise.

Originally from Dong Thap Province, he told me that he left his hometown to learn his craft, an endeavor which took him a year to master fully. Since then, he has created pre-made and made-to-order calligraphy art for the people of Saigon. Most of his customers, he says, are regulars who have known him for a long time. They come to him with orders for themselves or as gifts for their friends and family. For his efforts, he charges around VND200,000 for smaller artworks, and VND500,000 for larger pieces, although his prices differ depending on the request.

With calligraphy now something that only big businesses generally do on a large scale, a life spent selling homemade calligraphy on the streets is not an easy task. For Minh and his wife, calligraphy is their only life-line, though thanks to the continued appreciation of Saigoneers for this art, he can continue to keep this tradition alive as a street artist in Saigon’s modern landscape.

The Hát Bội Classical Opera Masks Creator

Finally, a once-popular form of entertainment which is now disappearing and becoming a niche interest, hát bội classical opera has for many years been a rapidly fading tradition.

A true guardian of his art, for nearly 30 years, itinerant craftsman Nguyen Van Bay has been cycling around Saigon with a display of hát bội classical opera masks on his ramshackle bicycle. He sells his art to people on the street, as well as museums, tourists or cafes and villas for decoration.

With hát bội classical opera having an abundant number of characters, “chú Bảy” — as people know him — claims he knows the details of over 1,000 opera characters. For anyone interested in these characters, he sells his products in sets of 13, 21 or 33 masks. However, he shared that he once sold a whole bike full of masks to a very enthusiastic foreigner for around VND20 million, which he estimated to be way over 33 different character masks.

Although in the original hát bội classical operas the actors painted their faces instead of using masks, chú Bảy uses the image of the fully painted actors’ faces to create masks to capture the essence of the art.

Hearing chú Bảy talk about his work, and seeing the detail he puts into every mask, shows how much of a perfectionist he is. His smallest masks take around six hours to create. This process includes creating a separate clay mold for each mask depending on different characters' faces, then creating a plaster mold combined with silicon and stone powder as a base, and finally painting over the base with oil paint to reveal the distinct traits of each character. A similar process is used to create the larger masks, which take several days to finish.

Looking at most of his masks, all of them have one thing in common — the vibrant colors of red, white and black. Talking to chú Bảy, he explains that these are the main shades of hát bội classical opera, each signifying a different meaning. Nonetheless, he also chooses to portray a majority of characters with these colors because they stand out compared to characters with less eye-catching designs, thus attracting more customers.

Chú Bảy identifies as a big fan of hát bội and has childhood memories of the traveling classical opera group which would stop by his village. According to him, the 1960s were the golden age of the genre, but now it is a dying art form.

As the creator of hát bội masks as a means to preserve the art he loves, and being the sole street artist dedicated to hát bội in the whole of Vietnam, chú Bảy is trying to spread his passion to Saigon’s younger generation. He said that, in the past, he has tried to pass on his trade to other people, however, he is yet to find anyone who has even a small amount of the commitment and passion that he has for his art. Despite this, he says he will try to continue to work and spread his passion for hát bội until the day he dies.

Like many who still see a mirage of Saigon's past, when writing this article, I believed I could simply drive around the city to find a variety of street artists. I couldn't have been more wrong, as I spent hours scouring the streets before I found even one artist, by accident, on my way home. Although these are hardly the only street artists in Saigon’s modern landscape, the sad fact is that every type of art is struggling to survive.

Though these four street artists come from different areas of the arts, when interviewed, they all had one common thing to say, which was that they had barely been able to sell anything in the past few months due to the pandemic and that they are still struggling now in its aftermath.

By meeting these four incredible people and learning about their stories, it is hard not to see the pure passion which drives them to maintain this almost-sacred Saigon heritage, and the sacrifices that they make to preserve their art forms. The only question now is whether or not Saigon will still be home to a new generation of street artists maintaining tradition, or embracing modern life in the future. Only time will tell…

This article was originally published in 2020.

A Touch of Magical Realism in ‘The Cemetery of Chua Village’ by Đoàn Lê

2025-05-12T14:00:00+07:00

Vietnam transitioned to a market economy like an old train lurching to life: momentous shakes and shudders, steam bursting out busted gaskets, disheveled cargo tumbling from luggage racks, sparks shooting off wheels screeching across warped rails and a whistle ripping into the placid sky.

As the government enacted new policies, tossing aside the institutions to which people had adapted deeper cultural values and traditions, communities succumbed to the machinations of the worst amongst themselves. This theme lies at the center of several of the ten fictional stories in The Cemetery of Chua Village by Đoàn Lê and lurks in the background of others alongside ruminations on the inadequacies of love as portrayed with a surreal, dark humor.

In one story, ‘Real Estate of Chua Village,’ rampant land speculation motivated by rumored road construction compels neighbors to scheme, cheat and steal to grab at the cash capitalism that was dangling above the impoverished village. The hysteria even draws in local producer of joss money, sending him off to print higher denominations of ceremonial currency on the prediction that in the afterlife, “hungry ghosts — heck, thirsty ones too — can fight over the street-front properties so they can set up joint ventures or joint whatevers to their heart’s content. And everything will be pressed into service for profit. The King of the afterlife will turn his cauldron of boiling oil into a sauna business, and rent out hell itself as a source of combustible fuel.”

Similarly, the surreal titular story focuses on a cemetery whose deceased inhabitants become sentient at night, carrying on as they had when alive. When a common laborer is accidentally buried in the uniform of a general, the dead first rush to grovel at their assumed superior’s feet and then, discovering the error, turn on him and one another seeking to blame and punish, and in doing so, reveal that even death cannot shake humans of their pettiness and penchant for hierarchy. The story closes with the narrator bemoaning that new zoning laws will throw the flawed but harmonious community into chaos when the cemetery land is reclaimed for development as if to say that the afterlife may not be perfect but capitalism is not going to make it any better.

“Short story authors must create fully realized, interesting characters in a single paragraph, build worlds in a few details, and establish pivotal points of tension with one sentence. Đoàn Lê does this masterfully while lacing many of the tales with elements of magical realism.”

