Literature - Saigoneer

Short Story Collection 'Gills' Pieces Together a Raw and Complex Portrait of Saigon

2026-05-22T09:00:00+07:00

Saigon’s landscape looks dramatically different from how it did three or even two decades ago. As the country’s economic powerhouse, Saigon has seen rapid urban development: new highrises like Landmark 81 and the Bitexco Financial Tower that now define the city’s skyline, new urban infrastructure like the Ba Son Bridge and Saigon’s first metro line, as well as the city’s expansion into areas like District 7’s Phú Mỹ Hưng and District 2’s Thủ Thiêm. If the west has long viewed Saigon under the shadow of war, it is clear that such a rigid frame fails to contain the Saigon of today, whose entropic inner life seems to constantly overflow; with motorbikes onto sidewalks, loud honks through windows, and rainpour over Saigon’s riverbeds.

Tuan Phan’s newly published short story collection Gills: and Other Stories primarily takes place in the backdrop of this Saigon. A set of 10 short stories written in unassuming and measured prose, it is his second book following his memoir Remembering Water, where he, as an adult who returns to live in Saigon, reflects upon his childhood departure from Vietnam as a refugee and his family’s subsequent returns.

Tuan Phan. Image via author website.

In line with the themes of his first book, a significant chunk of Gills center the lives of Việt Kiều. Such stories dwell in the space of the in-between and serve to capture the brushing encounters between those who have left and stayed, between memory and reality, past and present, strangers and family.

In the opening story ‘At the Bánh Mì Stand,’ the owner of a bánh mì stall named Khanh converses with a hungry and jetlagged Việt Kiều who has just arrived in the hours before early dawn after a long flight. His second story, ‘The Việt Kiều Casanova,’ also features a Việt Kiều, though this time a vulgar womanizer who visits the same gift shop every week with a different girl. In ‘Short-Term Rental’ — the only story to take place outside of Vietnam — a Vietnamese American teenage boy visits his father in Houston over the holidays, where he navigates the fractures left by his parents’ separation, as well as the increasing disillusionment with the American dream. And in ‘Photographs,’ narrated in the second person, a Việt Kiều visits her aunt who repeats stories behind photographs she has kept of him and his father, who, in his last visit, told the same stories “almost word for word.”

As is perhaps clearest in this last story, there is a certain kind of nausea to many of these moments, where a spiraling abyss opens up between worlds that reveal their distance precisely via their proximity. Yet, in others, one feels surprisingly comforted by the fact that the misunderstood, wandering gaze across such seemingly irreparable gaps is, at the very least, returned.

It would be a mistake to define Gills as solely a meditation on the experience of the Vietnamese diaspora, for the focus of the greater part of the collection lies elsewhere: namely, the class-ridden social fabric of Saigon.

It would be a mistake, however, to define Gills as solely a meditation on the experience of the Vietnamese diaspora, for the focus of the greater part of the collection lies elsewhere: namely, the class-ridden social fabric of Saigon. The stories that depict this occur in the overlooked folds of Saigon’s socioeconomic order. In ‘A Clean Record,’ for instance, we see the struggles of an elderly man navigating a system of openly corrupt, Kafkaesque bureaucracy, seeking to acquire appropriate paperwork in order to begin driving for Grab. If the old man represents the economically precarious in Saigon — who live in informal, “illegal” homes, who make a living by working in a gig economy characterized by low pay, unstable income, and harsh working conditions — other stories offer glimpses into the other end of Saigon’s socioeconomic order. ‘Selling Sài Gòn,’ for instance, tells the story of Trang, a luxury apartment realtor dating a moneyed yet unambitious boyfriend, who has to navigate the murky waters of having to close a deal with a famous celebrity client named Liêm, who is clearly bent on using his leverage to get with her. In bringing together stories set in widely different settings across Saigon’s socioeconomic strata, Gills offers a damning portrait of Saigon’s class hierarchies in which multiple realities, each absurd in their own ways, co-exist with one another in unsettling and maddening ways.

