War photographs, often viewed as windows into the past tragedies, are believed to offer an immediate representation of reality. But what lies beyond the frame? What purpose did these images serve, and who were they meant for?

Most of us, especially those who grew up in Vietnam, at some point, have encountered countless black-and-white photographs and video footage of the American War — intense battlefields and the sounds of explosions broadcast through historical movies and documentaries. Although the war ended decades ago, these images still carry a powerful impact and somehow continue to haunt our minds today. For some, images of war can trigger emotional responses and become overwhelming. It can be difficult to remain conscious enough to comprehend and engage on a deeper level with the context beyond the frame. In those moments, the surrounding histories seem to fade, as if only the “truth” presented in front of us is what matters.

Installation view of ‘A Radial System’ at Dogma Collection.

Dogma Collection’s latest exhibition, “A Radial System,” brings together a series of photographs taken during the American War by foreign and Vietnamese journalists in the 1960s and 1970s, highlighting how photojournalists from both sides captured scenes of the battlefields, and how the images were deployed and circulated by the media, and consumed by the public at the time. Placed in dialogues with the historical photographs are works by contemporary artists Nguyễn Trinh Thi, Nguyễn Phương Linh and An-My Lê, from the collection of Nguyen Art Foundation. The exhibition offers the audience another perspective of how such images are consumed in today’s mass media, often shaped by particular agendas, and how we position ourselves when viewing and reinterpreting these images in the present day. The exhibition was held in partnership with the “Sensing Photography: Vietnam & Vectors of Global Histories” symposium (February 21–28, 2025), organized by Trâm Lương (Fulbright University Vietnam) and Jacqueline Hoàng Nguyễn (Konstfack & KTH Royal Institute of Technology).

Installation view of ‘A Radial System’ at Dogma Collection.

The exhibition title takes art critic John Berger’s essay ‘Uses of Photography’ as a point of departure. In his essay, Berger challenges the notion of photography as a linear medium that simply captures a moment or presents a single argument. He argues that photographs should reflect how memory works — radially. In other words, an image should be perceived and considered from personal, political, economic, dramatic, everyday, and historic perspectives. In the curatorial text, curator Minh Nguyễn states: “One approach is to present them (the images) ‘radially,’ alongside juxtaposing images and by opposing viewpoints, to break through their familiarity.” Throughout the exhibitions, photographs taken by western journalists are placed next to those by Vietnamese journalists, offering the audience the contrasting approaches in terms of composition, the vantage point of where the photos were taken, and how the photographs capture and portray human experience on battlefields.

Installation view of ‘A Radial System’ at Dogma Collection.

Photos taken by foreign and western journalists predominantly focused on American soldiers in action on the battlefield, also capturing their facial expressions of fear and exhaustion. When Vietnamese soldiers and ordinary civilians appeared in the frame, their images were frequently dehumanized, shown as victims of war or defeated figures, with an emphasis on suffering and devastation. These photographs were typically taken on the American side of the battlefield and centering on US military operations, including ground-level combat scenes, bombing raids, soldiers parachuting from helicopters, aerial views of towns and battlefields shot from aircrafts.

Henri Huet (1927–1971). ‘US Paratrooper, War Zone D’. May 14, 1966.

Installation view of ‘A Radial System’ at Dogma Collection.

In contrast, photographs taken by Vietnamese first-generation photojournalists — most of whom were employed by the state-run Vietnam News Agency (VNA) — offered a completely different visual narrative. These images focused on the daily lives of soldiers and ordinary people, presenting a more humanizing and intimate portrayal of life during wartime, while also promoting the beauty and vision of a socialist revolution. They conveyed a strong sense of community, resilience, and solidarity, highlighting the strength and spirit of people supporting one another through hardship, with an unwavering belief in eventual victory. The photographs featured in this exhibition were captured close to the ground, depicting deep forest camps, makeshift battlefield hospitals, rural villages, trucks traveling along the Hồ Chí Minh Trail, and moments of enemy aircraft being shot down.

Left: Võ An Khánh (1936–2023). ‘A performing arts class held by the Propaganda Department of the Southwest Region in the midst of U Minh Forest during enemy’s attacks’ (1971).
Right: Tim Page (1944–2022). ‘Widow and KIA husband evacuated to Quang Ngai airstrip’ (April 1965).

Unlike western photojournalists, who had access to high-quality cameras, high-speed films suited for low-light conditions, and the freedom to move in and out of war zones, Vietnamese photojournalists received limited technical training in analog photography and were often separated from their families for years while both reporting and supporting military operations. Developing their images involved long, dangerous journeys under the constant threat of airstrikes, with photo processing carried out in makeshift darkrooms set up in air-raid shelters. Meanwhile, large amounts of battlefield photographs and footage captured by western photojournalists were transported daily to professional labs via commercial flights.

Installation view of ‘A Radial System’ at Dogma Collection.

The differences in technical resources and political agenda on each side explain the contrasting approaches to newspaper headlines and the images circulated by respective news outlets. As showcased in the exhibition, while images of graphic violence and destruction were widely circulated in magazines such as LIFE, with headlines like “Saigon: Explosion by a Brazen Enemy” portraying the soldiers and civilians’ struggle against terrorist attacks, photographs published in Vietnamese news bulletins — such as those by the Central Workshop for Propaganda — were accompanied by headlines like “New Spirit of Construction” or “The Heroic North Defeating the US on the Transportation Front,” emphasising resilience and the will towards victory.

Nguyễn Trinh Thi. ‘Landscape Series #1’ (2013). Collection of Nguyen Art Foundation.

Works by Nguyễn Trinh Thi, Nguyễn Phương Linh and An-My Lê were set in dialogue with the war photographs throughout the exhibition, supporting the curatorial narrative and bridging the past and present. In ‘Landscape Series’ (2013), Nguyễn Trinh Thi recontextualizes photographs from online Vietnamese newspapers, each depicting a person pointing at something from a past event, a location, or something that is missing. Nguyễn Phương Linh’s ‘Sanctified Cloud’ (2013) evokes a multi-channel newsroom setup, with soft, blue, and cloud-like ethereal forms — which in fact, are photographs of bomb explosions. By detaching the original photographs and removing context from their original narratives, the works demonstrate how visual information can be manipulated to serve specific agendas, and how mass media can transform destruction and violence into abstraction, which is then consumed by the public. Towards the end of the exhibition, An-My Lê’s large-format black-and-white photographs ‘Tiger Cage’ — from “Small Wars” series (1999–2002) — document the staged performances by war re-enactment hobbyists in the forest of the American South. Resembling the nature of war photography, her works raise the questions regarding the purpose of war reenactment, whether it “represents morbid fascination or serves as catharsis, a way to process traumatic history.” 

Nguyễn Phương Linh. ‘Sanctified Cloud’ (2013). 195 UV-digital print on handmade ceramic sheets. Collection of Nguyen Art Foundation.

An-My Lê. ‘Tiger Cage’, from Small Wars (1999 - 2002). Collection of Nguyen Art Foundation.

This April marks the 50^th anniversary of Vietnam’s Reunification Day (April 30, 1975). Across the city center, roads are being closed and stages are built in front of Dinh Độc Lập (the Independence Palace), making way for parades and preparations for this historic national celebration. Against this backdrop, and in alignment with this significant milestone, the exhibition reflects on how our country has been shaped and deeply defined by a long history of turbulence, warfare, and revolutions spanning centuries, where countless lives were sacrificed for the peaceful time we experience today.

Installation view of ‘A Radial System’ at Dogma Collection.

Yet, the exhibition is not about war photographs themselves, but about questioning the real purpose of real-time photography through “battlefield lenses.” In a world where history seems to echo through contemporary conflicts — and where those images are rapidly circulated on digital platforms today — these historical war photographs continue to hold a dialogue between the past, present and future, shaping our collective memory, national identity and ways of seeing. Perhaps, at this moment, it becomes more important to ask ourselves: how do we remember, what do we choose to remember, and how do we move forward from here?

“A Radial System” is now on view at Dogma Collection until June 12, 2025. More exhibition info can be found on the website and Facebook page. 

“You’re gonna make me cry. That’s awesome,” Liz Mitchell exclaimed. Overwhelmed with disbelief, she covered her face and then clutched her black satin dress tightly. It was a rare moment of uplifting musical goodness when the past and the present of Vietnam’s music scene collided.

Mitchell, now 65, used to be the lead singer of euro disco group Boney M, a West Germany-based vocal sensation that has stolen the hearts of generations of Vietnamese since their early days in the 1970s. Two years ago, the quartet charmed the local audience once again with a cozy concert at the Vietnam National Convention Center in Hanoi.

As soon as Mitchell started humming the first few bars of their 1978 chart-topper ‘Rivers of Babylon,’ the entire auditorium stood up and joined in. If one is familiar with how older Vietnamese enjoy music performances, they would realize that this was akin to a lunar eclipse, albeit twice as rare and no less spectacular to watch. It was a full house, with parents in their 50s, multi-generational families, and even the odd young adult here and there — everyone was up and dancing like no one was watching.

Boney M performed ‘Rivers of Babylon’ in Hanoi in 2016. Video via YouTube user Bui Dzung.

Boney M’s 2016 line-up wasn’t the original team that enchanted Vietnam back in the day: Jamaican-born Liz Mitchell and Marcia Barrett; Maizie Williams from Montserrat and Bobby Farrell from Aruba, both tiny islands from the Caribbean. Mitchell performed their hit songs alone — from ‘Daddy Cool’ to ‘Rasputin’ to ‘Painter Man’ — with three new band members from the 2000s.

It wasn’t the same. In her 60s now, Mitchell’s megawatt smile still lit up the room, inspiring everyone to immerse in the lurid high-adrenaline energy of ‘Daddy Cool.’ Nonetheless, it was still obvious that without her original bandmates, the show lacked a certain je ne sais quoi that made Boney M’s music so enticing.

West German singer-songwriter Frank Farian created the quartet in 1976, but only as a “front” for his actual songs. Most subsequent songs by Boney M only contained vocals by Mitchell and Barrett while the other two played the role of “entertainers” on stage. Contrary to common belief, the deep male voice in the group’s most iconic single ‘Rasputin’ is not Farrell’s, but a digitally augmented version of Farian’s.

During the next few years, the quartet blew up in Europe, with their reputation reaching as far as India, Southeast Asia and Australia. In 1978 Boney M's  ‘Rivers of Babylon’, ‘Rasputin,’ and their Christmas earworm ‘Mary’s Boy Child – Oh My Lord’ all became No. 1 hits in many European markets.

The band in 1978: (from left to right) Marcia Barrett, Maizie Williams, Liz Mitchell and Bobby Farrell. Photo via Running the Wolf's Rant.

Boney M’s Vietnam “invasion,” however, started four years later in 1982, the year of España '82 — the 1982 FIFA World Cup held in Spain. If the various victories of Vietnam’s U23 national team as part of the AFC tournament in January are any indication, the country loves football and all things related to the “king of sport.”

The band’s Russia-inspired single ‘Rasputin’ became a special part of Vietnam thanks to España 82. During the course of the football tournament, local broadcasters used to play ‘Rasputin’ exclusively in the waiting period before any live match, exposing millions of sports aficionados to Boney M’s music and paving the way for their infectious disco tunes to dominate local pop culture for decades.

The song is perhaps the band’s most confounding hit: it’s a mashup of tunes and lyrics that take elements from various cultures to create a catchy feverish record. It got its namesake from Grigori Rasputin, a friend and advisor of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia. Rasputin’s life remains shrouded in mystery, no thanks to the song’s sensationalistic lyrics that painted him as an adulterer, mystic healer and political mastermind. Russian influence didn't end with the lyrics: they also incorporated balalaikas — a Russian string instrument — into the track, which bears heavy influence from a Turkish folk song.

The original music video of 'Rasputin' was filmed in Moscow, a rather strange choice of setting considering the song was banned in the Soviet Union for political reasons. Video via YouTube user DJMarky.

From the 1980s all the way until the early 2000s, you couldn't go to a wedding in Vietnam without hearing ‘Daddy Cool,’ ‘Ma Baker’ or ‘Rasputin.’ The band’s Christmas song ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ also found its way into every church, coffee shop and department store in November and December.

If one were to sit down and really listen, perhaps without the commotion of Vietnamese weddings, like I did before penning this article, they might be shocked that anybody could decide to spice up their nuptials with these dark, grisly tunes: ‘Ma Baker’ is about a robbery while ‘Rasputin’ has lyrics referring to the titular Rasputin as “Russia’s greatest love machine.”

The truth is — much like the way today’s millennials in Vietnam go gaga over Korean bubble-gum pop — hardly anyone really understood or cared enough to try to decipher their lyrics. The songs' pure glittery happiness is perfect dance fodder, and that was enough.

This article was first published in 2018.

No One Magazine, a print publication about underground queer nightlife around the world, is focusing on Vietnam for its second issue with corresponding launch events in Hanoi and Saigon. 

Despite growing up on opposite sides of the world, Việt and Jeremy Raider-Hoàng established No One Magazine out of shared experiences. As they explain on the magazine's Instagram page: “One day, on the dance floor, amidst steaming heat and pulsating beats, being queer felt free for the first time. Rather than something we continued running away from, we ran towards it. There, we all shared movements, smiles, and tears while connecting with one another. Suddenly, being queer didn’t feel so wrong, so predetermined, so isolating. We created No One for those who identify as queer, and our allies; sharing stories we wish we had growing up. With each issue, we aim to highlight new perspectives and conversations about the many facets of queerness; in the context of where it most often flourishes and is treasured: the nightlife. Whether a queer kid in the suburbs or an elder (re)finding their community, we hope this magazine exposes you to the beauty that we each are, and gives you the courage to discover yourself and your communities.”

Issue 02 announcement. Video via No One Magazine's YouTube.

The issue “No One in Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi” aims to present “an all-enveloping world of Vietnamese queer nightlife, swerving between its cities’ euphoric fumes, sobering humidity, celebratory shrieks, and ongoing dialogue between past and present” via 15 stories by more than 20 contributors who are Vietnamese, queer, and part of the diaspora. The diverse selection includes examinations of past queer expression including the origins and evolutions of Lô Tô, a decolonized folk art led by trans performers; genderfluid religious rituals; and meaningful queer spaces in Hanoi since the 1970s. There are also personal narratives that reveal how it feels to encounter and contribute to the queer nightlife scene, with vantage points provided by performers, artists and attendees. The entire issue is filled with vibrant photographs and typography that capture the bold, self-assured, and exuberant energy emanating from the communities and their members. It all comes together as a testament to “shaping the future of nightlife as both refuge and revolution.”

Three Generations of Lô Tô. Photo by Jonathan Poirier. 

To celebrate the issue's release, the organizers are hosting upcoming events in Hanoi and Saigon. Taking place in the capital city on Saturday, April 12, the first will be presented within the Snug x Peach at Savage drag night and include a presentation about the magazine with a reading of the ‘Letter by the Editor’ by editor-in-chief Việt Raider-Hoàng as well as a reading of ‘About Our Place’ by the party's very own in-house photographer Gio Dionisio. A Lô Tô performance by Hanoi-based HaLaZa will follow. A DJ set by BuruN ĐăngA, a Dutch-born Vietnamese multi-disciplinary artist based in Amsterdam will then lead into Peach’s drag show and Snug’s own DJ lineup of Ouissam, LYDO, l0yb0y, Xi, and Hocking.

Tạ Mong Manh performs a traditional dance where performers balance objects on their heads to rhythmic music. Photo by Bung L0n.

The Saigon event will then go down on Saturday, April 19 as part of the Anime Showdown Kiki Ball at Úm Ba La. Following a short intro about the magazine and a reading of the letter from an editor, Kat Joplin will share their piece ‘Homecoming,’ about visiting Vietnam for the first time as a member of the diaspora raised in the US and now living in Japan but performing in a ball event in their home country. The night will continue with a drag performance by local collective GenderFunk and then a múa bóng rỗi performance by Tạ Mong Manh with more ballroom action. Plans are in development to celebrate the issue with launches at Club RAUM in Amsterdam and New York's queer bookshop Hive Mind as well. 

Issue 02 cover. 

More information will be released about the events on No One Magazine's Instagram page, People can also pre-order copies of the issue as well as the first iteration, which focused on Amsterdam, there as well. The events are free to attend but guests must RSVP here.  

[Top image: GenderFunk Drag Collection. Photo by Mat Bet]

I’ve always loved marveling at the colorful tranh kiếng hung in our altar room whenever I get a chance to visit my mother’s hometown. Since I was little, the paintings have been an indispensable part of my grandparents’ homestead. Tranh kiếng is present everywhere in people’s houses in the town, but I’ve never thought to ask who created unique art pieces that perfectly encapsulate the soul of the southern community.

When did tranh kiếng arrive in southern Vietnam?

I started by asking my grandpa about where he got the paintings, but he couldn’t remember their exact origin, just noting that they used to be really popular, especially during Tết, but they are rarely seen nowadays.

According to historical records, tranh kiếng, known as reverse glass paintings in English, started appearing in the 19^th century, brought into Vietnam by Chinese immigrants. At first, the works adorned the walls of The Imperial City in Huế during the reign of Emperor Minh Mạng. Emperor Thiệu Trị, the eldest son of Minh Mạng, commissioned artisans in China to create a set of 20 pieces featuring Huế’s most breathtaking landscapes alongside the emperor’s poetry. This gave rise to the name “Imperial Huế glass painting,” referring to the artworks enjoyed by the royal court and nobles in Huế.