The book, however, does not attribute people’s moral bankruptcy to any political decision or economic system. Rather, it reveals that humans by nature act small and selfishly. In the Kafka-esque tale, ‘Achieving Flyhood,’ which takes place directly before the market reforms, the protagonist's transformation into an insect exposes institutional corruption associated with urban housing markets. Unable to secure one of the state-allocated homes because so many were siphoned off for the families of government employees or those able to offer bribes, he is turned into a literal housefly by the ministry.

Unfortunately, the same abuses the narrator hopes he had escaped exist amongst his fellow humans-turned-bugs. Instead of banding together to fight the powers that be or at least escape into a new reality, individuals jostle for arbitrary titles and positions of power from which to exploit their peers. By portraying the depravity both pre- and post-Đổi Mới, Đoàn suggests that it’s no single system, but rather, societal tumult that brings out humanity’s worst tendencies.

Reading the book in the context of the massive developments breaking ground in Saigon and almost everywhere else in Vietnam while technology further connects the country with global lifestyles forces one to consider that however drastic the changes to society were in the late 1980s and early 1990s, we may now be witnessing even more extreme and rapid ones. In such a reality, and as Vietnam moves further from centuries-old conventions, what moral principles will drive the creation and implementation of new laws and norms? As people become more transitory and neighborhoods break down, what are the principles that will govern how we interact with one another?

Đoàn Lê at age 75.

Đoàn Lê led an incredible life which makes it all the more surprising that she isn’t more well known. Born in Hải Phòng in 1943 to a traditional Confucian family, she ran away from her restrictive home at age 19 to study film in Hanoi. She starred in one of the nation’s first motion pictures, Book to Page. A true artistic talent, she later turned to directing, screenwriting, songwriting, painting and finally novels, short stories and poetry. Her death in 2017 was covered in the Vietnamese press, but the fact that many of the articles, as well as memorials, served as introductions to her underscores not only her overlooked status but the ease with which the public abandons past figures thanks to pervasive forward-looking attitudes.

Đoàn Lê in the film Book to Page.

Reading too closely into the biography of an artist can invite dangerous assumptions and simplifications about their work, but Đoàn’s life may add context to several of the themes prevalent in The Cemetery of Chua Village. Much like fellow writer Dạ Ngân, Đoàn divorced and remarried during a time when such an act was not only legally precarious but culturally taboo. The remarriage, which also fell apart, had serious impacts on her career, possibly limiting her acting opportunities. One shouldn’t, therefore, be surprised to discover that many of the stories portray love and especially marriage in a negative light. In ‘The Clone,’ for example, incredible modern-day technology ushers in a failed writer’s exact copy to finish his life’s work: an epic poem. The clone’s original lays down only two rules for the copy in his will, one of which is to not get involved with women, as such an act will surely doom his writing, as had happened to him. Without giving anything away, readers can guess what happens.

‘The Double Bed of Chua Village’ concerns a woman deciding to leave her husband of 28 years when he openly takes a mistress. Echoing and in conversation with Vietnamese traditions of men having numerous wives, it simultaneously presents the empowered status of women in post-war Vietnam while rebuking patriarchal notions of one-sided polygamy and questioning modern society’s ability to embrace monogamy.

The story ends with an anecdote of monkeys being separated on two neighboring islands and split couples leaping into the sea to meet halfway between the two landmasses, willing to die in each other arms if it means reuniting. The detail serves as a stark contrast to the failures of the story’s protagonists and, regardless of scientific grounding, questions if infidelity and/or the pain it causes is uniquely human, and if so, can this be attributed to historical or contemporary habits? The story poses the question of if, as relationship expectations and the role of marriage evolves in Vietnam, are we moving further from or closer to the types of relationships evolution prepared us for?

While presented in a lighter tone and often wrapped in whimsy, it’s impossible to ignore a theme in Đoàn’s work that is also present in the works of contemporary female writers such as Dương Thu Hương: in Vietnam women experience a disproportionate amount of hardship. Throughout the stories, female characters are the ones who often suffer the effects of men’s poor, sometimes sex-driven decisions. Nothing encapsulates this more than the protagonist in ‘Achieving Flyhood,’ who ultimately concludes “every tragedy, large or small that plagues humanity can be attributed to” men’s penises. His response, vowing celibacy under the guise of homosexuality, is a damning remark on the impact of patriarchy in the modernizing nation.

‘Xúy Vân,’ Đoàn Lê (1993).

The book is undoubtedly important for fostering discussions about various cultural topics and providing glimpses into rapidly disappearing ways of life that are frequently ignored by much of the Vietnamese literature translated into English. It's also a valuable work on a craft level. If a novel is a marathon in which the occasional misstep can be forgiven and allowances afforded for catching one’s stride, a short story is a sprint and, for it to succeed, each footfall must be exact. Short story authors must create fully realized, interesting characters in a single paragraph, build worlds in a few details, and establish pivotal points of tension with one sentence. Đoàn does this masterfully while lacing many of the tales with elements of magical realism. As should happen with the genre, the fantastic twists such as characters turning into flies or the dead forming elaborate societies serve to highlight and investigate elements of our very real world.

Without being exposed to the original text in Vietnamese, and considering the gulfs between the tongues, reading this work proves impossible to adequately comment on the specific language used in the original; but, Đoàn gifted translators Rosemary Nguyen, Duong Tuong and Wayne Karlin with metaphors like a “face hatched with an intricate maze of random furrows, like the work of a drunken ploughman” and a piece of valuable land “stretched along the national highway like a girl in the bloom of youth stretched out for an afternoon nap,” that not only carry clear, transferable meanings but delight in their originality.

In a trend that predates Đổi Mới reforms, as Vietnam modernizes alongside the rest of the world, an area one can most drastically observe change is in how people spend their free time. Social media platforms, movies and video games have almost completely replaced books to the point that the average citizen read fewer than 1.2 works of literature a year. Arguments regarding the trade-offs of development are undoubtedly vast and complicated, but few can deny that we should mourn the loss of attention to literature like The Cemetery of Chua Village.