Nowhere is this more viscerally rendered than in ‘Reusables,’ the most dramatic and gripping of Tuan’s stories. Set during the COVID-19 pandemic, it tells the story of Lâm, a recycler in need of money to treat his dog, who has accidentally swallowed something he shouldn't have from a pile of junk in District 7. Upon being persuaded by his friend Tèo, together they embark on “find[ing] new owners for” (Tèo’s euphemism for stealing) condenser units sitting idle by a BMW dealership in “Korea Town” — a plan that turns south upon being confronted by a celebrity named Liêm (presumably the same character from ‘Selling Sài Gòn’), who, it turns out, had previously been mired in controversy for ripping off flood victims. Indeed, there is something quite bizarre about the whole scene, where we find Lâm’s economic despair juxtaposed against the eerie tranquility of the neighborhood that is arguably Saigon’s most affluent. It is here that Tuan becomes most explicit with his critique of the class-stratified order of contemporary Vietnam:

The fact was, and the fact always was . . . in this long pandemic, it’ll be the already rich bosses, the ones that run dealerships, the ones that get kickbacks and bribe money for construction projects needing their signatures to begin, the ones that buy BMWs for their kids to wreck, that’ll not only survive this lockdown but get even richer. [...] And it’ll still be the little people like me and Tèo, the grandmothers selling grilled corncobs on the street or the homeless kids hawking lottery tickets, that get fucked. Every fucking year. Forever into infinity.

In a well-known passage from his Theses on the Philosophy of History, the German philosopher Walter Benjamin critiques the ugly underbelly of what we call progress. In offering a reading of Paul Klee’s Angelus Novus, a monoprint of an eccentric angel figure, Benjamin reimagines Klee’s angel to be “the angel of history,” who, though desperate to gather and restore history’s wreckage piling before him, is helplessly swept forward by the ceaseless “storm of progress.” The story of Lâm is the story of those who have been left behind by a vision for progress that is as idyllic as the picturesque scenery of Phú Mỹ Hưng — for Lâm too stands before history’s ever-piling wreckage — except that he, unlike Benjamin's angel of history, has to sift through it for reusable scraps.

The book cover

Tuan’s collection takes its title from one of its stories, ‘Gills,’ which stands out from the rest as the only magical realist piece. It tells the story of two siblings, Liên and Tú — children of a loving mother and a crass, abusive father — who one day discover gills just below their ankles after the water recedes from flooded streets. In this engrossing reimagination of Saigon's monsoon season, the two children revel in their ability to swim through the city during its submersion under rainwaters — that is, until their father finds out and eventually devises a way to exploit their peculiarity.

Reading ‘Gills,’ one cannot help but contextualize the story within the planet’s ever-worsening ecological crisis, especially given that with it, extreme flooding will only become more common. Yet, it is unclear what exactly is to be the takeaway from the story (which of course is not in and of itself a problem). In an interview with Texas Tech University Press, Tuan describes ‘Gills’ as a “hopeful story,” a yearning for the younger generations to “have the capacity to be resilient.” Here, however, I find it difficult to agree with the author, for hope and optimism seem naive in the face of the global capitalist economy’s unwaning consumption of fossil fuels. Resilience implies coping, and coping implies that we have no choice but to accept the ecological crisis — and that, we cannot accept.

What opens as a fleeting snippet of an interaction by a bánh mì stall at early dawn expands, story by story, and slowly crystallizes into an intricate and dynamic portrait of contemporary Saigon.

I thus find that the most compelling reading of ‘Gills’ is not as an allegory of the environment, but rather as a kind of literalization of the different and uneven ways that the residents of Saigon move and breathe through the city and its spaces. It is a theme that runs through the broader collection, which is perhaps why I find ‘Gills’ an oddly wonderful title for the book. ‘A Clean Record,’ for instance, ends with the elderly man stuck in traffic, suffocating in the heat and diesel exhaust. In ‘Reusables,’ Lâm walks his dog through a lusciously green golf course in District 7, which he is able to access only because of the lockdown. In ‘Selling Sài Gòn,’ Trang moves through a world of luxury apartments that literally exists in a different atmosphere, skyhigh above the rest of the city. In many ways, Gills makes obvious what we all intuitively understand: that what we singularly call “place” is in no way singular, but rather a pluralistic formation of different material and phenomenological spheres — a beautiful thing, no doubt, were its contours not drawn so brutally by class.