When the 20^th century came, tranh kiếng showed up in Chợ Lớn for the first time, marking the beginning of the art form’s decades-long endurance in southern homes. Resettling in the Mekong Delta, some migrant families from Guangdong took glass paintings with them. They were often themed around deity worship, so the people treasured them as a piece of their spiritual heritage. Chợ Lớn-style tranh kiếng, thus, was first widely known as spiritual artworks, though over time, their subject matters expanded to include content espousing fortune, prosperity, and abundance.

A depiction of Guanyin, the Chinese interpretation of Avalokiteśvara, painted by Chinese artisans in 1920. Image via VnExpress.

In the 1920s, painters in Lái Thiêu (Bình Dương) managed to learn tranh kiếng-making techniques from Chinese artisans and began coming up with new designs catering to Vietnam’s local worshipping practice. Thanks to better localization, vibrant color palettes, and the novel incorporation of mother-of-pearl, Lái Thiêu quickly made a name for itself as the southern region’s top-tier producer and distributor.

Over the next decades, as Indochina’s first-ever railway was established in the south, linking Saigon with Mỹ Tho, tranh kiếng hopped on the train and spread across the Mekong Delta. One of the most enduring forms it’s taken in Mỹ Tho since then until now is ancestral worship decorations, which evolved from nine-frame carved and lacquered panels. The panels are often paired with a hoành phi board bearing the family name.

A set of nine-frame panels. Photo via Thanh Niên.

When they got to the Mekong Delta, tranh kiếng once again grew to adapt to the local cultures, resulting in more affordable genres of paintings featuring either landscapes or folk story characters like Thoại Khanh-Châu Tuấn, Lưu Bình-Dương Lễ, Phạm Công-Cúc Hoa, etc. These depictions usually attempted to replicate the illustration styles of artists like Hoàng Lương or Lê Trung, who brought the characters to life with their official artworks. Following this content expansion, tranh kiếng transcended their original purpose as worship art to become purely decorative objects, beautifying empty spaces in the home like dividers and chamber doors. In addition, in regions of the delta with significant Khmer communities, the subject matters of tranh kiếng were heavily influenced by Theravāda Buddhism.

Tranh kiếng as spiritual artworks. Photo via Báo Phụ Nữ.

Over decades of development, two main branches of tranh kiếng emerged — spiritual art and landscape art — catering to both the people’s needs for altar decoration and household decoration. Cultural Studies researcher Huỳnh Thanh Bình explained the rapid rise in popularity of this art form in southern Vietnam: “Southern Vietnam is a land of multiple cultures and ethnicities, so once tranh kiếng arrived here, it satisfied a need to decorate and worship during special occasions, especially ancestral worship art.”

Even though the main material for these paintings, glass, is called “kính” in Vietnamese, the people avoided the correct name but instead opted for an approximated term, “kiếng.” According to writer Lý Đợi, this is due to a long-enduring tradition of Vietnamese paying respect to important figures by avoiding using their names for common usage, or húy kỵ. In this case, Nguyễn Hữu Cảnh was a 17th-century military general who spearheaded the imperial army’s southward expansion efforts, credited with the founding of many townships in the south, including Saigon, and was widely considered a national hero. His birth name was Nguyễn Hữu Kính, so southern Vietnamese, out of respect for him, used alternative words for objects including “kính” and “cảnh.”

Tranh kiếng in the life of southern Vietnamese

Since it was first introduced to Vietnam, tranh kiếng has strongly taken root and flourished throughout southern localities as the people have accepted it as a familiar part of their daily life.

Decorative tranh kiếng works on a hủ tiếu cart run by Hoa Vietnamese vendors in the 1960s. Photo via VnExpress.

Painter and art historian Trang Thanh Hiền said of tranh kiếng’s main genres: “Just like other genres of traditional painting from Đông Hồ, Hàng Trống, Kim Hoàng or Làng Sình, southern Vietnam’s tranh kiếng often has four main themes: spiritual and worship art, ceremonial art, landscape art, and storytelling art. Of the four, the first category is the most widely developed, while the last is the rarest. It’s usually created to adorn wardrobe doors, bed frames, and Chinese-style noodle carts.”

Spiritual tranh kiếng can highlight subjects like Buddhist iconographies, ancestral worship, calligraphy, etc. It’s one of the most commonly seen art styles in temples, pagodas, or even churches in southern Vietnam. In private residences, tranh kiếng appears in altar rooms and family mausoleums. The people value these artworks as part of their spirituality and often choose designs that are calm and reverent in nature in hopes of peace and fortune. Every Tết, they are thoroughly cleaned as part of spring preparations.

Giang Lâm Ký, a multi-generational noodle cart in Tân Định Market. Photo via VNExpress.

Some of the most popular motifs on tranh kiếng on noodle carts depict Hằng Nga (The Moon Goddess) or peach-picking fairies. On carts selling sâm bổ lượng, a type of Hoa Vietnamese dessert, are scenes from Tam Quốc Diễn Nghĩa (Romance of the Three Kingdoms) — a historical fiction novel set in 14^th century China.

Creating a tranh kiếng, a reversal of expectations

For such a widely loved art form, tranh kiếng calls for very tricky techniques. Painting on paper might already be challenging for some, imagine the level of care brushing colors onto glass surfaces. The one technique that distinguishes tranh kiếng from other mediums is reverse-painting, which gives tranh kiếng its name in English. Pigments are layered onto the backside of the glass, so details that are closer to the viewers are actually on the bottom layer of the painting and are painted first. Painters, hence, need to plan ahead the order of each component of the painting.

Reverse-painting is the key technique in tranh kiếng. Photo via Báo An Giang.

In the traditional way of making tranh kiếng, artisans mix pigment powder with the seed oil of du đồng trees (Vernicia fordii) to create the paint. Only once the paint has dried can the final look of the painting be seen by turning the glass panel over. First, the painter sketches the design on tracing paper, nylon, or carton, and transfers the sketch onto the backside of the glass; though veteran artisans often sketch straight on the glass without a blueprint. The designs can be completely new or based on existing motifs. This step is called “tỉa tách” or “bắc chỉ” in Khmer.

The outline is left to dry, then the artisan will color the spaces using paintbrushes. The order of painting is also in reverse: foreground objects first, then background objects. According to Hoa traditions, seed oil-based paint was the medium of choice back in the day, but today most painters use commercially available epoxy or acrylic paints for convenience, cost-effectiveness, and endurance.

The keepers of old tranh kiếng

I’ve always been most amazed by the traditional painters of tranh kiếng because they have achieved a high level of painting skill without attending any formal art education. They got there thanks to family training, hard work, and generations of legacy experience.

Alas, their role in the creation of tranh kiếng is gradually diminishing due to the use of machines. It’s very likely that any random glass painting you buy from the market today was the product of automation from spray painting or screen printing techniques. This method renders more vivid and diverse colors at a third of the cost compared to traditional craft and is directly making artisans obsolete. Another factor is the weather, as large paintings require a long period in the sun to dry. The limited income can’t guarantee a living wage for painters, so most have left the craft.

Trần Tiên, owner of Vĩnh Huê, a famous tranh kiếng store in Chợ Lớn. Photo via Thanh Niên.

This dire reality has made me much more appreciative of artisans who have held onto their careers. For them, painting on glass is not just a way to make a living, but also a quest to protect their family legacy and the invaluable cultural wealth of the people. In Bà Vệ Craft Village in An Giang Province, one of the pioneer communities of tranh kiếng in the southwestern region, third-generation painters are still creating artworks by hand to preserve the local craft.

When it comes to Chợ Lớn, the breed ground of tranh kiếng once upon a time, the situation is less optimistic: only one or two families are still making tranh kiếng the old way. Vĩnh Huê is one of such stores. In the current era, tranh kiếng is no longer the omnipresent household decoration or past decades when every home had at least one of them. Still, they exist in the altar rooms of old homesteads thanks to the endurance of the medium. Thanks to a resurgence in youth interest in traditional Vietnamese culture, a number of exhibitions showcasing tranh kiếng have been organized, introducing old artworks by Kinh, Hoa, and Khmer artisans from as far back as the 1920s to younger audience members. More hands-on activities like tranh kiếng workshops are also established to give young Vietnamese a glimpse into the creative heritage of their ancestors.

A tranh kiếng exhibition in Saigon. Photo via Phụ Nữ.

It’s impossible to predict how long tranh kiếng will remain in our lives or how long artisans can afford to hang on to their age-old trade. There’s one thing I know for sure, I will always admire the glass paintings on our altar, cause I believe that as long as there is one person appreciating them, their traditional beauty will remain.

A book of poetry all about sao la?

Yes, but also no. When introducing celebrated Hmong American poet Mai Der Vang’s latest poetry collection, Primordial, to peers here in Vietnam, the collection’s forefronting of the beloved and mysterious animal is a captivating entry point to a book that is also a beautifully lyrical investigation of self, Hmong history and diasporic identity, and motherhood.

“For a human / to call out to a creature, part of / the human must be creature, too,” Vang ends an early poem in the collection as part of her early intertwining of the speaker and the sao la. Her poetic focus on the sao la involves referenced reportage as well as plain-spoken details to introduce the basics of a creature “as alchemical as moonrise.”

Primordial will likely be the first time most readers learn of sao la. Seemingly aware of this, several early poems contain details of the animal’s biology and various facets of the modern world’s relationship with it including when and how western scientists first encountered it, its appearance on camera traps, and the death of a pregnant individual in captivity, as well as related subjects such as indiscriminate snare hunting, the use of endangered animals in traditional medicine and the larger ecosystem of dipterocarp, red-shanked douc langur, Capparis macrantha and Ammanite striped rabbit.

While Vang cites numerous academic texts and conversations in the notes and acknowledgment sections, Primordial is not a scientific work primarily concerned with informing readers of a little-known mammal. Rather, it's a work of art in which Vang converses with herself, the sao la, and us: “here is a basket / in which to gather snowlight, here is a blanket made of prayer. / Say to the saola: here is an echo / of the human you’ve left behind.” These conversations touch on safety, homeland, the fragility of biospheres, death, and the magic of life itself.

Mai Der Vang. Photo via Poetry Foundation.

As the collection continues, new themes and subjects emerge to add texture to the centrality of the sao la. About a third of the way through, the poem ‘Hmong, an Ethnographic Study of the Other’ arrives. Borrowing language from a 1923 scholarly article, it describes the Hmong skull as “Abnormal. Remarkably disfigured as to be defective. / Mind of barbarian, they say. / Mind of Hmong.” Slowly, and indirectly, metaphorical connections are made between the Hmong people and the sao la via their relationships to nature, survival, and outside gaze. Most overtly, both are described as rare, secretive, and at risk of extinction in the poem ‘Evolution, Absence’ which begins: “I question my existence” and ends: “Saola exist.”

The book drifts toward historical elements related to the Hmong, particularly their role in America’s secret operations during the war with Vietnam. Juxtaposing military jargon and slogans (“Repeated Assymetrial Interrogation Access ... Extradition Health Eradication”) are moments of profound and clever images (“wear the night at daylight, where the night at night, / wear the night to human, wear the night to bide”) which pull together elements of Vang’s first book, the Walt Whitman award-winning Afterland, a deeply lyrical meditation, and her Pulitzer Prize finalist follow-up, Yellow Rain, which collaged and assembled reportage materials about yellow rain following the war with America.

Vang’s gifts for evocative descriptions and tactile metaphors engender even the most informative early poems with a sense of intimacy. The second half of Primordial, however, contains the most personal passages as the speaker turns her attention towards the individual self, pregnancy, motherhood and childhood memories. And yet, even amidst recollections of her family’s visit to the laundromat or performing Hmong rituals in a home beside suspicious neighbors, the sao la is never far. It is used as a stand-in for the “I” in the section titles of the poem ‘Saola Grows up in California: Daughter of Hmong Refugees.’ Elsewhere, in poems where it is not directly mentioned, the sao la seems to lurk. For example, when the speaker claims to be “ever inundated by a world so ample / in its need to be emptied / so abundant in all its absence,” we cannot help but picture the sao la and its precarious future.

Primordial uses poetic form and format to further connect its themes and unite personal, mystical, historical, and scientific worlds. A series of reoccurring node poems appear like flow charts or family trees at first glance. Meanwhile, sections of visual poetry are embedded in the long poem ‘I Understand This Light to Be My Home’ with the words “language” and “light” stacked and fading so as to relate to the surrounding ruminations on self, perceptions, speech, and the universe. Finally, ‘Origin,’ is a long prosaic poem about the speaker’s pregnancy that employs unconventional use of brackets: “Once upon a time when all I had was [no] more, [nothing] could no longer be.” The resulting ambiguity forces the reader to slow down and repeat sections to consider how the punctuations impact meaning.

Portion of ‘Node: When in the end’ featured in full in Agni.

These departures from straightforward poetry will represent a challenge for many readers, particularly those who do not regularly seek out poetry. Undoubtedly, the entire genre can be daunting, and I worry that a sense of “not being smart enough” to understand these choices may turn people away from the entire book. Yet, I would recommend they be seen as indiscernible elements essential for approaching topics that utilitarian language alone can never fully fathom. A creature as obscure as the sao la, like the concept of a culture, let alone how the two are connected, cannot be summed up in a few stanzas, and these maneuvers speak to the mysteries required for them to take shape.

Primordial’s many layers, complexities, and ambiguities, to say nothing of its moments of pure beauty and profundity, invite numerous readings. Different days and moods will result in different takeaways depending on what each reader brings to the collection. One reoccurring feeling it leaves me with, though, is labored optimism. For now, the sao la survives, the Hmong survive, the reader survives and Mai Der Vang survives, reminding us all “you are not lost, you won’t be lost.”

An exhibition offering a rare glimpse into the artistic life of Hàm Nghi, Vietnam's exiled emperor who dedicated his life to art, with brushstrokes and landscapes reflecting his deep longing towards a distant homeland that he could never return to.

Installation view of “Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama.” Photo courtesy of Luxuo.

Since March 26, 2025, Kiến Trung Palace of the Imperial City of Huế has welcomed thousands of visitors per day for the special exhibition “Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama,” honoring the legacy of Emperor Hàm Nghi through more than 20 paintings from 10 different private collections. Art Republik Vietnam, in collaboration with the Hue Monuments Conservation Centre and the French Institute in Vietnam, organized the exhibition as a symbolic homecoming for the works of an exiled emperor, now returning to the ancient royal palace. Curated by art researcher Ace Lê and Dr. Amandine Dabat, the Emperor’s 5^th descendant, the exhibition remains open to the public for just two weeks, offering a rare and fleeting glimpse into Hàm Nghi’s artistic legacy and representing a significant milestone in the work of restoring Vietnam’s cultural heritage.

Paysage aux Cyprès (Landscape with cypress trees) (Menthon-Saint-Bernard), 1906. 27 x 40,5 cm, oil on canvas. Photo courtesy of Kâ- Mondo.

Through the eyes of the Vietnamese people, Hàm Nghi is widely recognized as a patriotic ruler who played a key role in the Cần Vương movement (1885–1896), resisting French colonial rule to reclaim national sovereignty. Ascending the throne at the age of 13 under the regency of Nguyễn Văn Tường and Tôn Thất Thuyết, he expressed a deep sense of patriotism from an early age. Despite his royal lineage, he spent his childhood with his mother outside of the palace, an experience that kept him from being blinded by power and wealth. His reign, albeit short-lived, unfolded during a period of dual crisis: internal conflicts within the royal court and the external political turmoil caused by the French colonial invasion.

Portrait of Emperor Hàm Nghi, 1896.
Photo courtesy of Archives nationales d'outre-mer, Fonds Capek.

The exhibition unfolds across multiple areas within Kiến Trung Palace, beginning on the upper floor with a calligraphy room. This calligraphy collection traces the timeline leading up to Hàm Nghi’s capture and exile by the French, where he would spend the remaining 55 years of his life far from the motherland. Positioned on the upper floor above the reception area — where artifacts used by the imperial family are exhibited — this space features a collection of calligraphy works with poems written in support of the Cần Vương movement.

Installation view of “Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama.”
Photo courtesy of Luxuo, Bảo Nguyễn/Annam Production.

Installation view of “Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama.”
Photo courtesy of Luxuo, Bảo Nguyễn/Annam Production.

Little is known about the Emperor’s life after being exiled to French Algeria in 1888 at the age of 18, where he remained a political prisoner under strict surveillance. To cope with loneliness, isolation and the ever-present control of the colonial authority, he devoted himself to art, training under Marius Reynaud (1860–1935) and later absorbing influences from Impressionism and Post-Impressionism during his time in Paris. He also studied sculpture under the renowned Auguste Rodin (1840–1917), though this exhibition focuses solely on his paintings. Hàm Nghi signed his paintings with the name Tử Xuân 子春 (“the son of spring”), a childhood name given by his family members and close relatives.