Literature's ability to intimately articulate elements of bygone eras while fostering empathy and inviting contemplation on diverse societal subjects — such as how economic stability interacts with ideas of man’s innate goodness, and whether society supports or impedes healthy romantic relationships — cannot be wholly replicated. And even if statistics, news reports, films and stories of family members can give valuable insight into some of those subjects, it's impossible for them to do so with the same joyously fresh metaphors, evocative language and expert plotting. One can only hope that amidst all the changes, there are enough people to not only pay attention to authors like Đoàn Lê, but share her work and find enough inspiration to carry on her legacy in whatever strange world emerges in the coming years.

This article was originally published in 2018.

[Photos via An Ninh]

Mèow Lạc on Growing up in Hanoi Rock City and Giving Voice to Cats

2025-05-09T10:00:00+07:00

Having just finished recording their new album, Mèow Lạc is temporarily taking time apart to focus on individual development so that, when they regroup, fresh ideas can come through.

Mèow Lạc consists of four members: keyboardist Hoàng Phương, Tô Ra on drums, Nguyên Lê the frontman, and Nguyên Vũ on bass. They revealed to Saigoneer that Mèow Lạc is currently a passion project, and to support this passion project, all of the members are working various side-jobs. While Tô Ra teaches drums and Nguyên Vũ teaches bass, Nguyên Lê works his magic behind the scenes at Hanoi Rock City as a sound technician.

“Mèow Lạc” translates to “Lost Cat.” When asked how that came to be, Nguyên Lê and the band's manager, Hoàng, who have stuck with the band the longest, both laughed as they reminisced about how it took two months for them to finalize something. They share: “Mèow just means cat, everyone here likes cats. But Lạc can be broken into three meanings.” The first definition is being lost: “I feel like our music often gets lost from one universe to another in the same song, or even the same verse,” Nguyên Lê explains.

The second meaning came from the Sino-Vietnamese word “lạc quan,” which means happy. This perfectly encapsulates the band's musical personality: playful and optimistic.

Lastly, “lạc” also means peanut. Though it isn't necessarily deep, this one feels like their personal favorite. “‘Peanut’ works very well when we want to design a poster or a logo. We can just draw a cat hugging a peanut and that will make Mèow Lạc. It’s a terrible pun, but it works!” they assure.

Music of boundless creativity

Mèow Lạc’s music is youthful, fun, and disruptive. Never committing to a solidly defined genre, they envision an endless creative boundary. “The coolest thing about our music is that it is a mixture of so many genres and influences. While I am heavily influenced by Twenty One Pilots, Nguyên Vũ gears towards funk and fusion; Tô Ra plays all kinds of genres because she has a very strong foundation in music. Lastly, Hoàng Phương fan-boys Jisoo from Blackpink!” Nguyên Lê cheekily shares. In their latest single, 'Hikikomori,' bits of jazz, alternative, and funk were effortlessly combined to portray a buoyant life in quarantine. The lyrics read: “Life is great when you get to be yourself, not having to worry about anybody judging. Life is great when you get to be alone, away from all the drama and flattery.”

Left to right: Tô Ra, Nguyên Vũ, Nguyên Lê, Hoàng Phương

Switching scenes, Mèow Lạc experiments with heavy electronica in ‘Nhất quỷ, nhì ma, thứ ba lũ quạ,’ a whimsical satire on school life. On the other hand, the romantic, keyboard-heavy track ‘Mưa bóng mây’ tells the story of a guy being head over heels about a girl. “Our main musical elements are creativity and explosivity. All of our individual influences can be seen in Mèow Lạc's music. Sometimes it may feel like chaos because every instrument seems to be on a different track. But they somehow come together to form the colors of Mèow Lạc. Only these four kids with these four brains can create something like that,” Nguyên Vũ adds.

In storytelling, there are three standard points of view: first-, second-, and third-person. When Nguyên Lê writes music for Mèow Lạc, he always imagines himself in the perspective of a cat. If one looks at the lyrics to each of their songs, every story that Mèow Lạc tells, every adventure that their character embarks on, fits perfectly with the experience of a lost cat. The cat sees “lũ quạ” (the crows), “mưa bóng mây” (the summer rain), and two people dancing under the living room lights. It is both personal and objective at the same time. “I borrow the eyes of a cat to tell objective stories,” says Nguyên Lê.

A nest at the rock city

Every band has a “headquarters” — a place where they practice, bond, and find their creative energy. For Mèow Lạc, that is Hanoi Rock City (HRC). Võ Đức Anh, aka chú Đa, the founder of this art & performing space, in particular, has been an important mentor for the band since day one. “If we were asked how the band became what it is today, we would proudly say we grew up at HRC. We have performed on that stage more than anywhere else. We practiced there, ate there, slept there and our album was also recorded in that room. We will forever be in debt to HRC and chú Đa because, without them, there wouldn't be Mèow Lạc,” they share.

“When I first started singing at HRC in 2018, chú Đa gave me a piece of advice that has stuck with me ever since. He told me that my singing seems superficial and that I lacked conviction in my lyrics. He said that when I sing, I have to really sing as I mean it, and really sing instead of just performing. There is no such thing as ‘fake it til you make it’ here. The audience can really tell when a performer is not putting their soul into the performance or expressing all of their feelings,” Nguyên Lê adds, “after receiving that advice, I realized that if this was my dream, I need to put 100% of myself into this; and to really sing every note with conviction.”

Beyond the stage, but the four friends always have each other's back in real life, too. To them, finding one another and forming a band was easy, but being able to stick with each other and develop chemistry is the real luck of fate. They began as simply as any other band, making calls, inviting each other to jam sessions, getting iced tea after practices, and giving each other relationship advice. “We all have a common trait: our short temper. So when one of us gets mad, the other three will have to comfort that person. Thus, we take turns being mad,” they laugh.

Telling stories with music

On why they make music, the band opens up: “We write music to say things that are difficult to say. You know the feeling when you have a lot to express but you somehow cannot put it into concise sentences? We chose to express it through music instead. Our music speaks what our words can't. Being able to tell these stories on stage is an indescribable experience; we can't explain how that kind of adrenaline can be so addictive.”