In many ways, Gills: and Other Stories reads like an exercise in world-building. What opens as a fleeting snippet of an interaction by a bánh mì stall at early dawn expands, story by story, and slowly crystallizes into an intricate and dynamic portrait of contemporary Saigon, within which different smaller worlds recursively overlap, collide, and coalesce. In this sense, there is something special about reading the collection in Saigon, where the reader may find themself subsumed into exactly such a confluence of worlds — specifically, of the text in front and the world around.

Against a backdrop of Vietnamese diasporic literature that often overlooks the complexities of modern-day Saigon, Gills feels like a breath of fresh air.

5 Quixotic Books About Vietnam for When You're Craving a Little Quirky Read

2026-04-21T10:00:00+07:00

There are too many good Vietnamese books to recommend, let alone read.

If you search around online, you’ll find some pretty good lists to steer you to works translated from English and written by diasporic writers. There are also a few publishers who focus on the genre, such as Curbstone Press’ now-completed Voices From Vietnam series, which featured several Saigoneer favorites, including An Insignificant Family by Dạ Ngân and The Cemetery of Chua Village by Đoàn Lê. The newly established Major Books recently released Water: A Chronicle by Nguyễn Ngọc Tư and the first English version of Making a Whore by Vũ Trọng Phụng.

Popular works by authors like Bảo Ninh, Ocean Vuong, Viet Thanh Nguyen, and Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai are recommended, rightfully so, all the time. But what if you are looking for something a little stranger, lesser-known, or quixotic?

Saigoneer has assembled a list of quirky, off-kilter, or overlooked books to supplement the familiar titles for you. While unlikely to occupy a bookshop’s limited selection of Vietnamese literature, they can all be tracked down and are very much worth the effort.

1. McSweeney’s 78: The Make-Believers

This doesn’t look like a book*. The Make-Believers arrives in the form of a cardboard cigar box with a lid featuring seven brooding figures smoking cigarettes. Opening it reveals a back lid depicting three more writers, also smoking cigarettes, as well as three pieces of literature. The smokers are all members of DVAN, the Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network, a multi-genre collective. In 2023, ten members met in France for a writers residency, and this collection, edited by Thi Bui and Vu Tran, captures the spirit and conversations of their time together and serves as an introduction to the group and Vietnamese diasporic writers, in general.

When the music industry was operated via physical CDs put out by record labels, an occasional sampler disc would be released with a track or two from each artist on a single label as a means of introducing the cohesive sound or ethos shared by the label as a whole. The main 182-page The Believers book functions much this way for DVAN. Self-described as spanning “from highbrow to lowbrow, proper to naughty, logical to absurd, and painful to funny,” it's a great way to acquaint yourself to the energy, styles, and concerns of some of the diaspora’s most accomplished writers.

A heart-wrenching story of regret tinged with ghosts set in Đà Lạt by Vu Tran; a collection of politically charged poems by Bao Phi; and a snapshot of life within early 2000s American rave culture by H’Rina DeTroy are amongst the standouts. The box, beautifully illustrated by Thi Bui, of The Best We Could Do fame, also contains a hilarious glossary of broken Vietnamese as understood by Doan Bui; and a separate collaborative poem with lines from each resident assembled by Isabelle Thuy Pelaud, DVAN’s co-founder along with Viet Thanh Nguyen. Like the best label samplers CDs of the 2000s, not every piece will be your jam, but at least a few will play on repeat inside your head, and you’ll have an easy way to get an overview of a larger scene.

*Technically, this is a special edition of a literary journal, but it features a book-length selection of short stories, essays, and poems, and literary journals deserve more love.