Upon arrival at the main exhibition space, visitors are immediately drawn to the luminous and dreamy color palette of Hàm Nghi’s oil paintings, created between the 1910s and 1920s in this exhibition. Dominated by landscapes and nature, his works inherit the influence of Impressionism, directly aligning with the exhibition title “Trời, Non, Nước” (Sky, Mountains, Water). According to the curatorial text, Hàm Nghi was the first Vietnamese artist to receive formal academic training in western academic techniques, preceding the establishment of the Indochina School of Fine Arts in 1924. While his works do not overly depict traditional Vietnamese imagery, the subtle details within his landscapes evoke the familiarity and nostalgia of Vietnamese rural landscape, revealing the insight into the construction of his personal and artistic identity. Notably, the human presence remains almost non-existent in most of his paintings, further emphasizing a sense of solitude.

A part of the exhibition “Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama.”
Photo courtesy of Bảo Nguyễn/Annam Production.

From a technical perspective, the strength of Hàm Nghi’s landscape paintings lies in his mastery of light and atmospheric effect. His meticulous studies of the sky, sunrise and sunset, combined with carefully composed horizontal lines, create a sense of depth. The harmony between light and shadow is particularly evident in the reflections of natural elements upon the water; the reflections of natural elements capture both its transparency and the subtle contrast between luminosity and darkness. Hàm Nghi embraced the Impressionist movement’s significance of painting en plein air, and prioritized the immediate emotions and fleeting moments as they unfolded before him.

Champs de blé (Wheat field), 1913. 31 x 39 cm. Oil on canvas. Photo courtesy of Lynda Trouvé.

Paysage Algérien (Algerian Landscape), 1902. 24.1 x 35.4 cm. Oil on canvas. Photo courtesy of Kâ-Mondo.

Beyond the image of an emperor, Hàm Nghi’s works reveal a deeply personal side: one of a human being shaped by emotions released through the vastness of nature, one who was caught in the tides of political turmoil that dictated his fate. The subject matters in his paintings reflect his inner world, infused with subtle metaphors of longing and displacement: an ancient solitary tree standing alone in silence, an empty path without the human presence, reflecting his path as a ruler, the life where he was granted the title of a ruler, yet never had any power to make his own decisions. The elements in his works, woven together with the curatorial narrative, embody the key elements: sky — a symbol of far-reaching vision; mountain — standing tall and steadily, even in solitude; and water — fluid and ever-changing, reflecting all matters, including life itself. To be an emperor is to possess a great vision, overseeing the vast landscape of one’s homeland.

Meanwhile, back in his homeland, The Cần Vương movement, albeit weakened over the years, persisted until 1896, nearly another decade after Hàm Nghi’s exile. Despite its eventual failure due to lack of strategy, centralized leadership and military inferiority, the movement remains a testament to the resilience and the patriotic spirit of the people against colonial rule, even after their leaders sacrificed and faded away from power.

Installation view of ‘Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama’.
Photo courtesy of Bảo Nguyễn/Annam Production.

The significance of this exhibition, made possible by years of research and the dedication of many individuals and organizations, extends beyond the story of Hàm Nghi as an emperor in exile who never lost his connection to Vietnam, despite being displaced and stripped of political influence. His legacy lives on through his art, a reflection of perseverance, identity and the spirit of a nation.

By force, an emperor may be taken away from his homeland. However, his homeland can never be taken away from his heart and soul.

“Trời, Non, Nước | Allusive Panorama” is now on view at the Kiến Trung Palace of the Imperial City of Huế until April 6, 2025. More information on the exhibition can be found here on the website and Facebook page.

Despite being three distinct elements with their own texture, depth, and presence, lacquer, paper, and earth are all rooted in nature. Rather than searching for hidden meanings, Lý Trực Sơn’s solo exhibition at Vin Gallery invites us to engage with the works instinctively and experience the interplay of pigments, natural elements, and form, shaped by the artist’s innovative process and the passage of time.

Lý Trực Sơn’s latest solo exhibition at Vin Gallery, “Lacquer - Paper - Earth,” offers a glimpse into the artist’s decades-long commitment and exploration of materials and forms. This marks his first solo exhibition in Saigon, comprising works on dó paper created since the 1990s, lacquer pieces from 2014, and the most recent Earth series in the 2020s until the present. The exhibition title is straightforward, reflecting the core materials of his artistic practices, rather than implying any hidden meanings. More than a presentation of finished works, the exhibition stands as a testament to his constant dedication and experimentation with pigments and different materials, each layer revealing the depth of his creative process and artistic refinement.

Installation view of “Lacquer - Paper - Earth” at Vin Gallery.

Originally trained in a traditional academic setting at Vietnam College of Fine Arts (now Vietnam University of Fine Arts), Lý Trực Sơn’s artistic journey took a transformative turn during his studies in France and Germany (1989–1998). His time abroad was a long journey, a relentless pursuit of modernity and self-exploration toward the path of his own distinctive artistic language. Upon his return to Vietnam in 1998, he spent the next decade working with lacquer and dó paper, holding multiple exhibitions. Abstraction was not his initial focus; however, it emerged gradually while he was experimenting with natural pigments and mixed media, pushing the boundaries of traditional materials and forms.

Upon entering the gallery, we are immediately drawn to the Earth series: mural-like abstract paintings, with earthy tones and rough, uneven surfaces. The artist created these distinct textures by gathering natural materials like soil and stones from the hills and mountains, along with scallop shells and vegetables. He grinds them, mixes them with an adhesive, and layers the dried mixture onto the canvas. Through this process, the textures and forms emerge naturally, evoking a raw presence that reflects their deep connection with nature.

Không đề 3 (2023). Mixed media. 150cm x 150cm.

Nhịp điệu Lam 2 (2023). Mixed media. 150cm x 150cm.

Tiếng vọng 2, 2024. Mixed media. 140cm x 110cm.

The artist’s abstract lacquer series, created in 2014, marks a departure from tradition in both composition and color. Moving away from traditional motifs and the customary red and gold palette of Vietnamese lacquer art, Lý Trực Sơn instead embraces black and blue as his dominant tones, while incorporating softened eggshell inlays to create delicate white details. Although the works may contain hidden messages that require full interpretation, they evoke a profound sense of vastness — one that subtly recalls the universe and our origins, where humans, nature and the unknown co-exist within the infinite expanse.

Left: Harmonized blue series #3. Lacquer. 120 x 80cm.
Right: Harmonized blue series #2. Lacquer. 120 x 90cm.

Dó paper, a traditional Vietnamese material, has been central to Lý Trực Sơn’s practice for decades, even before his years abroad. The essence of his presented works lies in his use of natural pigments and a unique gradual dyeing technique, creating delicate, layered spaces that shift between translucency and density. His approach embraces the traditional qualities of dó paper with minimal lines and forms, allowing natural pigments to create subtle tonal variations. When viewed up close, soft flows and gradients of color emerge, weaving through the layers of paper and evoking a dreamlike, almost meditative effect.

Watercolour on Dzo Paper No 1 (framed), 1994. Dó paper. 69cm x 82cm.

Natural colour on Dzo Paper Vertical Series No 1 (Framed), 2011. Dó paper. 132cm x 102cm.

The balance between materials in this exhibition — lacquer, dó paper, and earth — reflects Lý Trực Sơn’s deep engagement with time, space, and human touch that shapes the transformation of materials through his works. Each material carries its own essence, yet they are all interconnected. His self-made pigments, infused with evolving organic elements, emphasize this connection. Through his work, he invites us into the vastness of nature and the diversity of the world we inhabit, a space where materials, forms, and human emotions subtly intertwine, engaging the viewer in a quiet yet evocative dialogue.

“The path to finding ‘the uniqueness’ is the most difficult one in the journey of creating abstract art. Whereas making something beautiful is actually quite simple, it’s pretty easy because that understanding is about structure and technique — you can learn. But for a good painter to become an artist, they must be able to do things that cannot be ‘learned.’ At the same time, what that person is able to do, no one else can be taught. Only then are you truly unique,” Lý Trực Sơn shared in an interview with Vin Gallery.

Màu ngọc, 2024. Mixed media. 140cm x 110cm.

To view Lý Trực Sơn’s works, one should not attempt to overanalyze, decode, or search for any hidden meanings. Instead, his art invites us into the meditative “voidness” within the earthy color fields, the layered translucency of dó paper, and the deep, glossy surfaces of black and blue lacquer. It is not solely about the message the artist conveys but rather about how he navigates through different materials — earth, lacquer and paper — each carrying its own weight of time, transformation, and presence. By engaging with his abstract art instinctively, we connect through feeling rather than analysis, allowing the works, like living entities, to speak for themselves.

[Images courtesy of Vin Gallery.]

“Lacquer – Paper – Earth” by Lý Trực Sơn is now on view at Vin Gallery until April 1, 2025. More exhibition info can be found on the Facebook page.

At noon, we make our way through a narrow alley off Dương Bá Trạc Street (District 8) and stumble into a lively scene of Muslim community life. More than a place of worship, this neighborhood unfolds into a diverse culinary fest, a testament to the cultural crossroads that thrive within the city.

Once a year, this otherwise-quiet alley becomes a hub of activity, welcoming believers as they gather to embrace the spirit of Ramadan.

Taking place in the ninth month of the Hijri calendar, Ramadan is among the most sacred observances in Islam, commemorating the period when the prophet Muhammad received the first revelations of the Quran. For the faithful, it is a time of deep reflection, self-discipline, and spiritual renewal.

Alley 157 on Dương Bá Trạc Street is home to nearly 3,000 Muslims, making it the largest Islamic community in Hồ Chí Minh City. Most residents are members of the Chăm ethnic minority who migrated to the city from outer provinces like An Giang, Ninh Thuận, etc. The area has a long-standing religious history dating back to the establishment of the central Jamiul Anwar Mosque in 1966. The mosque was later renovated into its present form in 2006.

During Ramadan, Muslims fast from dawn to dusk as an expression of devotion, a practice that strengthens willpower and fosters gratitude for daily sustenance. They follow a Halal diet, adhering to Islamic dietary laws prohibiting pork, alcohol, and certain restricted ingredients. Only after sundown do they come together for Iftar, breaking their fast in a shared moment of nourishment and kinship.

To cater to the dining needs of locals, a lively street market specializing in Halal cuisine takes shape around the mosque during Ramadan. Open from 3pm to 6pm, this market operates only during the holy month, offering a variety of home-cooked dishes. Stalls line the walls, showcasing everything from traditional Chăm specialties like curry, roti, and sakaya cakes to popular street foods such as fresh spring rolls and sausages. 

The food, prepared in home kitchens, is arranged in generous displays, filling the narrow alley with rich, inviting aromas.

In recent years, the market has welcomed an increasing number of non-Muslim visitors eager to experience Halal food and learn about Islamic customs. Beyond a place for breaking fast, this culinary space serves as a window into a distinct culture and a bridge connecting different communities.

Explore this unique market through the images below:

If you opened an American magazine, literary or otherwise, in the early 2000s and found any Vietnamese American byline, there’s a good chance it was Andrew Lam. The long-time journalist’s essays and short stories were amongst the first widely circulated in the US.

Since then, authors like Viet Thanh Nguyen, Ocean Vuong, Thi Bui, and Monique Truong have all found great success and contributed to the Vietnamese demographic’s prominence in the international publishing scene. During a recent lunch, Lam said that their ascension allows him a certain freedom; no longer do readers expect him to be speaking for the diaspora as a whole. Rather, now retired from his journalism day job, he can simply explore his art. This opportunity to indulge his creative impulses alongside his love for short fiction is evident throughout his latest collection, Stories from the Edge of the Sea. The book sees him shifting tones, subjects, and styles with an often sly wit and energetic desire to push the genre to its full potential.

Lam says that he never thinks about his audience when sitting down to write; he is first and foremost interested in entertaining himself. This focus on catering to his inner literature nerd collides with the common adage to write what you know. Thus, many of the stories focus on desire, generational and cultural expectations, and aging individuals within the Vietnamese diaspora reflecting on their lives, often at pivotal moments of change or realization. 

Andrew Lam at a reading with his first three books. Photo via Andrew Lam.

Romantic love in Lam’s stories is often wild, passionate, and doomed. Whether it's an instantaneous crush on a stranger who perpetually gets lost in the crowd at a Guggenheim art exhibition; a once-inseparable homosexual couple that reunites after one of the men has married a woman and had a child; or a couple that is separated by geography and circumstance — torrid emotional and physical yearning is unfulfilled or tragically impermanent. A certain sadness hangs over the book as numerous plotlines settle on an understanding that happiness is frequently brief or bittersweet. One should savor those moments, the stories suggest, because soon they will just be memories to look back on.

Stories from the Edge of the Sea is far from a depressing read, however. Lam offers welcome levity via several outright comedic pieces. Positioned as a pure, rapid-fire stand-up comedy routine with one-liners and riffs, ‘Swimming to the Mekong,’ is a companion to ‘Yacht People’ from his previous collection, Birds of Paradise Lost. At one point, for example, the comedian narrator quips: “So hey, here’s a cool idea for a new genre in porn: lazy porn! ‘Dallas does Lazy Susan.’ Why? Cuz Susan’s too lazy to do Dallas. It’ll be surreal. Lazy Susan’s so lazy she’s just gonna lie there and every cowboy spins and screws her while she eats her dim sum. Lazy Susan’s so lazy that after a giving few blow jobs, she’d be applying for unemployment benefits. Lazy Susan’s so lazy that she’d outsource all her hand jobs to India.” Encountering such crass passages juxtaposed with earnest stories of people pained by an inability to connect can be jarring at first, but ultimately underscores Lam’s artistic range and the multitude of voices the short story genre can contain. 

Lam also understands that comedy is an effective way to speak truths. Thus, ‘Swimming in the Mekong,’ and the similar ‘Love in the Time of the Beer Bug’ contain caustic social critique and observations aimed at his own communities. “Now you would think that a country that defeated the French and then the US, would find western features fugly after seeing John Wayne shoot our people. But you’d be, like, WRONG,” the narrator says to the crowd. “Vietnamese put down those Amerasian kids right, cuz they say ‘these kids are all children of whores, fathered by American GIs.’ The kids were treated like dirt back in Nam. But don’t tell anybody, ok, it’s between us: Many of us want to look exactly like them. You know, light hair, blue or hazel eyes, straight nose, double eyelids, split chins, the works.” Such topics could be approached, possibly with less success and certainly less entertainment, via a conventionally restrained format, but where is the fun or creativity in that?

Photo via Andrew Lam.

Alongside these comedic outbursts and other inversions of familiar structures, such as ‘October Lament’ which tells the story of a deceased husband via archived social media posts and text messages, are tightly written and more straightforward works. A devotee of the short story genre, eager to discuss its merits, and how it's worth the challenges of brevity and limited readership, Lam is a master of placing fully unique and realized characters in moments of heightened consequences. ‘To Keep from Drowning’ is a standout example. In it, a single mother and her three teenage children walk to the ocean to celebrate a death anniversary. One child is secretly pregnant; one is embarking on a dangerous criminal life; and the third is developing a worrisome drug habit, all of which is being kept from the mother who is attempting to hide a terminal illness. The immensity of the family’s tragic past and fraught futures are revealed in the short distance from the metro station to the coast, with their uncertain futures drifting somewhere in the surf for the reader to discover. This story, as well as ‘The Isle is Full of Noises’ and ‘What We Talk about When We Can’t Talk about Love’ allow Lam to flex his full command of literary fiction. Not only are they powerful, engaging stories, but when he shows he can so expertly follow the so-called rules of fiction, readers will approach his less-conventional works with full trust and excitement. 

After making his readers laugh, empathize, and reflect on the logic governing the human condition, Lam punches them in the heart. Stories from the Edge of the Sea ends with the devastating ‘Tree of Life,’ a eulogy for his mother. She was a 1954 migrant to the south who experienced severe sorrow and hardship during the wars, but he remembers her as a woman eager “To feed, to nurture, to protect. To react to harsh reality with kindness and generosity—this is the very essence of my mother.” Recounting small and large acts of personal and public kindness in Vietnam and America, he makes clear how she was the pillar of their family. Such a role would not be obvious to outsiders because Lam’s father was a famous general. But Lam writes: “I used to think of my father in a heroic light as a child. He who flew in helicopters and who called bombs to fall from the sky, and he who jumped down to earth in a parachute—he was like a thunder god, like James Bond, but my mother? Well, she was a true lioness. And when it comes to her family she was fearless.” Heroics, he suggests, has less to do with battlefield exploits and much more to an intrinsic generosity that means, even when Alzheimer's left her unable to remember where she lived or her own name, she couldn’t forget where the hungry, stray cats in the neighborhood lived so she could feed them. Without any of the sly asides or intricate plotting of the previous stories, the message of love and adoration he has for his mother blooms into a rumination on family, motherhood, and memory; it is a testament to kindness Lam passes on from his mother to the readers. 

“We are like fruits forcefully ripened, a generation of premature adults, a generation of misery.”
— Du Tử Lê.

Du Tử Lê started writing at the age of 21. His poems, despite his youth, read like words from a mature soul entrapped in an interstice between life and death during the American War. Moreover, as a military officer, for most of Lê’s youth, he was closer to death than life.

“In the military, I worked as an officer. In my personal life, I was against the war… I was against the war in the name of our human rights to live.” Tử Lê confesses that he lived through years of internal turmoil as a military officer and a civilian who opposed the war. His identity as a young soldier with an old soul writing from an antiwar perspective is what made Du Tử Lê one of the most popular poets in southern Vietnam in 1954–1975.