When I asked what makes Mèow Lạc stand out at a time when there are so many up-and-coming bands, their answer came as a surprise: “We are just nerds who sit at home making music, then performing what we have created for an audience. We are just simply taking it easy that way, and that is also how we view music. I find it cool because the things we create can’t be found in other bands, but we never think of ourselves in the midst of other people, but rather view ourselves as an individual band that does things they love. Just as simple as that. To really analyze what makes us stand out from other bands is so difficult. The musical world is too wide. Hence, we never liked this question because every time we answer it in the most textbook manner, it leaves us feeling unsettled. A thousand bands can claim that they are unique, but in actuality, they don’t know what it’s like to look at their work objectively. So we are here simply trying to make good music in our own way.”

Next up for Mèow Lạc is the release of their first album, the name of which will soon be revealed. The theme for it is urban spaces and cities viewed through the eyes of a cat, relatable yet quite refreshing. A stray cat will see people strolling on the streets of a summer day, people pondering under the light of their apartment; it will witness a robbery, etc. The musical elements will also be a mixture of what they consider urban cultural influences: pop, jazz, hip hop, rock, and electro.

In the end, Mèow Lạc summarizes their motto as “creating youthful music; music that young people can enjoy, music for young people to dance to, music that puts a smile on your face.” They cannot wait to get back on the stage, to feel the exhilarating energy as the audience chants their name. But most importantly, “simply to have fun with what we do.”

This article was originally published in 2022.

Inside Chôl Chnăm Thmây, the Festive New Year of Saigon's Khmer Community

2025-04-29T11:00:00+07:00

As April's fickle weather shifts between sunlight and breeze, Candaransi Pagoda sheds its usual solemnity, becoming animated with a festive spirit. The air hums with the resonant sounds of temple bells and the rhythmic beat of the wooden fish drum, a vibrant counterpoint to the warm laughter shared by monks and lay Buddhists. Anticipation builds as everyone awaits the midnight chime, signaling the arrival of the Khmer New Year.

Celebrated annually in mid-April, Chôl Chnăm Thmây holds deep spiritual and cultural significance for the Khmer people. Originating in 7^th-century Cambodia, the enduring traditions of this important festival have been carefully preserved and passed down through generations by Khmer communities worldwide.

Vietnamese media often frame Chôl Chnăm Thmây as a traditional “Tết” holiday, noting compelling parallels with Tết Nguyên Đán: both serve as pivotal junctures between the old and new year, offering a cherished occasion for familial reunions, expressions of ancestral gratitude, and the celebration of the fruits of their labor.

Yet, in contrast to the Kinh majority, Khmer society maintains an intimate and profound connection to its faith, particularly Theravada Buddhism. From the rhythms of daily life to the observance of national holidays, representations of the Buddha command the most venerated position. Chôl Chnăm Thmây, fittingly, is deeply resonant with this spiritual ethos.

The festival's progression is dictated by the Buddhist lunar calendar, its ceremonies and traditions drawing deeply from Buddhist lore. Communal gatherings, acts of worship, and the performance of meritorious deeds within the serene compounds of pagodas are indispensable threads in the fabric of the sacred occasion.

Established in 1946, Candaransi Pagoda stands as one of the two principal centers of Theravada Buddhism in Saigon. Within its walls, religious ceremonies, language classes, and significant cultural festivals for the Khmer community are regularly held. The pagoda not only serves over 24,000 Khmer residents of the city but also warmly welcomes visitors from other ethnic groups seeking to learn and explore. Each Chôl Chnăm Thmây, Candaransi Pagoda transforms into a vibrant gathering place where people converge to joyously celebrate the New Year according to Khmer traditions.

The Khmer tradition of celebrating their New Year in April traces its origins to the zenith of the Angkor Empire. It was during this golden age that the Khmer monarch decreed the shifting of their own new year from the 11^th to the 5^th lunar month, aligning with April in the Gregorian calendar. Speculation suggests the sovereign behind this edict may have been either Suriyavarman II, the visionary builder of Angkor Wat, or Jayavarman VII, the first Buddhist king of the Khmer realm.

The inaugural day of the grand celebration, known as Sangkran Thmây, marks the pivotal moment of transition. According to Venerable Danh Lung, the abbot of Candaransi Pagoda, the Khmer understanding of this transition differs from the precise “zero hour, zero minute” of the Gregorian or Lunar New Year. Instead, it is defined by the descent of a celestial being — one of the seven daughters of the creator deity Maha Prum — to Earth. These divine emissaries sequentially descend to assume the responsibility of watching over the world, succeeding the deity of the preceding year.

A statue of Maha Prum, the four-faced creator deity in Khmer mythology.

The most significant ritual of this day, therefore, is the welcoming ceremony for the celestial beings. On the morning of Sangkran Thmây, Khmer people don their finest attire and gather within the grounds of Candaransi Pagoda. Here, monks and lay Buddhists offer incense to the Buddha and beseech the descending deity for a year filled with blessings. The time for the welcoming ceremony varies each year, calculated according to the lunar cycle, typically adding six hours to the previous year's time.

Throughout the celestial welcoming ritual, the senior monks dedicate time to expounding upon the Buddhist narratives that underpin the Chôl Chnăm Thmây observances. Within the attentive crowd, one can observe not only Khmer faces but also those of Thai, Lao, and Myanmar individuals studying and working in Saigon. Notably, a considerable number of Kinh, Chinese, and Chăm compatriots also join in the festivities, lending their support to the significant day of their neighboring community.

Each year, the descending celestial being is depicted with distinct imagery, colors, and symbolic accoutrements, varying according to the lunar calendar. In certain years, the deity might be portrayed astride an elephant, clad in deep blue, wielding a ring and a firearm; the symbolic offerings also shift, featuring sesame and beans in some years, and other food in others.

In recent years, to accommodate the needs of expatriates unable to return to their ancestral homes, the celestial welcoming ceremony at the pagoda is also broadcast live across social media platforms, allowing those far away to immerse themselves in the atmosphere of the observance.