2. Wetland Plants of the Mekong Delta

Did you know the Mekong Delta is home to 698 different species of plants? You can read the names of each one, marveling at the pretty sounds such as Ipomoea triloba and Digitaria setigera in Wetland Plants of the Mekong Delta. After a brief but instructive 40 pages introducing the region’s water and soil characteristics and the plants that occupy the region, you'll find a listing of the scientific name and group type for all 698. Then, it's page after page of gorgeous, glossy photographic plates of plant species. Numerous images of different plant parts — such as stamen, flower, fruit, pistil and leaf — are presented along with a sentence of notable characteristics and their habitat.

Intended mainly for scientists and researchers, Wetland Plants of the Mekong Delta may function best for average readers as a coffee table text. The photos do feature the Vietnamese names along with scientific ones, making it perhaps the most niche vocabulary study tool available.

And if you’re like me and draw pleasure and inspiration from plants, having the a verticle cross section of a Canalavia lineata in reach is a particular gift. Saigoneer’s favorite botany illustator, Phan Thị Thanh Nhã, contributed several works to the text. It's a travesty that all our daylight hours are not adrift in a melaleuca peat swamp, but at least we have this book brings tidings from those magical realms. And next time we visit, we will be able to identify a few plants, much to the chagrin of any non-plant nerds you are traveling with.

3. Down and Out in Saigon: Stories of the Poor in a Colonial City | Haydon Cherry

Few people associate fun with academic texts, but this work by Hayden Cherry offers a thrilling opportunity to picture turn-of-the-20^th-century Saigon like no other work. Pushing back against conventional efforts to understand history through significant dates and powerful figures, Cherry identifies six regular individuals to explain what average life was like in the colonial capital.

Relying on archival documents, including police records across several languages, he provides conjectures for what decisions were made by a prostitute, a Chinese laborer, a rickshaw puller, a Catholic orphan, an incurable invalid, and a destitute Frenchman. Readers are left with an overarching understanding that, within the turbulent time period, much was beyond the control of society’s lower and middle classes, while happenstance and the whims of the elite reverberated across the populace.

Even though 1900s Saigon was only a few generations ago, the time period feels utterly impenetrable compared to the present landscape. While it is a quick and light read, as far as academic texts go at least, what I appreciate most about Down and Out in Saigon is how intimately it renders the realities of living then. It can be difficult to imagine yourself as a colonial authority or a rich landowner, yet when entering the experiences of ordinary citizens, it's possible to envision yourself there and thus discover Saigon anew. It’s bold to say, but to best understand Saigon today, you should pick up this book and go back 130 years.

4. Parallels | Vũ Đình Giang

This list could use a novel, and this is a strange one! Parallels by Vũ Đình Giang, translated by Khải Q. Nguyễn, upends expectations from the beginning. Perspective shifts between characters and epistolary interludes while surrealism creeps in through a series of bizarre behaviors, such as attempts to drown the sun in a crude sluice made with cleaning supplies or plans to murder an adopted puppy. And just when you get the sense the book is content to list on via a nonlinear series of depictions of urban ennui, violent incidents whose veracity cannot be questioned take place. It becomes a revolting examination of humans’ propensity for evil.

Parallels is frequently presented as the first modern homosexual story published in Vietnamese. Hearing that, in a relatively conservative environment, you might expect the book to take a restrained, understated approach to discussing gay sex, but it’s graphic and intertwined with violence. These lurid elements, combined with the experimental writing style is a perfect contrast to many of the popular novels that adhere closely to conventions and deliver near-Disney-esque levels of family-friendly entertainment. It’s nice to be reminded that not all books that make it from Vietnam to the world play it safe, and some have the potential to shock and challenge as well as entertain.

Read Saigoneer’s full review of Parallels here.

5. The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt: Empire, Disease, and Modernity in French Colonial Vietnam | Michael G. Vann and Liz Clarke

Do you like to learn about the selfish cruelty of colonialists and root for the oppressed Vietnamese who employ trickery to outsmart them? Want to do it while looking at colorful illustrations? The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt, an entry in Oxford University’s Graphic History series, which tells intriguing and largely unknown stories with a comic style, is one of those elusive works that is as educational as it is enjoyable.