Du Tử Lê’s poems are characterized by two consistent themes: love and death. ‘Khát vọng cho con’ (My hope for you) epitomizes Du Tử Lê’s loving spirit most vividly. It depicts Tử Lê’s projection of the present and the future from the perspective of a soul that grows quickly and perhaps, perishes just as fast.

'Khát Vọng Cho Con' by Du Tử Lê. Click on the image for the English translation.

Tử Lê’s views on life and death are as chaotic as the tumultuous, unprecedented time during which he wrote. In that wartorn era, death became familiar. Tử Lê presents this matter-of-fact reality plainly:

The war made the fragility of life and the mounting deaths commonplace and unsurprising, and obituaries became as mundane as daily news segments. He then moves from how death affects the country to how it impacts him personally: 

To Tử Lê, to live side by side with death was not a matter of choice or prediction, but a reality. With that attitude towards death, Tử Lê bluntly reconstructs the vivid realities of war. He portrays himself as a financially strapped person who could “barely make ends meet” in his domestic life and on the battlefield.  

Tử Lê portrays the amount as a dream, but at the same time, it is such a small amount that one can spend it all the market on a single item. His use of contrast and exaggeration here underscores the harsh reality of the time when even dreams had to be austere.

As an officer, Tử Lê also recalled the situation on the battlefield. In the poem, Tử Lê floods readers with numerous images: an army helmet pierced with bullet holes, a rifle, barbed wire, underground mines, etc. All of these images, in addition to their representation of the war, are also a channel for Tử Lê to express his gratitude towards life.

He repeats the phrase “I appreciate it/them” to emphasize that these objects were not only weapons but also life-saving means. That said, it does not mean Tử Lê was a soldier who fully devoted his heart and mind to the war. His attitude is firmly against the violence, as in the way he recalls abhorrent images such as “barbed wire stained with human blood” or “every morsel of fresh human flesh” and calls himself “an irresponsible killer.” Despite the cruel realities, Tử Lê remains in love with life.

Poring over the lines in the poem, one may see Tử Lê as a wild individual trying to simply make it through his military and personal lives. In addition to this reckless, firm attitude, Tử Lê expresses his strong emotions via a sense of somber pessimism:

The conversation with his imagined child hints towards Du Tử Lê’s obsession with death, as he agonizes over the loss of a father that is as unprecedented as the birth of the child. Such feelings are elevated as the night changes and Tử Lê confesses that he still firmly holds this irritation inside.   

The emotions are now getting clearer, as Tử Lê questions himself and the harsh truth that he had nothing to leave behind. Notably, Tử Lê writes, “I have lived half a life.” This further reiterates Tử Lê’s perceptions of death; death has always been so close to him that he felt he had lived “half a life” despite being at the peak of his youth. 

The outburst of rage is gradually eased as the poem transitions into hope — a hope for peace during a time of war. It is interesting to see how he uses the word “hope,” as the poem progresses. It is present first in reference to “a treasure” for the grandfather’s generation and then as “a fantasy” for Tử Lê’s, and lastly, as a “wish” for the future. This can be explained when putting the poem back in its historical context, recognizing it was written in the middle of the war.

Tử Lê’s poem first notes that “hope for peace” was “a rare treasure” for previous generations. Tử Lê visualizes how his own father had always desired peace even after passing away. In Vietnamese common beliefs, ancestors or family members who pass on will "look after" living members. The way Tử Lê expresses regrets for the past generation implicitly hints at his disappointment. At the end, “hope for peace” transforms into “a wish.” Tử Lê did not know if or when the war would come to an end. Therefore, in the context of when it was written, there could be two different interpretations of the ending. The positive possibility is that the son’s generation could end the so-called “eternal misery,” and the pessimistic one is that Tử Lê, like his father, might again be disappointed as the wish would not come true.

Towards the conclusion of the poem, the disappointment lingering on top of his mind slowly leads him back to the abyss of despair. There is, for a moment, a glimpse of hope in Du Tử Lê’s poem and himself. However, that hope, which is as fragile and thin as the night mist, soon extinguishes at the end: 

To read Tử Lê’s poem is to read history, a non-fiction narrative retold poetically. The straightforward but multi-layered story filled with diverse emotions can have different interpretations based on who reads it and in what context. The signature style of Tử Lê in this writing is the way he visualizes his feelings and their evolutions. In every part of the poem, there is a notable detail that is worth discussing. One could very well read into the poem the perplexing history of the American War into an analysis. But Du Tử Lê has provided enough of his own raw story to consume this examination.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Amidst shifting social currents, industrialized landscapes, and a fast-paced world, how does a community preserve its heritage, rewrite histories, and confront colonial legacies? In this long-term collaboration with the Jrai community, ‘Angin Cloud’ by Art Labor explores these questions through a multi-floor installation at National Gallery Singapore that poetically intertwines Gia Rai (Jrai) beliefs, traditions, and environmental change.

Spanning from street level to the basement of the Padang Atrium, and suspended from the ceiling of the passageway connecting the former Supreme Court and City Hall buildings, Art Labor’s latest installation, ‘Angin Cloud’ (2025), immediately captures visitors’ attention upon their arrival at the National Gallery Singapore. Developed as part of the OUTBOUND series — unique and site-responsive artwork commissions by leading artists from around the world that reimagine key entrances of the museum — the installation imagines the rural industrialization of a hillside in Vietnam's Central Highlands. It debuted as part of Light to Night Singapore in January 2025, an annual festival organised by the museum as part of Singapore Art Week.

Installation view of ‘Angin Cloud’ at National Gallery Singapore.

Founded in 2012 by Phan Thảo Nguyên, Trương Công Tùng, and Arlette Quỳnh-Anh Trần, Art Labor collaborated with vn-a (visual network art and architecture), and Jrai artists Puih Glơh, Romah Aleo, Rahlan Loh, Rchâm Jeh, Siu Kin, Puih Hăn, Siu Lơn and Siu Huel to realize ‘Angin Cloud.’ Featuring Jrai wood sculptures, hammocks for reclining, and suspended pillars from the ceiling, this newly commissioned multi-floor wood sculptural installation marks the third phase of their ongoing decade-long collaboration with the Jrai community in the Central Highlands, following Jrai Dew and JUA.

Installation view of ‘Angin Cloud’ at National Gallery Singapore.

With a long history of environmental extraction driven by colonization, the landscape of Central Highlands has undergone successive waves of industrialization and economic development. Since the 1980s, the rapid expansion of industrial farming of commodity crops, such as peppercorn plantations, has led to the displacement of the Jrai and the reshaping of their land. In previous projects such as Jrai Dew and JUA, Art Labor has been working closely with the Jrai artists and community to conduct research, organize exhibitions, and develop artistic and cultural activities. Their works mostly incorporate elements related to coffee and rice, drawing from the region’s agricultural products to reflect on the changing landscape and the lived experiences of the Jrai people.

At the heart of ‘Angin Cloud’ lies the Jrai concept of “angin,” which refers to the dynamic potential for change found in the natural elements of water and air. The suspended pillars resemble the structures found in peppercorn plantations, while their dissolution into space suggests the evaporation of all matter with water into the air. Here, ‘Angin’ itself is not just a mere transformation, but a powerful force that confronts the viewers with the disappearing landscape of ancient jungles of Central Highlands.

Installation view of ‘Angin Cloud’ at National Gallery Singapore.

At the entrance on the street level, we encounter Jrai wood sculptures of human and animal figures, each with distinct expressions. According to Art Labor and curator Kathleen Ditzig, these sculptures are mostly used for funerals and house decorations, and also believed to provide spiritual protection, which would be abandoned together with the grave into nature after a ceremony Lễ bỏ mả that ended the mourning period. However, in ‘Angin Cloud,’ these sculptures take on a new purpose of self-expression and shift towards a modernist function as art objects.

Jrai wood sculptures featured in ‘Angin Cloud’ at National Gallery Singapore.

Meanwhile, visitors can recline in the hammocks placed in the basement of the Padang Atrium and gaze up at the suspended pillars above them. A common household object in Vietnam, hammocks can be found both indoors and outdoors, often serving as a place of rest. From this point of view, the installation appears to ascend the hillside and slowly dissolves into the air — a reflection of the evaporation of the forest and a gradual loss of cultural heritage. At the same time, this perspective can also be inverted: the installation can be seen as a cloud descending on the Padang Atrium, releasing Brutalist cement pillars like raindrops.

Installation view of ‘Angin Cloud’: the hammocks in the basement of the Padang Atrium.

The interplay between the farming structures and the architectural elements of the National Gallery Singapore is one of the key highlights of this installation. The building was constructed primarily with concrete and embodies the Neo-classical style from the British colonial period, while the Brutalist aesthetics of the suspended pillars, resembling farming structures of peppercorn plantations before the vines are cultivated, appear to evaporate into space. As the afternoon light filters through the glass entrance, their interaction creates a dreamlike visual effect, making the pillars seem like they are floating in space. Beyond its aesthetics, perhaps this serves as a quiet confrontation against authority, control, and colonial history embedded in the building’s architecture. The installation resonates with resistance and the enduring spirit of the Jrai community.

Details of suspended pillars in ‘Angin Cloud’ at National Gallery Singapore.

“Art Labor’s long-term collaboration with the Jrai draws into focus the complexities of how we write global art histories, gesturing at the national and regional frameworks that often leave out or instrumentalize particular communities. Art Labor's practice is both rigorous and rich in its consideration of how art in Southeast Asia can produce ethnographies. This is also a critical interest for National Gallery Singapore in terms of its role in making visible Southeast Asian art history internationally,” curator Kathleen Ditzig told Saigoneer.

Installation view of ‘Angin Cloud’ at National Gallery Singapore.

Through the lens of Jrai beliefs and cosmological concepts, Art Labor, together with the Jrai artists, have brought the visual and spatial experience of ‘Angin Cloud’ into the museum. By installing the works in a national monument with a colonial architectural legacy, they challenge the conventional conceptions of modern and contemporary art, while encouraging a deeper reflection on the frameworks that shape how we perceive art today. Their collaborative approach with the Jrai community also expands the possibilities of museology, offering alternative ways of thinking about complex histories and engaging with art in our world today.

[Photos courtesy of National Gallery Singapore.]

‘Angin Cloud’ is on view at the Padang Atrium of National Gallery Singapore until 30 November 2025. If you find yourself in Singapore, take the opportunity to explore the museum’s extensive Southeast Asian art collection, and don’t forget to pause at ‘Angin Cloud’ for an immersive and thought-provoking experience!

“I don’t make happy songs,” says Phúc, the lead singer and guitarist of Saigonese rock group COCC. He and I are sitting in the middle of the band’s “cave” — a homemade recording studio they began putting together ten years ago. “I dreamed about it for a long time,” Phúc says of the studio. “In 2015, when I finished this house, the vision came true. We invest in it all the time, buy a little bit here, buy a little bit there. We’re still adding and improving the system and the equipment.”

It’s quiet and cool in the cave, which is actually the basement of Phúc’s house. Dark blue curtains drape the walls. Acoustic panels are affixed to the ceiling. Instruments and equipment abound, but the general effect is one of order and tidiness. The other two band members — Quốc, the bassist, and Cường, the drummer — are here as well, tinkering with the drum kit. Above us, on the building’s ground floor, is the darkened office of Phúc’s private architecture business; his staff has gone home for the weekend. Beyond that is Phúc’s home. Everything he needs is here, in one place. And yet contained within this single unit are two disparate, clashing worlds — or perhaps two disparate, clashing Phúcs is the better way to put it. More on that presently.

COCC's home studio set-up. Photo by Michael Howard.

I first became aware of COCC a couple of years ago. I was rather late to the party: COCC have been a fixture of Saigon’s indie — or “underground,” if you like — music scene since releasing their debut record, “6 Giờ,” in 2011. It’s easy to see why. The band is indie in the original sense of the term, meaning their ideas, compositions, and production are all their own. The music is hard and raw, with an aggressive edge not commonly seen in Vietnamese music; yet it is distinctly Vietnamese. By design, it defies neat classification.

“OK, I’m Vietnamese, and I cannot copy other music,” he says. “So I combine influences. And I think that is the path for anyone to make their creative work. I don’t want to limit the language and the tones of Vietnamese [when I sing]. More and more, I find a way to combine everything together.”

“When I was young I listened to the music my father listened to,” Phúc recalls. “When I grew up I explored more. But at that time in Vietnam, in the 1980s and 1990s, people listened to Bon Jovi and Guns N’ Roses. We missed a lot of things. We missed post-punk, like Depeche Mode and the Cure. We missed bands like Tool, Nine Inch Nails, Rage Against the Machine. I had no idea. We had no internet. But I kept exploring. I listened to classical, blues, jazz.”

All of which had a hand in guiding COCC’s aesthetic vision. So too did traditional genres of Vietnamese music; Phúc mentions cải lương and dân ca specifically. 

Loài người bị điên | Insane Humans. Video via COCC's YouTube page.

“When I write music, I think, ‘OK, I’m Vietnamese, and I cannot copy other music,’” he says. “So I combine influences. And I think that is the path for anyone to make their creative work. I don’t want to limit the language and the tones of Vietnamese [when I sing]. More and more, I find a way to combine everything together.”

Phúc wears his hair cropped tight to his head, in a style that recalls a military crew cut, and he articulates his thoughts in a mild, soft-spoken tone, albeit with a few F-bombs tossed in. To look at him and hear him speak, one could be excused for thinking Phúc incapable of the “dark, angry” (his words) attitude that defines COCC’s image. He sings, and often screams, his lyrics into the microphone with a sort of desperate abandon, as though literally needing to get something off his chest. There’s a pugnacity in his on-stage manner that suggests deep inner reserves of disaffection, resentment, rebellion.

COCC - Live show at Le Cafe des Stagiaires, Jan 2025. Photo by KiCu KiCu.

Which brings me back to the point about the disparate worlds, the clashing Phúcs. How to reconcile Phúc the clean-cut, bespectacled architect with the feral and ferocious man behind COCC’s music? After all, they inhabit the same mind. Or do they? Phúc is happy to acknowledge the discrepancy. For him, it’s a simple matter of self-awareness, of recognizing — and, indeed, embracing — his own duality. We all have it. It’s the one Robert Louis Stevenson wrote about. “In my career as an architect,” he tells me, “I have to make other people happy and satisfied. In that world I have to kiss the client’s ass and say, ‘Please pay me.’ But the dark side of me fucking hates it. I need something to release that feeling. In my music I have freedom.”

And he returns shortly to a recurring theme: anger. “Let’s be honest when we do things,” he declares. “Today I’m angry about this, so I write about it; I don’t care if people like it or not. It satisfies me, and it satisfies the band. The most important thing is the freedom and the spirit. When you lose them, there’s no more art. Maybe our songs are not happy songs, but they’re honest. Many artists are afraid to be honest. When I listen to what is called Vietnamese rock, most of them make me think, ‘What is this about?’ There’s no spirit, no emotion. That does not give me a release.”

COCC - Live show at Le Cafe des Stagiaires , Jan 2025. Photo by KiCu KiCu.

It doesn’t occur to me to ask whether it’s fair to say that, in his case, anger functions as a sort of muse (I have this thought later, after we say goodbye), but I do inquire as to its origin. Where does the anger come from? Is it provoked by his observations, or has it always just been a part of him? Phúc considers this, and is slow to respond, eventually pointing to some of the lyrical content from “6 Giờ.” “On our first album, I sang about daily life, everyday things: traffic jams, conflicts with my family, seeing children on the street without parents. But I don’t have the solution. I just express my feeling about it.”

2024 live show at Soma. Photo by KiCu KiCu.

Intent on drawing him out a bit further, I remind him of a moment from a recent COCC show at Le Café des Stagiaires in District 2. At one point, about halfway through their set, Phúc addressed the audience in English. He regretted, he said, that the foreigners in the crowd were unable to understand what he was singing about. So he summed up the meaning of the next song, titled ‘Chất Ăn Mòn’ (“Corrosion”): “Life is full of traps and full of holes. There are many people who want to manipulate you. They want to pull you down into their dirt. They give you poison but they promote it as food. And it slowly destroys you. They want to make you an empty person. And one day there’s no more fight, no more motivation.”

From that metaphor we get a broader and deeper sense of where Phúc and COCC are coming from. Inherent in the music is an ethos of defiance, a fierce opposition to falling in line with a social order that has no use for individuality — that is in fact hostile to it and seeks to stamp it out. It’s a universal problem, and, for Phúc, resisting the pressure to capitulate is what the creative process is all about.

In my career as an architect, I have to make other people happy and satisfied. In that world I have to kiss the client’s ass and say, ‘Please pay me.’ But the dark side of me fucking hates it. I need something to release that feeling. In my music I have freedom.

“When someone does something different, when someone goes beyond the crowd and the lies, there’s some invisible force that manipulates the crowd to attack the person who wants to be different,” he says. “If you raise your voice, if you do something different — trói [you’re tied, bound, lassoed]. I want to tell people, ‘You have to do something your own way. Don’t belong to the fucking crowd. Don’t let them pull you down into their shit.’”