Following the welcoming of the deity, visitors gradually stream into the prayer hall to participate in the offering ceremony, the ritual presentation of food and alms to the monastic community. This act embodies gratitude, expressing reverence for those who uphold the Buddhist faith. All offerings are voluntarily contributed by lay devotees. Families undertaking the primary responsibility for preparing the offerings are known as “đăng cai,” while those assisting are called “sớt bát.” Before partaking in the meal, monks and lay practitioners together perform an incense offering and chant prayers for ancestors and departed souls.

Among those presenting offerings, not all are Khmer. “My husband used to live in Cambodia, and he had a sister who passed away there," shared Ngọc Lan, one of the sớt bát participants. “My mother-in-law always reminds us that every year during Khmer New Year, the whole family should contribute to the offerings for her. It's only once a year, so I try my best to be here for the end-of-year ceremonies. Rice, soup, whatever I can manage, I'll do it.”

As the morning of the New Year's transition concludes, the gravity of the preceding rituals gracefully recedes, giving way to the animated murmur and laughter emanating from the assembled crowd. A palpable warmth fills the air, evident in the embraces and handshakes exchanged between compatriots, individuals from all walks of life and ethnicities drawn together by this singular occasion.

Offerings have been presented to the deities, and a generous feast awaits their pleasure. Above, the vibrant Buddhist flags stream in the wind, a promise of Khmer New Year blessings spreading across the land.

How Music Transcended Political Divides: The Stories of 5 Timeless Wartime Songs

2025-04-28T10:00:00+07:00

Vietnamese musicians created a musical bridge across political divides, transforming the pain of a fractured nation into melodies that still resonate with both homeland and diasporic Vietnamese 50 years after the war's end.

Two years ago, I was on an airplane bound for Canada to pursue my doctoral studies and, potentially, begin a new life. Though I had traveled abroad before, this journey was different. In the past 50 years, millions of Vietnamese have left their homeland seeking new beginnings in North America through various means. Many of these journeys were far from easy. Thousands perished along the way. As the course of history unfolded and living conditions improved, my own departure came with relative comfort: a 30-hour journey rather than the days or months many before me endured.

Looking out the window as we departed, tears welled in my eyes. Everything I loved, lived for, and would probably die for grew smaller until it became merely a speck of light on the horizon. Hanoi, where I was born, raised, and had spent most of my life with my family, seemed insignificant against the vast expanse of earth below. I couldn't help but wonder: how did they feel when they left home decades ago, whether from Saigon, Hải Phòng, or elsewhere? It couldn't have been pleasant.

Before arriving in Canada, my knowledge of the Vietnamese diaspora was limited to fragmented exchanges in online comment sections, either beneath contentious political Facebook posts or nostalgic nhạc vàng YouTube videos. In Toronto, I've befriended several Vietnamese Canadians of my generation or slightly older; people I've come to love and admire. We share remarkable commonalities. We grew up not with the sounds of Kalashnikovs and B-52s, but with internet memes. We all laugh when passing the Thuý Nga music store on Dundas Street because it evokes memories of wedding music or our parents' karaoke sessions. And of course, we share memories of cold weather, echoed in our parents' voices as they built careers beneath the snows of Toronto or Prague. The conversation only grows complicated when we discuss our grandparents, whose willingness to die for their respective causes stood in fundamental opposition.

‘Hai Người Lính’ (The Two Soldiers). Photo by Chu Chí Thành.

But after 50 years, does it really matter anymore? Today, their grandchildren watch the same Netflix shows, receive similar education, and navigate the liminal spaces between empires. We've all come to recognize globalization as quite bittersweet: older generations dying either for or against global capitalism, while younger generations question their identity within its remnants. What shared narratives can we, young Vietnamese, tell each other to foster understanding, healing, and to rebuild a world after older generations spent their lives at each other's throats?

In previous articles for Saigoneer, I've mentioned growing up with both nhạc đỏ and nhạc vàng, though I never truly appreciated them until I was far from home. These songs have become companions during my late-night study sessions these days. The more I listen and learn about their composers, the more I've come to question the rigid distinction between nhạc đỏ and nhạc vàng. I'm increasingly skeptical of the common belief that during wartime, North and South Vietnam represented two entirely separate cultural entities. The history of Vietnamese tân nhạc is remarkably unique: we sing about everything, from grand national ideals to the most intimate corners of the human soul. We sing despite political hardships. These songs are so nuanced. They capture human experiences that political narratives often flatten or erase.

In this piece, I wish to explore some of these nuances in Vietnamese music through the works of Phạm Duy, Phạm Đình Chương, Trịnh Công Sơn, and Trần Quang Lộc — musicians whose art transcended rigid political boundaries. Many of these compositions began as poems written by communist writers like Hữu Loan or Quang Dũng before being adapted into songs by artists from the Republic of Vietnam, creating an inadvertent artistic dialogue across the divide.

‘Bà Mẹ Gio Linh’ | Phạm Duy

‘Bà Mẹ Gio Linh’ (The Mother of Gio Linh) stands as one of Phạm Duy’s greatest compositions. It captures the grief and resilience of Vietnamese mothers during the First Indochina War. Composed in 1949, the song was inspired by a harrowing real-life event in Gio Linh, Quảng Trị province, where two local men, commune head Nguyễn Đức Kỳ and teacher Nguyễn Phi, were executed by French Union forces. Their severed heads were displayed publicly to intimidate villagers supporting the Việt Minh resistance. Phạm Duy (1921–2013), then a member of the Việt Minh’s cultural cadre, was deeply moved by the stoic dignity of one bereaved mother, whose silent sorrow became the emotional core of the song.

Choked with emotion, she says not a word
Packs her bundle to retrieve the head

According to American musicologist Jason Gibbs, the song notably avoids hatred and vengeance, even though it has a clear enemy. Instead, it focuses on the mother's humane and brave act of retrieving her son’s remains without uttering a word of resentment. Phạm Duy’s lyrical restraint gave the song its emotional resonance. As one admirer and former Việt Minh member put it, “anyone who listens must cry.” But these tears weren’t ones of surrender; rather, they were tears of empathy, solidarity, and motivation. Despite its popularity, the Việt Minh criticized the original lyrics as “negative” because they lacked overt revolutionary zeal. To ensure the song aligned with the movement’s ideological goals, changes were made to insert themes of struggle and class solidarity.