The core of the book’s pleasure rests in the story itself. France’s empire-building involved “modernizing” Hanoi in western terms, and the transporting of Parisian elements resulted in some unintended consequences. Plague-carrying rats ran rampant via the newly constructed sewer system that connected to the private dwellings of rich French residents. Colonial officials responded by offering a bounty on the rats as issued per submitted tail (dealing with an entire corpse was deemed undesirable by authorities). Inevitably, locals would simply cut the tails off rats so their revenue stream would continue to breed and even open rat farms outside of the city.

The graphic novel provides a great lesson in hubris and unintended consequences that applies to contexts far beyond colonial Vietnam. But it should be particularly interesting if you are interested in the nation’s history as its filled with asides and anecdotes, including the story behind the statue of liberty that once stood in Turtle Lake. Clever layout decisions, such as including rendering Vietnamese dialogue red-bordered speech bubbles and French in blue to show how the two groups lived side-by-side yet maintained only a minimal understanding of one another, enhance the experience.

Following the graphic novel, there are extensive prose sections that delve into the primary sources used, offer historical context for those not familiar with Vietnamese history and, most interestingly, a “making of” discussion that reveals how the book was envisioned and completed, offering a powerful guide for how to find and tell stories that make history engaging, which is something Saigoneer can certainly get behind.

Read Saigoneer’s article about The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt here.

'Making a Whore' Is Both Less and More Revealing Than Its Reputation Suggests

2026-04-12T14:00:00+07:00

For the first time, Vũ Trọng Phụng’s novel Làm đĩ is available in English. Originally published in 1936, the novel has been translated by Đinh Ngọc Mai under the title Making a Whore and was released last year by Major Books, an independent publishing house dedicated to making Vietnamese literature more available for the English-speaking world.

The highly prolific writer Vũ Trọng Phụng is perhaps best known for his satirical novel Số đỏ, or Dumb Luck — a scathing critique of westernization, or “Europeanization,” and the rise of the bourgeoisie class in colonial Vietnam. Many Vietnamese are no doubt familiar with Dumb Luck, as an excerpt of it is featured in the official literature curriculum for Vietnamese high schools. He was praised by the historian Peter Zinoman in the introduction to Making a Whore as “widely considered twentieth-century Vietnam’s greatest writer,” and his literary influences on future generations have far outlived his own short-lived life, which tragically ended at the young age of 26 due to tuberculosis.

At the time of its publication, Making a Whore was highly controversial amongst critics and intellectuals, the debate having been whether Phụng’s novel “should be denounced as pornography or praised as a bold contribution to science and sex education.” For readers today, nine decades after the novel’s original publication, the debate may strike as a bit silly. Making a Whore is neither as sexually explicit nor raunchy as some popular novels of today, nor is the novel really that informative when it comes to offering practical sex education. Nonetheless, the novel offers us acute perspectives into the fascinating discourses on gender and sexuality of late colonial Vietnam.

Image via Facebook page Mộng Tình Lâu.

In his own introduction to the novel, Phụng explains that the purpose of his novel is “to urge moralists and parents to care for their children’s happiness and to pay attention to what corrupt prejudices still consider dirty: that is, sexuality.” As one of his more widely acclaimed novels, the new translation marks a major step forward in expanding the horizon of English-language readership and scholarship on Phụng and his complex views on sex, gender, and colonial modernity.

The story

Making a Whore begins with two friends — the narrator and his longtime friend Quý, who has come to visit — embarking on a night out in town and eventually ending up at a licensed brothel. There, the hostess asks them to wait in a room for their prostitute to arrive. To their surprise, the prostitute who arrives is none other than Huyền, a girl that Quý had obsessed over in high school, who was adored by everyone for her beauty, her seemingly innocent yet sophisticated mannerisms, and her noble family background.

The two friends thus abandon their original purpose for coming to the brothel entirely and begin inquiring into Huyền’s life, their central curiosity being how a girl like Huyền, “well-groomed, well-behaved, well-raised, the daughter of a judge, the niece of a doctor,” could end up in such a place. “How come the Creator let such a marvel of nature fall from grace without batting an eye? How did society let someone go off the rails without a shred of regret?” asks the narrator.