Since their debut in 2011, there have been ebbs and flows in COCC’s output. Periods of quiet led some fans to think that maybe they’d packed it in. Not at all. On the contrary, the band — who regard themselves as a family, and their music as a hobby — tell me they have been practicing together at least once a week for almost twenty years. That streak isn’t likely to be broken anytime soon.

The band hanging out together off the stage on New Year's Eve, 2024 Photo via COCC's Instagram page.

COCC are, in fact, busier than ever. They have concrete plans for the year ahead: releasing a new album, to be precise, in a physical format. It’s to be a concept album about a Vietnamese allegory involving a drought and a heroic toad that leads an army of animals to fight the gods. Here I suppose I ought to shed some light on the band’s name (pronounced c-o-c-c). It has, according to Phúc, a double source of inspiration. One is this fairy tale about the toad; the other is the expression con ông cháu cha — a reference to being born into privilege and power.

But it’s the allegoric toad that has inspired COCC’s current project, which is ambitious in scope.

“The album we are doing now is a concept album about the toad,” Phúc says. “We’re thinking about doing something like a rock opera. Like Tommy by the Who. So there’s a concept and there’s a story line, and we’re thinking about using more instruments, traditional instruments. The idea has been in my head for a long time, and now is the time to do it. We’re looking forward to completing the physical format. We have to do it.”

Recent show flyer featuring the all-important toad. Artwork by KiCu KiCu

Vinyl? CD? He’s not sure yet, but he’s hoping vinyl. As for upcoming gigs, Phúc tells me that they’ve had to turn some invitations down as they prioritize their work on the album.

“We like to bring a new thing to the audience,” he explains. “So the right procedure is to release something new in a physical format, and then we’ll do a tour from the south to the north. We haven’t thought about marketing yet. We have just told our fans, ‘We will do something in 2025.’”

I’m tempted to ask whether, in COCC’s interpretation of the tale, the toad lives happily ever after. But I can take a guess.

"Oh it’s easy to go to the rubber and hard to return, / Men leave their corpses, women depart as ghosts."

Visitors to a colonial plantation might have heard this sorrowful song drifting above the soft, unceasing drops of latex dribbling from the ghastly, slashed flesh of trees. As 19^th-century plantation employee and writer Trần Tử Bình explains, Vietnamese were forced to "become fertilizer for the capitalists’ rubber trees."

As much as any other singular substance, rubber helps one explore the brutal exploitation of colonial rule, as well as a variety of political and economic developments in Vietnam during the 20^th and 21^st centuries. Rubber plantations provide evidence of some of the worst abuses of natives at the hands of the French, while later serving numerous purposes for a range of private and public actors. Investigating their complex history and ecological footprint helps articulate the complex interplay between commodities, exploitation and development, as well as man and nature.

White Blood of the Forest

Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

From tires to sandals to medical instruments, rubber is a ubiquitous part of the modern experience, yet few people know much about its origins or the complex, exceedingly violent history that accompanied its ascension to one of the world’s most important commodities.

Various trees and plants evolved natural latex as a defense against insects. When the outer layer of bark is ruptured, the sticky, milky substance flows out to deter hungry invertebrates. The first recorded use of the material by humans dates back to the 1600 BCE Mesoamerican Olmecs, or “latex people” who used it to make a ball for a game they played. They also applied the latex to capes to create crude rain jackets.

An early Mesoamerican game played with a rubber ball before the arrival of the Europeans. Illustration via National Geographic.

Intrigued by latex, European explorers quickly imported it from the Americas, but the long ocean voyage revealed a critical flaw in the raw good: when it becomes too cold it cracks; when too warm, it melts. In 1761, amateur American inventor Charles Goodyear accidentally discovered vulcanization by adding pressure, heat and sulfur to natural rubber, which made the compound’s chemical bonds simultaneously stronger and more elastic. This, according to National Geographic Society explorer Wade Davis, transformed rubber “from a curiosity to a fundamental component of the industrial age.”

Bicycle and wagon tires, sock garters, shoe soles, toys and cable insulators: a variety of sectors saw the value of rubber. In response, Europe rushed to produce it in their colonies as the ideal tree; Hevea brasiliensis, colloquially known as the “rubber tree,” only grows in tropical climates. A rubber boom in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries resulted in enormous colonial plantations and collection efforts in South and Central America, Sri Lanka, Malaysia and Africa.

Manaus theatre. Photo via Trover.

These rubber efforts brought about enormous wealth. In the Amazonian city of Manaus, for example, plantation owners were rumored to be so rich that they gave their horses champagne to drink and paid upwards of US$8,000 a night for imported prostitutes while filling the city with extravagant and absurdly impractical buildings, such as an ornate opera house. Horrific crimes against humanity accompanied the wealth. The slavery, murder and battles accompanying the collection and trade of rubber continued into recent times, as exemplified by its role in supporting Liberia’s murderous warlord Charles Taylor. The stories of great bloodshed and barbarism certainly warrant further discussions outside the scope of this article’s focus on rubber in Vietnam, while providing illuminating parallels.

Indigenous people forced to work on a Peruvian plantation. Photo via Sapiens.

Rubber Comes to Vietnam

To explore the role of rubber in Vietnam, we have to first look to Henry Ford, the namesake founder of Ford Motors. He attempted to satisfy America’s automobile-fueled rubber needs by creating his own latex-centric city in the Brazilian rainforest. Complete with housing, churches and community buildings, Fordlandia was a massive development. It was also a massive failure. When planted in neat rows, rubber trees in the area were susceptible to a devastating plague known as South American leaf blight. It quickly ravaged entire crops, dooming the project.

Ford’s folly didn’t immediately stop the western world from sourcing rubber from South America, however. Natives were forced to harvest latex from trees growing naturally in the forest. Such a setup not only left workers even more susceptible to malaria and the many other pathogens lurking in the wild, but also came at a great financial cost that ultimately left them unable to compete with Southeast Asian plantations where the blight was not found, and thus systematic planting could be implemented. Thus, by the turn of the 21^st century, Asia was supplying more than 90% of the world’s rubber, with Vietnam serving as an important player.

Early on, France considered their Indochina colony a means to make money. They believed that extracting goods such as coffee, tea, rice and sugar, in addition to controlling local markets for items such as alcohol, could pay for their costly presence in the region. In some cases, such as rubber, independent foreign companies and individuals, rather than the government directly, controlled commodities, with the profits spilling over in the form of taxes and tariffs in return for financing and favorable land deals. In his expansive book, Rubber and the Making of Vietnam, historian Michitake Aso goes into great detail about that process and its particulars, of which this article provides a shallow overview.

In 1897, a French pharmacist on a mission to Java sent Hevea seeds to the Saigon Botanical Garden, which later became the Saigon Zoo. There, a number of colonial scientists experimented with it alongside other plants while the first plantations were being introduced. In line with the thinking of the time, colonial officials had little interest in researching or developing native plants such as fruit and rice that locals were proficient in harvesting, and instead looked to use land for foreign botanicals. An ambitious, disjointed and often inefficient scientific approach was taken to exploring the best ways to exploit rubber for profit in and around Saigon.

The climate in the highlands of southern Vietnam offered ideal conditions for rubber trees. Colonial officials knew it was in their best interest to present the region as uninhabited, and thus free for the taking. In truth, numerous quasi-nomadic ethnic minorities, such as the Stieng, lived on the land. The colonial government nevertheless made vast swaths of forest available to European companies to start plantations while also establishing necessary transportation infrastructure and providing financial support. The development allowed the colonial government to exert political and social influence in the region, which partly explains their preference for large foreign plantations as opposed to smaller-scale operations run by Vietnamese. In the first decades of the 20^th century, plantations were established in the south and Central Highlands, and by the start of World War II, the industry produced more than 60,000 metric tons of rubber annually.

Conditions on Plantations

“Every day one was worn down a bit more, cheeks sunken, teeth gone crooked, eyes hollow with dark circles around them, clothes hanging from collarbones. Everyone appeared almost dead, and in fact in the end about all did die.” — This was the reality for the Vietnamese who worked on the plantations, as observed by Trần Tử Bình.

The working conditions of colonial rubber plantations. Photos via Alpha History.

Data from 11 of the 20 biggest plantations exceeding 700 workers reveals death rates between 12% and 47% in 1926 and 1927. This cruel reality seemed to matter little to the colonial overseers, who viewed the workers as expendable.

When establishing new plantation areas, workers were forced to labor from sunrise to sunset, chopping down gargantuan trees and clearing thorn-strewn brush beset by menacing sun and swarms of biting insects, tigers, elephants and poisonous snakes. Binh claims it was rare for a week to pass without someone being crushed by a tree, while broken limbs were commonplace.

Work was no easier once the rubber trees became seven years old and their latex could be harvested. An average tapper was expected to cut between 300 and 600 trees a day. Making matters worse, malaria and other illnesses ran rampant, with insufficient medical attention available. At Micheline’s Phú Riềng plantation, 90% of workers suffered from malaria. Rather than the wholly inadequate health services offered to people uprooted from their homelands, companies attributed the abysmal health to the “primitive lifestyle of Annam people when it comes to hygiene and their attitude to disease.”

Inside the home of a plantation operator. Photo via Belle Indochine.

Workers' shacks. Photo via Belle Indochine.

In exchange for such physically devastating labor, workers faced violence and abuse from their overseers. Beatings and rapes accompanied lesser forms of torture, including meager wages and insufficient food. The cramped barracks consisting of little more than wood floors and sheet metal roofs made even leisure time insufferable.

To justify such mistreatment, owners depicted the Vietnamese in exceedingly degrading ways. At best they were spoken to like subservient children unable to care for themselves, and at worst, categorized as depraved sub-humans prone to a multitude of moral ills including gambling and dishonesty. According to famous rubber baroness Madame de la Souchère, “the natives of the region have the defect of being unstable.” The Micheline Plantation described them as “often depraved (opium addicts, public girls, lazy) having only an idea: desert to go to Cholon.”

This acknowledgment of a worker’s desire for escape once they’d experienced plantation conditions resulted in devious recruiting methods. As the plantations grew, companies increasingly looked to source labor from the Red River Delta, thus bringing workers south to the highlands. Separated from their families and communities, they were far less likely to flee. By 1928, more than half of all workers employed on the plantations were recruited from Tonkin.

Migrants in Tonkin bound for southern plantations. Photo via Bao Moi.

Rebellion Takes Root

Considering the living and working conditions, it should be of no surprise that colonial plantations became places of radicalization and rebellion. Communist activists saw great potential among the workforce and actively infiltrated ranks to gain supporters, form unions and instigate strikes arguing for better wages and treatment. A letter intercepted at the Phủ Lý post office exemplifies the type of rhetorical positioning the political agents used to gain support:

And while ultimately quelled, on several occasions workers overwhelmed their overseers and occupied the fields and mansions, including famously at Michelin’s Phú Riềng plantation, as detailed in Binh’s memoir. The earlier murder of Alfred François Bazin, a Hanoi-based labor recruiter for the company, revealed both the resentment plantations had fomented and the lengths at which Vietnamese were willing to go to put an end to them.

These activities represented the first instances of native communist parties in Indochina taking an active role in mass labor struggles. Therefore, rubber plantations occupied a formidable role in the political structures, aims and experiences of indigenous resistance that would manifest itself in the nation’s subsequent wars with France and the United States.

Rubber During Wartime

Japan’s arrival in Vietnam in 1940 stymied rubber production. From over 60,000 tons produced annually to virtually none, the industry fell into disarray. Meticulously maintained fields returned to jungle, equipment was lost or destroyed, and the workforce scattered, taking with them with their valuable knowledge and experience.

Workers cleaning up a plantation after Japan's departure in 1948. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

The foreign companies and French colonial administration weren't willing to abandon their lucrative latex dreams, however; upon the defeat of the Japanese, they set about re-establishing rubber production and bringing back or re-training as many workers as they could. Thanks to improved technology, partly developed to fuel the massive military machines involved in World War II, they were quickly able to surpass previous output, with plantations in Cambodia and Vietnam hitting a combined 75,0000 tons annually.

Despite this financial success, rubber plantations were becoming increasingly dangerous places, as political hostilities festered. Conflicts brewed as competing forces with opposing ideologies turned to them with different aims. The Việt Minh successfully used them as examples of colonial exploitation and placed them at the center of propaganda campaigns while recruiting among their workforce. More than mere symbols, they also aimed to destroy plantation trees, equipment and infrastructure to harm the French economy. As one Vietnamese journalist, Diệp Liên Anh, noted: “One rubber tree equals one enemy. To destroy one rubber tree is to kill one invader.” All told, 10% of all high-value trees and 17,000 of a total 150,000 plantation hectares were ruined.

The plantation’s combination of orderly rows of plants adjacent to more rugged terrain played into the advantages and needs of Việt Minh forces. They could easily slip in and out to wreak havoc while also traveling into and through areas their more mechanized foes could not. So in addition to places of rebellion, the rubber plantations became sites of sabotage and death, as well as safe havens, way stations and valuable supply caches.

Not all revolutionaries, however, condoned the wanton destruction of the plantations. Vietnamese members of rubber unions in particular, argued that while they could serve important roles in resisting and overthrowing the French, their basic functionalities and infrastructure needed to remain intact so as to provide the future Vietnamese economy with necessary funds. They preferred a more restrained approach and condemned the devastation performed by their more aggressive peers.

Colonial opinions were not much more united. Companies and private individuals faced a back-and-forth with government officials. They requested protection to keep their interests safe. While the French did eventually station troops at some locations, often to meet their own means of launching military maneuvers, they also refused to guard others, which necessitated their abandonment. In their retreats, colonial forces would occasionally destroy the rubber trees so they wouldn’t offer economic or strategic value to their enemies.

Rubber as Fighting Intensifies

American troops fighting among rubber trees. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

The French defeat at Điện Biên Phủ and subsequent national partitioning did little to stabilize conditions on the rubber plantations. Recognizing their economic importance, the government in the south sought to increase rubber output, and before American forces arrived in significant numbers, it had replaced rice as their most important export. Benefiting from improved methods and attention, the southern region produced more than one metric ton of rubber per hectare per year between 1957 and 1961.

The new government, however, chose to operate the industry in accordance with colonial structures that showed little concern for workers and gave preferences to the large foreign companies that remained. Starting in 1943, large estates began to occupy a much larger percentage of rubber-producing lands, peaking at 82% in 1970. Such realities ensured that plantations would continue to offer revolutionaries with opportunities for recruitment and sabotage.

For their part, the French corporations were accused of excessive tapping and unsustainable practices so as to exact as much short-term profit as possible in light of the uncertain political future. These French operators were often caught between adversaries and played one off another as it suited their interests. They paid bribes and ransoms to insurgent forces while requesting help and providing support to the southern government. With some exceptions, their preference for profits demanded they take a bet-hedging and pragmatic approach to politics, hoping to remain in good enough standing with whomever ultimately prevailed in the wars.

When America ramped up its presence, it mostly picked up where the departing French left off. A 1964 CIA memorandum that the US government only declassified in 2006 provides a remarkably straightforward and cynical assessment of the “gloomy” situation. It notes that Vietnam produced the fifth-most rubber in the world at the time, tallying US$33.5 million in profits, of which US$13.4 million went to the government, accounting for 57% of the nation’s foreign earnings.

A rubber plantation in Biên Hòa, 1964. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

But while the CIA recognized that rubber was of the utmost importance, they levied numerous criticisms and presented a pessimistic evaluation of the industry: under the southern government, the sector was unable to properly grow and adapt to the increased competition posed by synthetic alternatives; revolutionaries would continue to use plantations for recruitment and cover as well as economically devastating attacks; and French companies, which produced up to 90% of exported rubber, ultimately may pull out due to declining global prices, continued insurgent harassment and lack of support from the government. If high taxes, cumbersome regulations and lack of protection were to lead the French to divest, the Americans argued that the southern government would be unable to take over operations thanks to limited experience and knowledge, as well as military resources.

Such thinking perhaps contributed to the United States' attempts to prop up the southern government, while ultimately doing little to safeguard rubber plantations. French companies controlled rubber plantations well into the 1960s, but production declined, hitting near zero by the 1970s. No longer seen as a source of income, American actions hastened rubber's demise. Defoliants and Agent Orange laid waste to vast stretches of plantation land in an effort to expose and impede supply chains and troops seeking shelter and safe passage through the thick canopies.

It's worth noting that whatever disregard the American military held for rubber holdings, it was worse for Vietnamese people. The National Coordinators of Vietnam Veterans Against the War once wrote: “We supposedly valued human life while our enemy did not. Yet we paid the owners of the Michelin plantations $600 for each rubber tree we damaged, while the family of a slain Vietnamese child got no more than $120 in payout for a life.” 

The aftermath of a November 27, 1965 battle at the Michelin Rubber plantation that claimed more than 100 lives. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

By the time the Americans fled in defeat, the rubber fields had suffered great damage, and the people living in their proximity were filled with toxic chemicals whose effects would continue to be felt for decades to come. While reunification would usher in a period of peace and prosperity, nothing represents a greater what could have been than the rubber industry, which took years to rebound following decades of senseless devastation.

A Complicated Commodity for Modern Vietnam

Rubber production in Vietnam slowly recovered after reunification, with growth coinciding with the general economic boom the country has experienced in the decades following đổi mới reforms. As of 2018, Vietnam is the world’s third-largest producer and exporter of rubber, boasting shipments of 1.58 million tons, worth over US$2.1 billion, a 14.5% increase in volume over the previous year. This makes the nation a key player in an industry that sources 97% of its raw rubber from Southeast Asia.