Thái Thanh's recording of ‘Bà Mẹ Gio Linh.’ Video via Diễm Xưa Productions YouTube page.

Phạm Duy’s trajectory mirrors the complex relationship between art and politics in wartime Vietnam. A former Việt Minh cultural cadre, in 1951, he left the resistance in disillusionment over its censorship of creative expression. He moved to Saigon and became a central figure in South Vietnam’s musical renaissance.

Phạm Duy reflects in his memoirs that when he later abandoned Việt Minh and returned to Hanoi, he had to write a new version titled ‘Bà Mẹ Nuôi’ to avoid political persecution. The original lyrics, if sung in French-controlled territories at that time, could have led to his imprisonment. Yet, he remained deeply proud of the melody, inspired by Central Vietnamese folk music, and considered ‘Bà Mẹ Gio Linh’ one of the most glorious achievements of his life.

Phạm Duy (left) and his wife, Thái Hằng (right).

In the later years of his life, after decades in exile, Phạm Duy made the momentous decision to return to Vietnam. This homecoming in 2005 was not merely personal. It signaled a quiet healing, bridging North and South, revolution and exile, past and present. Having once been blacklisted by the Vietnamese government due to his defection and the politically sensitive nature of his work, his return was made possible through gradual cultural thawing and increasing appreciation for his artistic legacy. Upon his return, Phạm Duy resumed public life and continued to engage with younger generations, reinforcing his enduring influence on Vietnamese music and cultural identity. ‘Bà Mẹ Gio Linh’ was one of Phạm Duy’s earliest works to be officially licensed for circulation in communist Vietnam on July 21, 2005.

‘Đôi Mắt Người Sơn Tây’ | Phạm Đình Chương, Quang Dũng

‘Đôi Mắt Người Sơn Tây’ (Eyes of the Sơn Tây Woman) stands as one of the most profoundly moving romantic compositions in Vietnamese tân nhạc. It was crystallized from two renowned poems by the communist writer Quang Dũng (1921–1988): ‘Đôi Bờ’ (Two Shores) and ‘Mắt Người Sơn Tây’ (Eyes of the Sơn Tây Woman). Set to music by the great composer Phạm Đình Chương (1929–1991) in South Vietnam in 1970, the song isn't merely a nostalgic love ballad. Transcending both poetry and music, it depicts the longing for homeland and the yearning for peace.

Hà Thanh's recording of ‘Đôi Mắt Người Sơn Tây.’ Video via YouTube.

The poems ‘Đôi Bờ’ and ‘Mắt Người Sơn Tây’ were written by Quang Dũng around 1948–1949, during the First Indochina War. Both pieces were dedicated to a young woman named Nhật, nicknamed Akimi, whom he had encountered in Sơn Tây. This fleeting yet incredible romance left an indelible mark on the poet's soul. It became the wellspring for his emotionally charged verses. The song's first four lines are extracted from ‘Đôi Bờ’ while the remainder comes from ‘Mắt Người Sơn Tây,’ creating a musical piece that is both cohesive and emotionally multidimensional:

Longing, oh longing, for whom do I yearn?
The distant river veiled by layers of endless rain
Your eyes, oh your eyes from days past, did they hold the sorrow of loneliness?
When autumn first arrived, when autumn first arrived one early morning

During the Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm crackdown, however, these poems faced criticism for being petty bourgeois, overly sentimental, and inconsistent with revolutionary ideals. Quang Dũng, along with many other artists and writers, endured censorship and creative restrictions. Nevertheless, his work endured in the hearts of the public, particularly in South Vietnam, where ‘Đôi Mắt Người Sơn Tây’ received an enthusiastic reception.

A portrait of Quang Dũng.

In Saigon, the song quickly became a musical phenomenon, with Phạm Đình Chương (performing as Hoài Bắc) and vocalists Thái Thanh and Duy Trác establishing it as one of the era's most beloved compositions. ‘Đôi Mắt Người Sơn Tây’ is a symbol of love for homeland, longing, and the aspiration for peace. Despite weathering numerous historical upheavals, the song has preserved its artistic value and emotional resonance, becoming an essential piece in the treasury of Vietnamese music.

‘Áo Anh Sứt Chỉ Đường Tà’ | Phạm Duy, Hữu Loan

‘Áo Anh Sứt Chỉ Đường Tà’ (Your Shirt Is Torn at the Hem’s Seam), composed by Phạm Duy in 1971, is a poignant musical adaptation of the communist poet Hữu Loan’s 1949 poem ‘Màu Tím Hoa Sim’ (The Purple Color of Myrtle Flowers).

Hữu Loan (1916–2010) wrote the poem in 1949, during Vietnam’s anti-colonial war against France. Then a member of Việt Minh, Hữu Loan drew inspiration from the tragic death of his first wife, Lê Đỗ Thị Ninh, shortly after their marriage. The poem, written to mourn her loss, is a deeply personal elegy. Like Quang Dũng's ‘Mắt Người Sơn Tây,’ it focuses on the intimate sorrow of a soldier rather than glorifying the collective resistance.

I returned but did not find her
Mother sits beside the golden grave
The flower vase from our wedding day
Has become an incense holder

The poem’s initial circulation was informal, passed among friends and soldiers, as its personal tone clashed with Việt Minh’s preference for propaganda. Its publication was delayed until 1990, when it was included in the poet's only poetry collection ever published. The poem’s emphasis on individual emotion over political ideology made it a subtle act of resistance. It aligned with Hữu Loan’s later involvement in cultural dissent. In 1956, the poet joined Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm. The movement’s suppression cast a long shadow over Hữu Loan’s career, but his work gained renewed appreciation after cultural reforms in 1986, when his name was quietly rehabilitated.

Elvis Phương's performance of ‘Áo Anh Sứt Chỉ Đường Tà.’ Video via Phuong Nam Phim YouTube page.

Phạm Duy adapted the piece into ‘Áo Anh Sứt Chỉ Đường Tà’ in 1971, two decades after meeting Hữu Loan in a war zone. His composition blends multiple musical elements to capture both tragedy and heroism, closely following the poem's emotional depth. First performed by Thái Thanh in 1971 for the “Shotguns 25” album, followed by Elvis Phương in “Shotguns 26,” the song became a cultural phenomenon in South Vietnam. Its popularity among youth and intellectuals stemmed from its universal themes of love and loss, offering solace in a war-weary society.