What follows is Huyền’s story told in the form of a novel manuscript within a novel, structured into four chapters: “Puberty,” “Into the World,” “Married Life,” and “Debauchery.” As Huyền’s life progresses through the respective stages, her “sexual crisis” increasingly spirals out of control. Despite the fact that, by the very structure of the novel, readers follow Huyền’s story already well aware of its ending, the sequence in which Huyền’s life unravels is alluring at every turn. The novel is highly accessible, relatively short for its genre, and its tone and style rather straightforward and blunt. On some level, the novel’s plot — as well as its characters — at times feels a bit absurd, but that is part of the novel’s charm. For it is through such absurdity that Phụng satirizes the “sexual chaos” of late colonial Vietnamese society.

Repression and westernization

Who or what is to be blamed of Huyền’s corruption? For Phụng, the answer is two-pronged: the lack of proper sex education for adolescents and the influences of westernization.

Reflecting back on her life journey, Huyền remarks, “puberty, a rotten environment, and unsavoury company, all fused into a flawed education system that eventually threw me to the wolves.” Seemingly drawing on Freud’s notion of the “return of the repressed” — whose psychoanalytic theory greatly influenced Phụng’s novel — Phụng urges readers to understand Huyền’s sexual “perversions” later in life as the direct effects of her repression conditioned by her improper sex education and adults’ stigmatization of the topic of sex. As a child, deeply curious about her mother’s pregnancy, Huyền asks how babies are born, to which her aunt answers “through the armpits,” only before her father aggressively disapproves of her question and orders her to go away. Without proper sex education, and fueled by the burning lust typical of adolescence, she is left to explore her sexuality via other means: physically, through masturbation; and theoretically, through a book on the “science” of sex. The irony is that the adults themselves — responsible for the intense shaming and stigmatization that conditions such repression — freely indulge in bodily and material pleasures, often in plain sight in front of their children, and often in morally corrupt ways, as in the case of Huyền’s own father, who engages in adultery.

But it is not just the lack of sex education that is to blame. For Phụng, it is also westernization and its culture of materialism. In one telling moment, Huyền remarks that, in some sense, her “corruption” began with “a pair of white trousers” — which at the time, was considered the hallmark of a “modern” woman’s look. According to Huyền, what began as an insignificant pair of white trousers opened the way for a slippery slope of increasingly western and liberal ways of socializing, all of which eventually resulted in debauchery, corruption, and prostitution. As Phụng summarizes his views succinctly:

The meeting of East and West on this strip of land has strongly influenced our material lives. What could be more absurd than having accepted the new lifestyle, which includes theatres, cinemas, modern clothes, dancing houses, perfumes, and waxes, which are conditions that make humanity more and more SEXUAL, but at the same time not recognising the need to propagate the issue of education about SEXUALITY, in order to teach future generations how to sex ethically, to sex honestly, and to sex in a way that will not cause harm to your race?

Here, it is worth noting that the title Making a Whore is a significant departure from the title that English-language scholarship had traditionally used, To Be a Whore. In Vietnamese, the verb làm can mean both making and to be. The change in the verb is significant in that it reflects Phụng’s general attitude towards the sexual corruption of late colonial society, as demonstrated above. For Phụng, a “whore” is not something that someone simply chooses to be, but rather “made” by factors larger than any one single individual.

Analytical failings

While Making a Whore certainly contains elements that were ahead of its time — such as, importantly, its refusal to depict prostitutes as simply flat-charactered victims, as many others during his time had — his novel also contains key analytical flaws that are worth highlighting.

The Vietnamese-language cover of a previous edition of Làm đĩ.

The first centers around “corruption,” a concept that organizes and structures the entire novel. But what does that word really entail? What specifically makes an act “corrupt”? Part of what is so difficult in trying to determine what Phụng means by “corruption,” or his theory of sexual morality, is that he seems to draw from a hodgepodge of various disparate influences. As Peter Zinoman notes, “Ideas drawn from Freud, modern sexology, and traditional and neo-traditional Sino-Vietnamese discourses about sex commingled in his thinking, making it difficult to attach a meaningful label to his approach to this issue.”