In addition to the general funds it brings to the country, the rubber industry is quick to point to the way in which a commodity positively impacts the lives of people, especially ethnic minorities and those in rural locations. It provides more than 5,000 jobs with annual salaries of VND7 million per month, compared to the national average of VND3.2 million a month, though figures vary greatly across region and occupation. Moreover, plantation development results in roads, schools and other key infrastructure projects in remote regions of the country, including northern areas where production has expanded with the advent of hybrid species and advanced cultivation methods.

Rubber production. Photo via Phnom Penh Post.

Yet global rubber prices have fallen to a third of their peak in 2010–2011, and may not truly recover before 2030 due to a complicated set of international and cross-sector factors that determine its global price. This is cause for major concern in Vietnam, as the nation exports 80% of the latex it produces. So even with last year’s considerable increase in total volume, the industry netted 6.1% less money. This has a tangible effect on the number of jobs rubber can support, as well as the wages it pays.

And while French plantations vanished in favor of state-owned enterprises after 1975, the battle between large operations and smaller family- or community-run operations continues. Authorities point to the efficiencies of large plantations — owning only 38% of land, they produce 60% of total latex — and higher quality standards stemming from technological advantages to justify the continued support of them at the expense of small plantations. In doing so, however, individuals and small communities, often living on the margins of society, miss opportunities for economic independence and security, instead placing themselves at the mercy of large bureaucracies.

In some cases, people that sold land to large companies in exchange for promised jobs have been left waiting with nothing to support themselves while the large enterprises decide not to tap the rubber trees planted because of economic circumstances. Quàng Văn Dính, head of Thẳm A Village in Sơn La Province, told Vietnam News: “Before, when they [the rubber corporation] called upon the people to contribute land, they said the yield would come in seven years and the money would help people escape poverty. After the villagers handed over all their land, they only had some 12ha fields of rice left. How could we produce enough to fill our bellies with those little fields?”

Moreover, in the near-term, the trade war between China and the US threatens to further depress Vietnam’s rubber profits. China is the world’s largest latex consumer, and any decrease in manufacturing or increased prices could destabilize the commodity, though some theorize India’s increased consumption could offset a drop in China’s.

Working conditions on Vietnamese rubber plantations demand consideration as well. While treatment at the hands of colonial exploiters sets an exceedingly low bar that is easily surpassed today, the work remains physically demanding and dangerous, with risks from snakes and insects, as well chemical poisoning during processing. Perhaps most troubling is the industry’s use of child labor. A chilling report issued by the Vietnamese government estimated that 10,224 children were involved in rubber production, 42.5% of whom were below the legal working age of 15, and 22% of the children were between five and eleven years old. Serious allegations of trafficking and slavery abound.

Another significant area of concern involves Vietnam’s apparent assumption of the role of colonizing force in respect to rubber plantations in neighboring nations. As Vietnam cultivates its own expertise and experience, companies have increasingly looked beyond the borders to Laos and Cambodia to establish plantations. Businesses and governments in these areas are less able to effectively make use of their land, which thus creates a vacuum that Vietnamese companies and workers have rushed in to fill. In a trend eerily reminiscent of colonial activities, these corporations are rarely snatching up unoccupied lands; instead, they force ethnic minorities to relocate, often through illegal or immoral means. When displaced to new land they are unfamiliar with, the people struggle to adapt their traditional ways of life and agriculture, as depicted in the short film, Rubber in a Rice Bowl and Rubber Barons:

Video via Global Witness.

Environmental Concerns

Growing rubber on an industrial scale can devastate natural environments. The transition from diverse forests to monoculture plantations results in soil erosion, reduced soil quality and increased likelihood of landslides. Because rubber trees evolved in an ecosystem with constant rainfall, their natural growing cycle does not sync up with Southeast Asia’s monsoons, and thus they disrupt the complex balance of water systems, often burdening local streams and aquifers. In Vietnam, much of the damage has already been done, and people are left to lament what has already been lost. But as rubber expands to new areas in the region, little is being done differently, while modern machines and techniques make deforestation even easier.

Rubber also plays a role in carbon emissions, in regards to both the trees and the energy needed for latex processing and transport. While the trees do serve to collect and store atmospheric carbon, they do so at a lower rate than that of a more diverse ecosystem. This hasn’t stopped officials around the world from attempting to classify plantations as “forests,” as opposed to “agriculture,” for the sake of carbon credits under various programs.

In addition to the environmental impact of rubber production, the industry still faces the risk of the South American leaf blight arriving and devastating plantations. Rather than the previously offered idea that the parasite can’t take hold in Vietnam’s ecosystem, it is possible that the geographic distance that has so far kept it out, but experts are not quite sure why an outbreak hasn't occurred here yet. Moreover, plantations have long relied on cloning trees, which means they all have the same susceptibility to infection. As global movement becomes faster and more frequent, the risks increase exponentially. The disease, which one pathologist observed to move “like a blowtorch through the plantings,” could strike at any moment, and destruction would result.

Photo via National Geographic.

Synthetic rubber, meanwhile, has limitations that make it unsuitable for use in tires. The average pickup-truck tire consists of nearly 50% natural rubber, while larger industrial vehicle tires are 90% and airplane tires practically 100% rubber. Attempting to land a plane with synthetic tires would put all cargo and passengers at great risk every flight. A nose-dive in natural rubber production because of the blight would certainly have a calamitous effect on aviation, shipping and transportation, rippling across all aspects of modern-day life.

Conclusion

Without rubber, you could not enjoy the life you have now. From traveling in a car and typing on a computer to practicing safe sex and undergoing a medical operation, the commodity is essential for experiencing the world as you know it. If production conditions and environmental impacts have drastically improved since the 19^th and 20^th centuries, we could possibly justify the continued use of rubber, as long as we acknowledge those who suffered in the past to make that possible. That, sadly, is not reality.

The 2016 horror movie Cô Hầu Gái (The Housemaid) takes place on a Vietnamese rubber plantation during the colonial era’s waning years. At the end of the film, the ghosts of abused workers rise from the earth to enact their revenge on their villainous overseers. We should fear such a comeuppance. Our consumer-centric commodification of nature may soon lead to an inhospitable planet, to say nothing of the suffering of our fellow humans along the way. Who among us doesn’t have hands so stained with the white blood of the forest that they resemble the operating gloves of a sadistic scientist?

This article was originally published in 2019.

If you were a book publisher and saw a sudden spike in sales for a book published years ago, how would you explain it?

If an influencer or famous person, such as a singer or actor, mentions a work in an interview, it may create enough interest amongst their fanbase to drive purchases. This is exactly what occasionally happens for presses here in Vietnam, including for translated works. If they witness a surge in popularity for one of their Korean translations, for example, it's likely that Vietnamese K-pop fans heard a favorite singer mention it an interview.

유령의 시간  (Ghost Time / Thời gian của ma).

Because I do not speak Korean, my familiarity with Korean literature is very limited, which made me curious what the climate is like for Vietnamese readers. Last year I enjoyed a chance meeting in Saigon with the lovely Korean writer, Kim Yi-jeong, during which she described the positive experience of having her novel, 유령의 시간  (Ghost Time / Thời gian của ma), translated into Vietnamese. To learn more, I got in touch with her publisher, Nhã Nam. They connected me with Vương Thúy Quỳnh Anh, an in-house editor and translator at the time, who was able to give a behind-the-scenes look into the path a book takes from Korean into Vietnamese.

“There are not a lot of [Vietnamese] people that read Korean books because of their origin; they look at the content and the title and they decide to buy it… not because they want to know more about Korean culture,” Quỳnh Anh explained, countering my assumption that Vietnamese interest in Korean music, fashion and film would result in novels from South Korea becoming popular. It turns out, people pick up Korean translations simply because the story sounds appealing.

While Korea may be the setting of many Korean novels published in Vietnamese, it’s not the most appealing aspect for Vietnamese readers. Quỳnh Anh said that the readers are drawn to “best-seller books that focus on the journey of the main character [...] they find something difficult in their life so they go back to their past, or travel to a new place or do something different to find a new way to accept their current life.” These familiar plot arcs focus on the universal elements of the human condition and the idea that each journey has its own appeal and merits. She has also observed that in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, readers gravitate towards calming, stress-reducing narratives with happy endings.

Vương Thúy Quỳnh Anh is currently a freelance Korean-language translator.

If Vietnamese readers aren’t overly concerned with the books including Korea-unique elements, neither are they on the lookout for mentions of Vietnam. Quỳnh Anh said that she has not encountered much mention of her home nation in the novels she has worked on. Vietnam does, however, appear at times amongst the thousands of books released in Korea each year. South Korea’s involvement in the Second Indochina War, particularly, has resulted in an older generation of writers exploring their experiences in or impacted by Vietnam. Kim Yi-jeong’s novel, for example, examines the wartime experience of her father. Comparing Vietnamese and Korean literature focused on conflicts of the second half of the 20^th century would no doubt reveal intriguing parallels and contrasts while offering fascinating insights on each culture as well as the universalities of war, death and endured hardships.

The people behind the books

Literary translators come from a variety of backgrounds and end up in their positions for different reasons, but most share a personal interest in learning foreign languages. Quỳnh Anh said she first wanted to learn Korean to better follow her K-pop idols. A psychology major in university, she taught herself Korean via Facebook, a website called Talk to Me in Korean and song lyrics. As she became more fluent, she began to wonder if she could work as a translator. In 2018, Nhã Nam put out a call for translators. After earning a spot as a freelance translator for some time, Quỳnh Anh graduated to a full-time editor. She has since moved on and now works as a freelance translator.

While Quỳnh Anh and her peers can make a living as full-time literature translators and editors, money remains an issue within the industry. Corporate and business interpreting and translating will always pay better, to say nothing of working abroad in Korea. This makes finding skilled literary translators a challenge. Alas, this situation is not unique. A dearth of talented and passionate translators unconcerned with income is one of the largest barriers keeping more Vietnamese works from being brought to English readers, for example.

Some titles that Quỳnh Anh worked on.

Anytime someone can turn a hobby into a career, there is a risk that the original fun is lost. Indeed, Quỳnh Anh said that once she began spending five days a week, 8-to-5, in an office, tinkering with the Korean language, she engaged with Korean less in her free time. But she attributes some of her waning interest to her favorite K-pop idols growing older and transitioning to new career stages. It’s worth reflecting on the fact that a virtue of literature is that it falls victim to fewer fads than other art forms and generally does rely on the giddy energy of youthful discovery and identity construction. This means its appeal transcends and even unites age groups.

From Hangul to tiếng Việt: The translation process

Considering the thousands upon thousands of books released every year, I’m always fascinated by the selection process for the minuscule percentage chosen for translation. Whenever I stroll through bookstreet and stop beside a shelf to exclaim “How in the world is this in Vietnamese?” I was thus quite eager to learn how it works for Quỳnh Anh.

In 2015, Vietnamese translator Kim Ngân was among four winners at the Korean Literature Translation Awards for her translation of Jeong Yu-jeong's 7 năm bóng tối (Seven Years of Darkness).

Deciding what to translate is really not that complicated or mysterious. Quỳnh Anh said that editors and translators look for books based on what has won international or Korean awards, been widely translated into other languages; topped best-seller lists abroad; and any new releases from writers they admire or have been well-received in the past. After reading the description and some sample pages, they submit a formal pitch to their publisher’s leadership. If approved, a specific division works with the Korean publisher or author agent to acquire the translation rites. International literary events such as the Bejing Book Fair and the annual Seoul Book Fair help connect with authors, publishers, and agents while keeping attendees up to date with trends and developments in the Korean literary landscape.

Once a project has been assigned to an in-house or freelance translator, depending on schedules, it typically takes about three months for it to be ready for internal review and copy-editing. Occasionally graphic scenes, particularly those involving the human body and sexual activity, need to be trimmed. Then it goes to the in-house book design and marketing departments before it hits shelves at all the familiar Vietnamese retailers and online shops, accompanied by social media promotion.

In addition to passionate translators and editors, the viability of translations depends on institutional support, with various events, seminars, author visits and conferences supported by governments, foundations and publishers. Last year, for example, Saigon played host for the Meeting Vietnamese-Korean Literature at HCMC. Such opportunities help create excitement for translations and foster connections that ensure quality works are selected and whatever meager funds available can be allocated responsibly.

Poet Nguyễn Quang Thiều, Chairman of the Vietnam Writers' Association, presents a gift to Bang Jai-suk, Co-Chairman of the Vietnam-Korea Peace Literature Club during a seminar at the Vietnam Writers' Association. Photo via Công An Nhân Dân.

The Literature Translation Institute of Korea (LTIK) has been particularly active in promoting Korean literature globally by supporting publishers and authors, and offering grants and training for translators. They also sponsor the annual Korean Literature Translation Awards, which selects winners from amongst a staggering number of languages. In 2015, Vietnamese translator Kim Ngân was among four winners for her translation of Jeong Yu-jeong's 7 năm bóng tối (Seven Years of Darkness) into Vietnamese for which she received US$10,000. In 2021, the book Tam Quốc Sử Ký - Tập 1 (Samguk Sagi - Chapter 1), written by Lee Kang-iae and translated by Nguyễn Ngọc Quế, was honored. In 2021, Vietnam's Women Publishing House coordinated with the LTIK to launch an online Korean literature book review. The organization recognizes and promotes 106 unique titles translated into Vietnamese since 2001.

Whether 106 books sounds like a great success or a travesty is a matter of perspective. It’s impossible to define what success for Korean literature in Vietnam would mean. It’s enough of a challenge to determine if any one book has exceeded expectations, as the only metrics available are sales numbers, scattered reviews online and the potential for prizes or grants awarded post-publication. The most important criteria for a reader rests within him or herself.

“You told me not to look at you, it’s silly / Yet I want to gnaw you the way I gnaw bread ... the pack of ravenous dogs looked at me with night sea eyes / I wish they could gnaw me piece by piece.”

The stories and novels of Nguyễn Quang Thân, a journalist by trade, have won numerous awards. He wrote screenplays and poetry and was married to the novelist Dạ Ngân. Ngân shared with Saigoneer that during their courtship, which was fictionalized in her novel An Insignificant Family, Thân wrote her nearly 100 letters. These letters often contained original poems addressed to her that were later published amongst his other writing. Born in 1936, he passed away in March 2017.

With the permission of Dạ Ngân, we are proud to share two of those poems, translated into English for the first time. They were both written in 1982, a time when the couple was separated: he lived in the north while she resided in the south. Read the English version below.

English translations by Thi Nguyễn and Paul Christiansen. The Vietnamese versions of the poems can be found in Người Khát Sống, published in 2018.

This article was originally published in 2019.

“It’s not something unfamiliar, but it’s been a few years since I last heard it. Stumbling upon this beautiful bucolic scene now has made me fall in love with the Mekong Delta’s đờn ca tài tử melodies again.”

It was a late afternoon when Dad took me on his boat across the river to visit our coconut grove that was hidden amongst tiny creeks. Occasionally, my dad prefers to row rather than drive, even though the road network where we live has vastly improved over the years, because he wants to enjoy the placid charms of the water. By chance, in between canopies of nipah palms and mangroves, we came across a đờn ca tài tử troupe performing on a boat. As true-blue southerners, they sipped on rice wine and snacked on rustic treats, while singing some familiar tunes that they knew by heart. It warmed my heart to be able to witness such a lively scene of my hometown.

The encounter compelled me, a child of the riverine southern Vietnam who was born into the sounds of đờn ca tài từ, to ask around to learn whatever I could about this distinctive form of performance art.

Đờn ca tài tử is an indispensable part of southern life. Photo via Vietnam News Agency.

Once upon a time in history

Đờn ca tài tử is an idiosyncratic form of performance art unique to the delta provinces of southern Vietnam. It came about at the end of the 19^th century, mostly created and performed by the working class as a way to wind down after long days of labor.

According to early accounts passed down by southern elders, đờn ca tài tử has roots in the ceremonial music of Huế’s Imperial Court and South-Central Vietnam localities. When the Cần Vương movement spread southwards, musicians and court performers brought Huế’s musical traditions down here. Since then, the musicality of Huế’s courtly music has taken roots in the spirits of the people here.

Đờn ca tài tử features distinctive tonal qualities that can’t be mistaken for any other genres of music. Accompanying the melodies are lyrics that widely embrace colloquial expressions and local culture, playing a part in elevating the casualness and homeliness of southern Vietnam into an art form. Initially, đờn ca tài tử was often performed alongside tứ tuyệt (four-string instruments): đàn kìm (moon flute), đàn cò (two-stringed fiddle), đàn tranh (16-string zither), and đàn bầu (monochord). Later modernization relaxed the setting, so recent performances don’t require all four to be present. Depending on the occasion, the number of instruments varies, and đàn bầu could be replaced by a guitar phím lõm (southern scalloped-fret guitar).

A đờn ca tài tử band in Saigon in 1911. Photo via Wikimedia.