A Portrait of the Poet Hữu Loan.

The performance of ‘Áo Anh Sứt Chỉ Đường Tà’ varies significantly between Vietnam and the Vietnamese diaspora, reflecting differing political sensitivities. In Vietnam, the song is often performed with its original lyrics, including terms like “bộ đội” (North Vietnamese soldiers) and “kháng chiến” (resistance war). These terms anchor the song in its historical context, referencing the anti-colonial struggle and the soldier’s life depicted in the poem.

In the diaspora, particularly among communities that left Vietnam after reunification, performances often adapt the lyrics to avoid associations with the communist regime. For example, “bộ đội” is replaced with “quân đội” (a general term for military), and “kháng chiến” is replaced with “chiến đấu” (fighting). A notable instance is Elvis Phương’s 1993 performance on Paris by Night 19; the rendition is often praised for its emotional delivery and subtle lyric adjustments to suit diasporic audiences. These changes reflect the complex sentiments of Vietnamese abroad, many of whom harbor reservations about communism.

‘Người Con Gái Việt Nam Da Vàng’ | Trịnh Công Sơn

‘Người Con Gái Việt Nam Da Vàng’ (The Yellow-Skinned Vietnamese Girl), composed by Trịnh Công Sơn (1939–2001), is a poignant anti-war song published in the late 1960s, during the height of the war agains the US. It depicts the suffering and resilience of Vietnamese women during wartime.

A young Trịnh Công Sơn.

The song appeared in Trịnh Công Sơn’s collection “Ca Khúc Da Vàng” (Golden Skin Songs), a series of anti-war compositions. Its release coincided with escalating violence, including events like the 1968 Tết Offensive, making it a resonant cry against the war’s brutality. Frequently performed at university campuses in southern Vietnam, it faced censorship from the Republic of Vietnam for its pacifist message, which authorities viewed as subversive. Despite this, its emotional depth and universal appeal, amplified by Khánh Ly’s soulful renditions, made it a cultural touchstone.

Trịnh Công Sơn's recording of ‘Người Con Gái Việt Nam Da Vàng.’ Video via JM JM YouTube channel.

The lyrics portray a young woman who loves her homeland deeply, likened to “đồng lúa chín” (ripe rice fields), yet is burdened by sorrow, with “nước mắt lưng dòng” (tears streaming down) and a heart filled with “resentment” due to the war's devastation:

She's never known a peaceful homeland
She's never seen Vietnam as it once was
She's never sung folk songs even once
She only has a heart filled with resentment and anger

Trịnh Công Sơn, Vietnam’s most celebrated songwriter, began his career with the 1958 hit ‘Ướt Mi’ (Teary Lashes), but his anti-war songs, including ‘Người Con Gái Việt Nam Da Vàng’ and ‘Gia Tài Của Mẹ’ defined his legacy. Despite censorship from both South and post-1975 Socialist Vietnam, his music, performed by artists like Khánh Ly and later Hồng Nhung, gained widespread acclaim. His melancholic songs about love and postwar reconciliation, such as ‘Nối Vòng Tay Lớn’ (Joining Hands), sung on Saigon radio on April 30, 1975 to mark reunification from his own perspective.

‘Về Đây Nghe Em’ | Trần Quang Lộc

‘Về Đây Nghe Em’ (Come Back To Me), composed by Trần Quang Lộc (1949–2020), was crafted in the early 1970s in Saigon. Trần Quang Lộc, a young musician in his early twenties, was deeply moved by A Khuê’s poem from the 1970 collection “Vàng Bay.” Living in wartime Saigon, he earned a living playing music in tea rooms and bars, where he witnessed the stark contrast between traditional Vietnamese simplicity and the westernized urban culture. This societal shift, coupled with the poem’s evocative imagery, inspired him to set the words to music one sleepless night, creating a melody that captured both nostalgia and a yearning for cultural reconnection.

Tuấn Ngọc's performance of ‘Về Đây Nghe Em.’ Video via Thuy Nhan YouTube page.

The song’s lyrics paint a nostalgic picture of rural Vietnam. It includes images of traditional attire like áo the (a long tunic), wooden clogs, and simple staples like corn and potatoes. It urges listeners to reconnect with their heritage through “ca dao” (folk poetry), “hạt lúa mới" (newly harvested rice), and the innocence of childhood songs. The refrain “Về đây nghe em” is a heartfelt plea for cultural authenticity. It reflects a desire to preserve “Vietnam-ness” in a time of upheaval. The song’s humanistic message like “Để hận thù người người lắng xuống” (let hatred subside), resonates with a universal longing for understanding.

A portrait of Trần Quang Lộc.

Come back to me, come back to me
Come back and stand crying by the sorrowful river
Carrying people's hearts back to their homeland
Carrying souls into the cool stream
Carrying honesty into deception
And gathering flowers to express gratitude
All becomes desolate when we've finally met

While it was not explicitly a protest song, the song's call for returning to simpler, more traditional values can be seen as a subtle critique of the war’s disruption and the western cultural influences flooding Saigon. Its significance during the war lies in its ability to offer solace and a sense of identity to those grappling with loss and change.

In closing

The songs featured in this article transcend political divides and carrying the soul of Vietnam across generations and continents. They speak to universal experiences of love, loss, and longing for peace. For reconciliation to be possible, I believe we must accept that truth itself is multi-faceted. Belonging to a later generation, I wasn't born into the hatred and tragedy of the past. How should I regard the legacy of the generations before me, after years of conflict and bloodshed?

Today, as young Vietnamese from both homeland and diaspora connect through shared cultural touchstones, we inhabit this space together. These compositions aren't relics of division but bridges to understanding. I believe they are our legacy to the end of history, some of the finest sounds humanity has ever created.