By the beginning of the 20^th century, đờn ca tài tử has become a popular musical movement across southern Vietnam, especially in Bạc Liêu, Vĩnh Long, Long An, Mỹ Tho, Saigon, etc. Bạc Liêu, in particular, was one of the major breeding grounds for đờn ca tài tử. Here, during the last decade of the 19^th century, Lê Tài Khí — nicknamed Nhạc Khị — was the first to found Ban cổ nhạc Bạc Liêu (The Bạc Liêu Folk Music Ensemble).

Nhạc Khị spent much effort editing and compiling đờn ca tài tử’s 20 classic compositions into four categories: Sáu Bắc, Ba Nam, Bốn Oán and Bảy Bài. He wrote four originals: ‘Ngự giá đăng lâu,’ ‘Minh hoàng thưởng nguyệt,’ ‘Phò mã giao duyên,’ and ‘Ái tử kê.’ All four are considered Tứ Bửu (four treasures) by đờn ca tài tử enthusiasts.

‘Dạ cổ hoài lang’ by Cao Văn Lầu, as performed by Ba Tu and Bích Phượng.

Amongst the timeless tunes of đờn ca tài tử, ‘Dạ cổ hoài lang,’ written by Cao Văn Lầu is a shining beacon of artistry. From fruit plantations to immense waterways, from young to old, most people of the south can probably sing at least a few sentences of ‘Dạ cổ hoài lang.’

As researcher Phan Thanh Nhàn said: “It has blended into the quotidian life of the people like an artistic constant. It’s pure and simple in an unbelievable way. It infiltrates our souls and takes root. In this century, ‘Dạ cổ hoài lang’ is a gift from Cao Văn Lầu to this generation of contemporary Vietnamese. This melody has marked a crucial milestone in our history and sparkles like a star in the universe of Vietnamese music.”

Đờn ca tài tử instruments. Photo via Vietnam News Agency.

In my hometown, đờn ca tài tử is usually performed in small groups, music clubs, or family gatherings — most commonly as duets, trios or big ensembles. Musicians sit around on wooden platforms or grass mattresses, and singers can follow the standard lyrics or freestyle.

It’s not too difficult to pick up đờn ca tài tử, but to be good at it takes a lot of dedication. Even I can sing a few popular numbers if I get some help on rhythm and vocal embellishments. Still, pursuing this art form professionally takes at least three years of practice on fundamental techniques like rao, rung, nhấn, khảy, búng, phi, vê, láy, day, chớp, chụp, etc. Additionally, performers must learn to perform in solo, trio, quartet, or quintet arrangements, with different permutations of instruments. Newbie singers, solo or duet, are required to master fundamental pieces before attempting their own embellishments.

From the village to the world

Đờn ca tài tử has long been infused in the lifeblood of southerners. Its melodies and lyrics could appear on any stage in a spontaneous manner, from clamorous, solemn festivals to casual corners under the fronds of coconut trees or even on passing riverboats.

Once the 20^th century came, đờn ca tài tử thrived, spreading its influence to many localities across the country. Integrating cultural threads of northern tuồng opera, Huế’s royal court music, and southern ceremonial music, it’s a diverse genre yet still stays instantly recognizable. Đờn ca tài tử, thus, is like a current sweeping past Vietnamese migration history from north to south, seamlessly blending with the local traditions of the places it touches.

The rise of a crop of famous chanteuses also contributed to the national fame of đờn ca tài tử. Artistes like Thanh Tuyết, Kim Thanh and Ngọc Đặng won over generations of listeners thanks to their dulcet tones and emotive voices. Through their sounds, they not only preserve but elevate the worth of this southern music genre, bringing it closer to the ears and hearts of audiences nationwide.

Đờn ca tài từ was performed in France for the first time in 1900 on the stage of the Indochina Theater as part of the Paris World Expo. Cléo de Merode is the dancer in the middle. Image via Parisien Images.

Transcending the borders of Vietnam, around 100 years ago, this art form appeared on stages in Paris and Marseille. A đờn ca tài tử troupe, lead by Nguyễn Tống Triều, flew to France to join the Paris World Expo in 1900. There, they provided accompaniment for Parisian dancer Cléo de Mérode’s dance routine, though the performance was a bizarre blend of Khmer costume, Vietnamese music, and Javanese and Khmer dance moves. Following the Paris expo, the troupe was invited to perform at the colonial exposition in 1906 in Marseille.

UNESCO officially designated đờn ca tài tử an Intangible Cultural Heritage on December 5, 2013. Provinces across southern Vietnam have all vowed to preserve and promote the art form. Numerous clubs and informal groups have been established while competitions and festivals focusing on đờn ca tài tử are also common across the Mekong Delta. The Đờn Ca Tài Tử Festival is held every year in rotation amongst 21 provinces in the region. The art form is considered a unique cultural tradition that contributes to southern Vietnam’s tourism appeal.

Google Doodle honoring đờn ca tài tử on December 5, 2023 to commemorate the 10^th year anniversary of its recognition as a UNESCO heritage. Image via Google.

In đờn ca tài tử, one can appreciate a range of different sentiments of the human condition: love for one’s motherland, romantic love, familial love, friendship, and sibling bond. The words and the melodies, the singers and the musicians — every element blends together to enchant anyone who’s fallen for the Mekong Delta. For me, these memories have been etched deep into my psyche: sitting in place listening to my grandpa’s đờn ca tài tử tunes, tagging along on my dad’s boat to catch fish and shrimps, bucolic afternoons by a platter of rustic nhậu snacks and jamming along with our friendly neighbors.

Karaoke wasn’t a thing back then, and not every family could afford actual instruments. So rice bowls, chopsticks, and plastic buckets became makeshift tools for the “countryside orchestra” to produce a kickass evening show. For me, đờn ca tài tử is a dictionary of the southern language, spelling out the magnanimous and hospitable spirits of the Mekong people. It doesn’t matter where — the people can sing, dance, have fun, and connect.

A đờn ca tài tử-themed stamp set. Photos via Viet Times.

Đờn ca tài tử amid the pulse of modern life

It’s not always easy for the traditional traits of đờn ca tài tử to fit in with the pace of a new age. But I can feel it in my heart how these seemingly obsolete relics can seep into our contemporary life.

Nowadays, for those aspiring to study đờn ca tài tử, there are many proper courses for them to partake in, taught by actual artisans. For instance, every weekend, the Ninh Kiều Cultural Center in Cần Thơ holds free classes led by Ái Hằng, a veteran đờn ca tài tử performer. This is a rather special course whose students hail from an expansive age range, from just a few years old to 70 years old. Pupils also come from all walks of life, all gathering here to learn, be it as a job module or just simply a passionate pastime. In Saigon, there’s a đờn ca tài tử club boasting some 2,000 experienced artists all doing their part to establish a regular performing calendar to serve both locals and tourists.

A modern rendition of ‘Dạ cổ hoài lang’ on the reality TV competition Anh Trai Vượt Ngàn Chông Gai.

Notably, đờn ca tài tử has also entered school programs as an extracurricular activity to expose younger generations to this retro art form. A great example is the đờn ca tài tử elective of Nguyễn Chí Thanh High School in Tây Ninh Province.

I was personally touched by the footage showcasing the art of đờn ca tài tử on my favorite reality show, 2 Days 1 Night. On-screen, I can witness the historical episodes and familiar tunes from my riverine hometown being celebrated and promoted. All told, these developments make me more hopeful that, even during this modern era when many new genres have emerged catering to younger tastes, đờn ca tài tử still has a place, existing as is with its precious lyrics and melodies.

As a pleasant post-Tết gift for fans in Vietnam, a stop in Saigon was announced as part of the Asian leg of keshi’s world tour.

Just last week, regional promoter Midas Promotions unveiled that Vietnamese American R&B star keshi would perform in Hồ Chí Minh City. Keshi himself confirmed the date via Instagram earlier yesterday.

According to Midas, the Saigon concert will take place at the Nguyễn Du Gymnasium on March 7 with special guest BOYLIFE. Tickets are slated to be available from 12pm on February 12, ranging from VND2.5 million to VND5.5 million.

Keshi is the stage name of Casey Thai Luong, who was born in 1994 to Vietnamese parents. Casey grew up in Sugar Land, Texas amid a large Asian American community. He taught himself how to play the guitar using his grandfather’s classical guitar and Vietnamese music book.

After graduating from college with a degree in Nursing, Casey worked as an oncology nurse at the Texas Medical Center for two years, while posting his music anonymously on SoundCloud under the account “keshi.”

“I was very reluctant to leave the (dis)comfort of a stable career to chase a dream I felt I didn’t deserve,” he told Schon Magazine. “I made keshi in college as an anonymous account on Soundcloud. It was a project to see where I could take my creativity.”

“I’d begun to grow really resentful towards the job and I couldn’t handle the stress of living two different lives. It culminated for months and came to a head one day at work when I just broke down and everything became really clear to me. It was just time to go. I put in my two weeks the next day, and the next week I flew to New York and signed with Island Records.”

While there have always been touches of R&B in keshi’s works, he’s perhaps best known and loved during his early days when the style leaned more towards acoustic bedroom pop and lo-fi. In “Gabriel,” his debut full-length album, R&B became a more central element driving the creative thread. Keshi often writes intimate, narratively rich, and tender lyrics that explore the raw vulnerability of romantic relationships.

[Photo via Rotterdam Ahoy]

Born in 2005, Ly Mí Cường has brought sáo Mèo to international music competitions twice in his life — and he managed to take home the first prize both times. Cường’s anchor is always H’Mông culture, the wellspring that has nurtured his soul ever since he first took up the flute of his people, sáo H’Mông.

Lũng Phìn Commune, where Cường was born and grew up, is lodged amid the Đồng Văn Karst Plateau Geopark in Hà Giang Province. Here, in the middle of the mountains, market sessions are held once every six days, peach blossoms cover the hills with pink blotches, and summer maize fields stretch to the end of the horizon. I arrived in Lũng Phìn just after the maize harvest season finished, leaving behind withered stalks in between grey karst chunks.

Ly Mí Cường’s hometown is Lũng Phìn, Hà Giang.

The route from the Lũng Phìn People’s Committee to Cường’s childhood home spans about 4 kilometers. From afar, the tiny path appears like a thread dangling around fluffy clouds on mountain shoulders. The bouncy motorbike ride across the sharp turns here didn’t stop Cường from relaying tales of his upbringing. “Whenever I’m home, I help my grandma and parents with chores. I pluck corn when it’s corn season, I pick and dry tea when it’s tea season,” he intoned. Then, he pointed at little dots on mountains: “You see, H’Mông houses are often perched deep in the ranges. We have a saying: no peak is taller than the knees of the H’Mông people. This wisdom originated from the nomadic patterns and early settlements of H’Mông ancestors.”

Cường sometimes peruses photos of his hometown decades ago, marveling at its rammed earth abodes, yin-yang roof tiles, and stone fences. On festive occasions, young H’Mông men play some khèn and flute tunes during courtship rituals. “I like to imagine that had I been born earlier, I would have lived in that ambiance and been able to see those cultural practices in their most original forms,” his voice suddenly got pensive as he reminisced about a past never lived.

Cường’s family trade is making Lũng Phìn Shan Snow tea. Pictured: Cường (right) and his grandma (left).

Traversing a quaint cement street, Cường’s house materialized amid the thickness of bamboo. Golden ears of corn dangled from the eaves. In the afternoon, patches of sunlight pierced the tree canopy, painting long strokes of yellow on the walls. This was where Cường’s childhood dreams were nourished. Amongst those, he once dreamed of being a police officer when he turned 22, something Ly Mí Pó — his father, a civil servant — has been grooming him for. Still, the experiences of his formative years have planted within him a different wish for a future filled with the mellifluous sounds of flute and khèn.

When Cường was 15, he went down to Hanoi to attend his first-ever music lessons. As a little boy, he used to tag alongside his father to meet Hà Giang’s veteran sáo Mèo musicians. Sáo Mèo is a traditional wind instrument of the H’Mông people, created from bamboo segments. One day, Cường got his own flute just for fun, but over time, the bond between the H’Mông boy and this flute grew stronger and stronger. He loved accompanying Ly Mí Kịa, a flute maker in Sủng Trái Commune, on his trips to seek bamboo to make sáo Mèo. During his own free time, Cường bought his own set of tools to make flutes.

The third lunar month of 2018 was time for the annual Khâu Vai Romance Market. Kịa suggested that Cường go along with him to play the flute at the market. It was raining torrentially, rendering the path from Lũng Phìn to Khâu Vai into a muddy hell. Four days later, Cường met his father with an unprecedented sense of pride: “I did it, I made the flute, I sold it for one million. This is my first income!” It wasn’t much, but for Cường, that was extremely motivational, as it helped him realize that playing the flute is a decent way to make a living.

Khèn is a revered instrument of the H’Mông people.

It was also the first time he felt the special feeling of standing in a crowd as they observed him with curiosity. “I pretended that it was my stage. Suddenly, subconsciously, it sparked a fire in me as I dreamed of one day being on a big stage,” he distinctly remembered that moment. He spent VND500,000 from his profit to get himself a new flute. “It’s just a piece of bamboo, why is it so expensive?” — That was the random thought of a 12-year-old boy, and it pushed Cường to make more money to get his hands on better-quality flutes.

As time went by, his passion for folk instruments burned brighter. One night, under the warmth of the family lamp, his father asked: “Do you want to move to Hanoi to study?” Cường hadn’t before envisioned what life would be away from home. A silence bloomed in between the conversation.

His father continued: “I’ve given it some thoughts, not everybody needs to become an official. You should follow what your heart wants, as every field contributes to our society in its own way, none is better or worse. If you decide to pursue it, I think you need to study professional music theory to go far. The bamboo flute major at the Vietnam National Academy of Music is quite close to your passion.”

Nonetheless, his father was still unsure of his path: “Enrolling in anything else, you’ll only need four years to get a degree. If you choose flutes, it will take six years to graduate, not to mention you’ll have to juggle both the general curriculum and the arts coursework, you need to think it over.”

Cường replied: “I really adore sáo H’Mông. Playing it every day I feel like I’m living life and not just existing. I don’t think I can do it if I have to study anything else but music.”

Cường's father, albeit plagued with numerous concerns over how the family would finance his son’s artistic studies, didn’t hesitate: “Only through education can you improve your life. If you really want to study music, I’m ready to invest in you. You need to sketch out your own life. We’re only here to lay the first bricks.”

Ly Mí Pó, Ly Mí Cường’s dad, is always supportive of his son’s pursuit, even though he steered Cường towards a life in the government.

Those words were all Cường needed to cement his determination. After having the heart-to-heart with his dad, the 15-year-old moved to Hanoi to start preparing for the university entrance exam. “All these years, my world was wrapped up in the meandering roads that I walked to my school on the side of the mountain. I went to the village school, I didn’t go to the township, I could never picture what studying in Hanoi would be like,” he explained.

Cường boarded a night bus heading towards the capital, carrying with him hopes and imaginations about life in the big city. After some shuteye, before him stood an entirely foreign universe, chock-full of the clamor of traffic that shocked and overwhelmed him. He missed his home, his grandma, his parents, the maize fields, rows of sa mộc trees, and the sound of the wind, jungle birds, and of the gaggle of kids frolicking in front yards.

The road from the village to the capital for education was, in reality, very challenging. Though he was aiming for the bamboo flute program, Cường’s experience playing it was nearly zero, so he spent 15 days getting used to it and practicing 24/7. The effort paid off because Cường finally received the acceptance letter.

Cường nurtures a dream to spread his love for traditional instruments to young H’Mông at his hometown.

While still catching up with the new pace of life, Cường also encountered academic hurdles. Being exposed to music theory much later than his peers, Cường felt that he was lagging behind. “Looking at the music sheets, I couldn’t read the notes. Using them to write songs was even tougher. My progress was always slow,” he laughed. As the curriculum got deeper, the lessons got more complicated and compound, from music theory to breath and rhythm control, so Cường was daunted.

Luckily, alongside Cường was a patient mentor who was always ready to say: “Whichever part you don’t get, you can see me after class, you can learn faster if I can correct you right away instead of you figuring it out on your own.” He was Ngọc Anh, a veteran ethnic instrument player and instructor. “Don’t you worry. You just need to practice more and interact [with it] more and you will get better.”

Juggling both the general curriculum and the music program, Cường had to spend twice the time on coursework, including on weekends and holidays. Despite the shaky start, the music knowledge gained in class and the support of his mentor helped Cường become more well-versed in his craft. This was the foundation before he could bring his sáo Mèo and khèn onto public stages.

No matter where he was performing, Cường always showed up in his traditional attire. Cường explained: “If I want to go far, I need to be sure of who I am and where I come from.”

Ly Mí Cường is always proud to play khèn and sáo no matter how big or small the stage is.

As Cường shared, when H’Mông people feel sad, they tend to seek the company of folk music. The flute is thus the ideal instrument to express those feelings, showing an appreciation for nature, mankind, and life. It’s often said that the sound of H’Mông flutes has distinct personalities. Meanwhile, khèn is treated as a spiritual instrument, encompassing the soul of H’Mông communities.

“The space heavily affects the emotions of art practitioners. Before, I played sáo and khèn right in the heart of the mountains. In university, I started to bring them with me to the streets and under the limelight. The change in environment brought about different moods in me, but no matter where I am, whenever I hear those traditional melodies, I can’t help but sense that thread linking my presence to my past. I picture the length of time, the vastness of space, and the immensity of the artistic legacy that my H’Mông forebearers created. It makes me proud,” Cường beamed.

H’Mông musicians play the flute to express emotions.

That pride nudged Cường to seek out ways to promote his people’s instruments to more people. That was why Cường signed up for numerous music competitions both in and out of Vietnam. After clinching the top prize at a music talent contest in Saigon in 2022, Cường pressed forward with his quest to introduce his flute to the international arena. These ambitious dreams proved difficult financially, especially to Cường’s family. During a competition in Singapore, when he managed to pass the first round, he asked his dad if he should continue, who replied: “Just let us know how much you need, if I can handle that amount, of course you should continue. I always support you. I already stockpiled 200–300 kilos of tea leaves [to sell] for you.”

Ly Mí Cường dedicated his first prize at a competition in China to his mother.

When he sat on a plane for the first time to fly to Singapore, he started crying when he thought of his family. “My first overseas competition passed by like a dream. When I got through the first round, I wondered to myself: ‘Am I really overseas?’ Holding the first prize trophy in my hands, I couldn’t believe it,” he recounted. The first thing he did after winning was calling his dad and yelling “I got first prize!” in the explosion of joy from both sides of the screen.

Most recently, Cường once again was the winner in the ethnic instrument category at a competition based in China. “I really feel grateful for small victories, I don’t see first prizes as excuses to be boastful. I still need lots to learn,” he explained. Cường definitely feels lucky and blessed to have experienced and learned so much from his social connections. His performance was a rendition of Ngọc Trung’s ‘Tiếng rừng,’ and Cường was happy because, besides being able to handle the song’s complicated techniques, he was the first person to bring sáo H’Mông to the competition, piquing the curiosity of friends abroad.

Cường is proud and grateful for the cultural heritage of H’Mông ancestors.

Besides just a little touch of luck, Cường believes that his most unwavering source of strength is the richness of H’Mông culture. “Loving our country or our culture is something a bit too abstract. I simply just love things belonging to our community, our people, each homestead, each tune of our khèn and sáo. So I want to profess that love in my works. I admire the determination of H’Mông people to survive in harsh conditions and I’m proud of the wealth of our ancestors’ heritage. My music will always tell those stories and evoke those influences,” Cường said.

That spirit was exactly what flows through Cường’s latest composition, ‘Núi Đêm’ (Night Mountains), which was crafted on a misty late night in Tà Xùa (Yên Bái). Inspired by a H’Mông folk song in Đồng Văn, the song is a sáo H’Mông instrumental track featuring modern arrangements. With a heart-wrenching tune that’s at times melancholic, at times stormy, and even jubilant, ‘Núi Đêm’ is how Cường expresses his gratitude for his people’s resilience.

“The mountain range is majestic over hundreds of thousands of years, and the H’Mông will continue to survive, as stable as a mountain,” he explained the song’s message. Via ‘Núi Đêm,’ he chronicles the tale of migration, settlement, labor production, and cultural practice of his community. “With this composition, I allowed myself to freely overcome the hurdles of professional music theory,” he divulged.

Pursuing traditional music means always facing hardships. Indigenous cultures must overcome pushback from contemporary trends. One must wonder if musicians like Cường would lose their roots once they get exposed to mainstream music education. Cường, however, is not worried, but even eager to use his professional education as a platform to elevate the traditional arts he’s currently pursuing. “I think traditional music is inherently limitless. It’s in my breaths, my flesh, so it can’t be taken away. I don’t want music to be confined to pre-established standards,” he opined.

That mindset helps Cường write music as freely and creatively as possible, diving headfirst into novel mediums without any qualms. Playing the khèn in the major concert Show của Đen was one such experiment. Upon accepting the invitation from Long Nguyễn, the show’s music director, Cường was concerned as such a distinctively ethnic instrument like khèn hadn’t been featured before in rap performances.

All those worries vanished immediately after that 30-second solo Cường did on the show to a rapturous response by thousands of spectators. “It wasn’t a full minute on stage with my H’Mông khèn in the tracks ‘một triệu like’ and ‘Đi Theo Bóng Mặt Trời,’ but I was going crazy from joy. That was the first time I ever stood on a big stage with an influential artist like Đen Vâu in front of the audience,” Cường gushed. This marked the key point when he decided to put more effort into his art.

Ly Mí Cường on stage with rapper Đen Vâu in 2024.

Vietnamese culture is a river that flows through the current landscape, always shifting and shaping past obstacles, albeit being influenced by many factors. “My generation of young people were born into a time when local culture is not practiced often enough and is constantly diluted by foreign cultures. The work to preserve and continue those practices needs the stable mind of youth. That’s my main concern,” he told me.

Thus, according to Cường, crafting new media based on the foundation of traditional heritage is a way to push local culture closer to contemporary audiences. He believes that the arts are a very personal voice, so artists need the freedom to try out new things, but to achieve that, artists employing ethnic elements must engage in responsible research and approach such materials with respect, in order to create in a reasonable way, avoiding the misappropriation trap.

Apart from promoting H’Mông culture, Cường also wishes to spread his pride and confidence in being a young H’Mông. “Before, I carried with me shame in being part of an ethnic minority. When I arrived in Hanoi, I met Hoàng Anh, the founder of Lên Ngàn. I was really inspired by his adoration of traditional culture. At the same time, when I learn more about my roots, about H’Mông culture, and discover more cultures, I no longer feel ashamed because a sense of pride has grown multiplefold. Vietnam is so diverse, and each ethnicity has its own cultural elegance. I’m even more proud to be H’Mông in an ethnically diverse nation,” he shared.

Cường believes artists need freedom to create, but they also need to do their research and respect local cultures.

At this moment, Cường doesn’t see the preservation of cultural heritage as a passion anymore, but a life purpose: “Life naturally pushes me forward, like it’s telling me ‘do this thing’ so I, with all my love and youth, reply: ‘Of course, I’ll follow.’” Organizing activities related to H’Mông culture, like performances, talks, and workshops, makes him feel alive, seeing the efforts of young H’Mông to protect and nurture the ancestral legacy.

Apart from his work with the H’Mông Culture community, created by and for H’Mông students, in Hanoi, Cường recently developed the “Nốt Si” program (Musical Note B) to motivate and inspire H’Mông children in Hà Giang to appreciate traditional music. In the near future, he’s planning to invite musicians to teach sáo and khèn to kids in Lũng Phìn, his hometown. “The best way to preserve culture is to practice it,” he said.

“If the rain could wash away everything, maybe we could all find peace. For the third generation after the war, what was left behind wasn’t anger or bitterness, but an enduring sorrow that echoed from the heart.”

Coming in the second story of the new anthology The Colors of April, this quote identifies some of the emotions frequently expressed by Vietnamese writers, of all generations, when reflecting on the war with America. 

In an attempt to push back against the foreign reduction of Vietnam to only a country that underwent a devastating war five decades ago, I write very little about anything related to war, literature included. Doing so, however, risks dismissing or downplaying its importance in the literary canon and Vietnamese lives around the world. The 50^th anniversary of the war’s end is ushering in a great number of books addressing it and, while I will continue to explore and champion works beyond war, it’s a good opportunity to acknowledge and reflect upon the significant impact the war has had on literature. 

Colors of April, co-edited by Quan Manh Ha and Cab Tran, provides a well-rounded view of the war and its aftermath via writers from a multitude of backgrounds, generations, circumstances, and perspectives as well as styles and interests. After noting the failures of the politically motivated, one-dimensional, white American-centric media that came in the postwar period, the editors acknowledge “a whole generation of Vietnamese Americans who have grown up knowing little about the circumstances of their citizenship, why their grandparents left Vietnam … now reconnecting with their roots and the country.” For them, the collection offers examples of the stories their families did not share; the experiences of a country and people they were separated from; and members of their own generation who are navigating what it means to be Vietnamese American in America or as one of the many Việt Kiều moving to Vietnam to find a country quite different from what they may have imagined.

Amongst the book’s 28 stories are several that contain expected themes: war is miserable; grief eclipses winners and losers; physical and emotional traumas get passed down, and reconciliation is not just possible but essential for healing.

The nuances and range of the collection make it valuable beyond this specifically defined group of Vietnamese Americans, however. Readers who remember daily war reports issued from Saigon may be surprised to read about a nation now filled with trendy trinket shops whose interiors are designed to entice youths eager for social media photo backdrops, as one story depicts it. Young Americans, of all backgrounds, who may not have read anything about the war other than three paragraphs in a textbook, will benefit immensely from being transported to mountainous hamlets that sent their young off to war, and the orphanages that took in the mixed-race offspring of foreign soldiers and local women. The stories also transcend the period and explore love, motherhood, youthful ennui, and wanderlust.

Amongst the book’s 28 stories are several that contain expected themes: war is miserable; grief eclipses winners and losers; physical and emotional traumas get passed down, and reconciliation is not just possible but essential for healing. As long as the world continues to hurtle blindly into barbaric conflicts, these lessons need repeating. The translated stories by Vietnamese writers including Nguyễn Minh Chuyên, Trần Thị Tú Ngọc, and Nguyễn Thị Kim Hòa, are particularly suited for readers who only know war from news links and entertainment media and have yet to encounter it via a singular, intimate literary vantage point. These stories allow the reader to imagine what they would do in such conditions, and by extension, discover the shared humanity of all those caught up in war. 

Other stories upend familiar narratives or add less common voices to the discussion. Nguyễn Đức Tùng’s dreamy ‘A Jarai Tribesman and His Wife’ underscores how Vietnam and its diaspora consist of more than just Kinh people and challenging times compound the inequities ethnic minorities endure. Similarly, a Mexican American deserter is at the center of Lưu Vĩ Lân’s ‘M.I.A, M.O.W; P.O.W, P.O.P,’ which further complicates Hollywood-esque re-enactments of the American battlefield experience. In the collection's most exuberant story, ‘Bad Things Didn’t Happen,’ by Gin To, readers are taken behind the facade of Vietnam's migratory mega-wealthy and exposed to the outlandish dysfunction of beauty queens, shopping sprees, and extramarital affairs.

Dismantling the American dream is a recurring theme in The Colors of April that holds revelatory potential for readers outside the Vietnamese diaspora even more than for those within it. ‘A Mother’s Story,’ is a heartbreaking look at a downtrodden first-generation Vietnamese American who suffers botched surgery, poverty, and abusive relationships in pursuit of uniquely American concepts of success as defined by Paris by Night stardom. Meanwhile, the sharp, smart prose that helped Viet Thanh Nguyen win a Pulitzer Prize is on full display in ‘The Immolation.’ The story brings to life the poor, angry California youths who struggled to come of age in a new country while their parents were occupied tending to their own wounds and fighting their own demons. Several other works investigate the motivations of young Việt Kiều moving to Vietnam to find themselves, their histories or perhaps just an easier way after growing exhausted by America. 

The 50^th anniversary of the war’s end is ushering in a great number of books addressing it and, while I will continue to explore and champion works beyond war, it’s a good opportunity to acknowledge and reflect upon the significant impact the war has had on literature.

“I am not an eloquent storyteller and my story is clearly messy and erratic. Besides, my story could, at best, reveal only a tiny part of the whole, like drips or smudges bleeding into other shades in an abstract painting,” the narrator reports in Phùng Nguyễn’s ‘Oakland Night Question.’ He was speaking about his own experiences in a small village in southern Vietnam, but the same could be said about Vietnam’s war legacy 50 years later, as is referenced in the anthology’s subtitle. No amount of books, collections, movies or plays could ever add up to complete the entire abstract painting. But the more one sees, the more one understands, which, in addition to having value in and of itself, helps lead one to peace and acceptance. The Colors of April adds some beautiful hues to the artwork. 

The Colors of April will be released by Three Rooms Press on March 25, 2025. Pre-order information is available here.  

Joss papers and effigies consumed my experiences before I began to even question their meaning. On the anniversary of my grandfather’s death (giỗ), my grandmother routinely set up a large pot in our tiny front yard and burned a stack of replica paper money. It is quite a scene to watch — the fire turned the paper to smoke and ash, and within minutes it was as if the paper never existed.

Burning joss paper is a ritual offering of money and wealth to the dead which is most popular during death anniversaries, Tết, and the ghost month festival. People who grew up or live in Vietnam, or other parts of Asia such as China and Japan know it well. Its popularity hasn't seemed to wane: just stroll through any market in Saigon — from small, local markets to the biggest and most claustrophobic like Bình Tây, and you'll pass at least one shop selling joss paper and incense.

People burn joss paper as a standalone activity or incorporate it into larger occasions. One of the most popular times to do so is during the Hungry Ghost Festival (rằm tháng 7 or xá tội vong nhân), a month dedicated to giving offerings to wandering ghosts who had no families or homes while alive. Paper replicas of currency and other effigies are accompanied by fruits, sugarcane, sweets, and incense, arranged on a round tin tray. They await immolation while the host murmurs prayers. The ritual is called cúng cô hồn, and halfway through the process, it is likely that a number of young kids from the neighborhood have already arrived at one's house gate, anticipating the goods (giật cô hồn) that remain after the ritual is complete.

I asked a random person in a market and was showered with advice on how to burn spiritual money correctly: “You have to make sure that everything is well-burned, in order for them [the ancestors] to be able to receive them,” said a lady in a local market in Phú Nhuận.

There is no single philosophical or moral explanation for the practice. People, however, often claim that the afterlife resembles the world of the living. Anthropologist Heonik Kwon explains that Buddhism spread the idea that life is a type of bank loan and when a person dies, it is up to their descendants to pay their debts. Kirsten Endres and Andrea Lauser connect this notion to the concept of filial piety (hiếu). In Confucian philosophy, it is the duty of one's descendants to repay a person's moral debts (trả ơn). Kwon suggests that wealth retains relevancy in the afterlife, and thus can be given to those who cross over.

Although it is hard to pinpoint a particular period when such practices emerged in Vietnam, researchers attribute it to Chinese colonization, since the money offerings date back to the country's feudal period.

The names giấy vàng mã or giấy vàng bạc refer to the traditional form of replica paper money which is made from white coarse bamboo paper and features a thin edge of gold or silver, which gives it the name vàng (gold) and bạc (silver). Effigies such as horses and clothes are other popular forms of spiritual money. Today, one can easily find these types of paper money in standard joss paper shops, adjacent to more modern and foreign replicas.

In Burning Money, Fred Blake, while comparing historical joss paper examples with contemporary ones, laid out two main differences: one being the emergence of foreign currencies such as dollars and euros; and two being the inclusion of modern commodities such as smartphones.

Such diversification of votive commodities can be seen in shops throughout the country. Besides the ubiquitous replica dollar bank notes (đô la âm phủ), a walk around the outer rim of Tân Định Market revealed a mass of Ipad paper effigies; and while wandering through Binh Tay market, I spotted houses, and clothes with superimposed luxury brand names. The second most popular type of items besides the đô la âm phủ is pre-made packets that include all necessities a typical middle-class earner would own: modern clothes, smartphones, perfume, credit cards, and watches.

Despite being associated with a tradition dating to feudalism, money burning only regained its popularity after the late 1980s. The practice was banned in the 1970s for being wasteful and ideologically opposed to the building of a socialist society. However, the socialist project that involved a centrally-planned economy was quickly abandoned in favor of a capitalist market-based economy. After đổi mới, money burning became legal and it resurfaced alongside many ritual practices. In The Country of Memory, historian Hue-Tam Ho Tai called this turn a “commemorative fever," and explained how public memory is reconstructed as part of a larger framing narrative in which is “embedded a sense of progression and vision of the future for which the past acts as prologue.”

Gates described the plethora of spiritual currencies today as “a material symbol of the penetration of the religious imagination by petty commodity capitalism.” Fred Blake also touched upon this notion of commodity capitalism pointing out the differences between the traditional way of producing these effigies (handmade gold silver) as a symbolic reconstruction of money or wealth compared to the printed and mass-produced bank notes that resemble the real things being no longer a symbolic reconstruction, but a simulation. In Vietnam, these replicas looked so realistic that in 2010, the state bank of Vietnam had to ban all varieties of Vietnamese dong replicas to prevent forgery.

Current discourses surrounding the practices place a great emphasis on framing burning money, or at least, the excessive forms of this practice, as superstitious. The term superstition, despite its pan-Asian equivalence (mê tín in Vietnamese, mixin in Chinese, meishin in Japanese), is a neologism adopted from a European phrase coined at the turn of the 20^th century. Mê means being deluded or illusory, and tín refers to beliefs and religions, so mê tín refers to a deluded or wrong religion, which therefore suggests that there is a proper and legitimate religion. The term finds itself at paradoxical odds with a society arguing for modernity, science, and secularization.

After đổi mới, the nationalistic discourse in Vietnam turned its focuses simultaneously to "modernity" and "tradition." Thanks to the move towards a market economy, “modernity” became a term referring to development and wealth. Authorities, however, feared that modernization would invite Western influences. Thus, in the hope of counterbalancing these forces, there has been a call to return to the Vietnamese traditional culture, including a consistent national identity amidst the inevitability of opening up to global markets. The ubiquity of ritual commodities involved in modern Tết celebrations now seems like an embodiment/reflection of such conditions: a range of social and political forces at odds with each other.

This article was originally published in 2018.