Meet the Saigon Man Whose Home Is an Archive of Traditional Musical Instruments

2025-04-27T12:00:00+07:00

“These instruments serve our everyday life, or even our spiritual life. For example, they mark the transitions of life. When a baby is born or a person passes away, people play these instruments to welcome or bid farewell to these moments. They also use music to pray for good weather, good business, and happiness for future generations,” Đức Dậu, a seasoned collector of Vietnamese traditional instruments, shares how these antique musical devices are more than just merely tools used for entertainment.

Dậu has dedicated more than 30 years of his life to researching and collecting musical instruments from Vietnam’s 54 ethnic groups. He garnered a massive collection of approximately 2,000 items from percussion to string instruments. He keeps them in his private home, a unique wooden house located in an alley off Phạm Huy Thông Street in Gò Vấp District.

Dậu’s residence is hard to miss as a large drum rests at the front of his property. Once one enters the home and closes the door, street noises disappear. The interior is adorned with stacks of century-old drums on one side of the wall, while on the other side there are hundreds of flutes, percussion, and other instruments on display.

Dậu is not only a collector but also a musician who uses these traditional instruments to make a living. Thus, “the arrangement of items here is not like a typical museum,” he explains. “Instead, they are arranged in such a way that I can pick up and use them on the spot.”

His bond with music began when he was just a child. Born in 1957, he lived on Hanoi’s Huế Street, right across from a theater. This provided him with “the sounds, the friction, and the artistic voices of cultural performers at the time,” he says.

Beyond the fortunate address, Dậu believes that his journey in music is predestined. His family are devout Buddhists, and initially, his father wanted him to pursue a career in medicine instead of music. However, during a funeral trip to Ba Vì District, Dậu’s father asked a monk for advice on his son’s future. The monk said: “No, your son’s fate is not meant to become a doctor, as he is meant to become an artist.”

During the 1970s, Dậu joined many local ensembles to make a living and hone his craft. In 1983, he joined the state’s Institute of Music and Dance Research in Hanoi and began collecting folk instruments. “I got the chance to learn from all the veterans, the experts in Vietnamese music culture. They were also researchers and collectors of these things too. So this collection of mine was inspired by my surroundings, my work and of course, it also came from my love for traditional music,” he explains.

In 1986, Dậu and his family relocated to Saigon, where he started his collecting journey. His time working at the research institute educated him about many traditional music festivals across the whole country, so he utilized his knowledge to visit those festivals and connect with local ethnic groups and communities.

But it wasn’t easy to actually get his hands on the instruments. “These artifacts are not just something that just money can buy, they were passed down from many generations. I usually ask the ethnic groups to help me learn about an instrument, how to play them, and their importance for their community. And in return, they either sell or gifted me the instrument out of appreciation,” Dậu shares.

Sometimes it takes up to four years of traveling back and forth from Saigon to the ethnic community area for Dậu to learn the ropes of playing an instrument and form a strong enough bond with the locals to ask them to sell it to him. “Sometimes I spent a lot of effort trying to get an instrument for my collection, but the locals ended up saying no. At those times I felt quite sad, but it is what it is, not everything is meant to be,” he says.

Dậu also attempts to purchase instruments that are no longer being made by the ethnic minorities or at risk of being dismantled for materials during difficult times as a way to prevent those artifacts from being lost in time. He wants to preserve the instruments, the stories behind them, how they were made and what roles they played in the community.

As we tour Dậu’s museum, he explains the mechanisms behind some artifacts. Materials such as wood, bamboo, leaves, or animal products are commonly used to craft traditional instruments.

The collection’s most notable instrument is a set of 300-year-old H'gơr drums from the Central Highlands region. They are played in Ê-đê ethnic minorities’ feasts such as a baby’s one-month anniversary, or a longevity ceremony. Made of wood and covered with elephant or buffalo skin, the drums seem immune to the effects of time. Dậu explains that the Ê-đê people had a special method to preserve these drums. “It is a secret recipe of their community. They use a type of leaf to mix into water, then the liquid is poured onto the drums, giving it a bitter taste so it doesn’t attract termites. Now you can see that 300 years later, it only gets old but not damaged.”

Dậu then offers to perform a song for us. “You need to hear the live sound of these instruments to somewhat feel the spirit of Vietnamese music,” he says. He introduces us to his chapi, a tube-shaped instrument that is often played during festivals in Kon Tum and Gia Lai provinces. It has 13 strings with a gourd shell attached to the end to amplify its echo.

Dậu started performing the song ‘Đôi Chân Trần’ (Barefoot), a song composed by people from the Central Highlands. The bright, up-tempo tune creates the adventurous atmosphere of embarking on a journey. Then Dậu begins to sing. The lyrics convey the perseverance and hardship of the Central Highlands people via the story of a man raising his child. Dậu’s rich, masculine voice alongside the chapi creates a full and powerful experience, despite it being a simple acoustic performance.

Dậu says that the location where a song is performed matters just as much as the instruments and performer. “These musical instruments are used in natural, mountainous areas. Therefore, I built a wooden house to somewhat preserve the sound, because bricks and concrete would not be able to convey the soul of the music. However, to have the genuine listening experience, you’ll have to go to each native place and see the locals perform,” Dậu says.

Dậu’s collection helps preserve people’s love and appreciation for traditional Vietnamese music. His large collection was documented for educational and research publications such as the photobook named Tiếng Vọng Ngàn Năm (The Thousand-Year Echo). In the 1980s, he formed a traditional music ensemble named Đoàn Nhạc gõ Phù Đổng with his family. Over the years, the Phù Đổng ensemble have shared their passion for traditional music with many schools, tourists, and festivals both in and outside of Vietnam.

“Fate has granted me the chance to preserve these artifacts, so I have to appreciate this opportunity and take responsibility for it. I want to bring this genre of music to more and more people, so that they can understand the cultural and spiritual values of traditional music,” Dậu says. “These instruments were made from natural materials granted by heaven and earth, and people used those blessings to craft the musical tools that serve their community. So the sound made by these instruments carries the Vietnamese identity, and with different communities and ethnic groups, you have the variations of melodies, rhythm, and symphonies,” he adds.

“In the past, there were people who offered me a crazy amount of money for this collection, but I refused. Because as I reflect on my collecting journey and my passion for music, these artifacts carry the soul of Vietnamese music, and no one can put a price onto them.”