For instance, the “educational book” that Phụng reads in lieu of proper sex education relies on the theory of yin and yang to denounce masturbation as obstructing harmonious equilibrium. “Those who perform the act will think it is identical to copulation, but in fact, copulation between men and women requires the harmony of yin and yang to facilitate blood flow and prevent hygienic mishaps. In the case of masturbation, only yin or yang energy is present; therefore, blood flow remains obstructed.” What we thus have is a concept of “corruption” that seemingly resists a coherent framework. Is masturbation corrupt in the same way that debauchery is corrupt, or even in the way that prostitution is deemed corrupt?

But on some level, the amorphous quality of what is meant by “corruption” may be precisely the point. “Corruption” is perhaps best understood not as any analytically well-defined, objective category, but rather as an expression or reflection of Phụng’s own ideals for Vietnamese society. Ultimately, it is more useful to grasp the term not for what it means, but rather for its ideological function — that of policing sex and gender specifically under a kind of civilizational anxiety.

If prostitution is “wrong,” it is not because it is somehow sexually “corrupt,” but because of its exploitative conditions under gendered capitalism. It is worth asking if Huyền would have still ended up a prostitute had she lived under a different socioeconomic system.

The other major way in which Making a Whore is analytically confused is in its treatment of materialism. As discussed, Phụng directs much of the blame of Huyền’s said “corruption” — epitomized by her prostitution — to materialism, as a force of westernization. But here, Phụng fails to differentiate between the two distinct concepts of “materialism” and capitalism — the former of which should be understood as the cultural and ideological manifestation of the latter. Without revealing too much of the novel, while materialism does indeed lead Huyền to act in increasingly “corrupt” ways, what ultimately pushes Huyền into prostitution is not corruption via materialism per se, but rather economic necessity. In other words, what ultimately pushes Huyền into prostitution is the economic system of capitalism — which, through the brutal violence of colonialism, expropriated and dispossessed the population at large, foreclosing conditions for relatively self-sufficient subsistence. Or more specifically, what is responsible is capitalism paired with an existing structure of patriarchy that severely curtailed women’s socioeconomic freedoms. If prostitution is “wrong,” it is not because it is somehow sexually “corrupt,” but because of its exploitative conditions under gendered capitalism. It is worth asking if Huyền would have still ended up a prostitute had she lived under a different socioeconomic system.

Making a Whore is analytically messy and full of tensions and contradictions. I outline this, however, not to dissuade readers from picking up the book, but because I think that what makes a book like Making a Whore such an engaging and fascinating read is precisely its multitude of tensions and contradictions, and the ways in which they reveal much about its own time. In this sense, the analytical flaws in the book are the direct product — which is to say, a critical perspective into — an extremely dynamic and formative time in Vietnam’s national history when deeply difficult and important questions were being debated and unfurled in real time: a time when gender norms were clashing intensely against notions of modernity, a time when the independence movement was fractured across nationalists and communists who disagreed on the subject of capitalism. If there is a reason to read Making a Whore, it is not for the answers it offers to the questions it raises, but rather for what it reveals about the very terrain or horizon in which such questions were being raised and debated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saigon Central Post Office

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

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

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

“Really?” gasped Linda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April 30 Reunification Park

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bánh Mì Như Lan

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

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

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

Hotel Majestic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was first published in 2023.

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

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

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

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

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

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

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

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

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

Photo via Nguyễn Phan Quế Mais Facebook page.

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

Top image via Nguyễn Phan Quế Mais Facebook page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

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

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

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

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

Photo by Kevin Lee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A photo of Dạ Ngân from her personal collection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2018.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Dương Hướng. Photo via Quảng Nhin Online.

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

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

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

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

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

5 Books by Vietnamese Authors Centered on Strong Female Protagonists

2025-10-20T10:00:00+07:00

Literature, more than any other art form, allows people an intimate vantage point from which to witness the experiences, emotions, and thoughts of individuals drastically different from themselves. Books thus hold the unparalleled power to inspire, foster empathy, and expand one’s understanding of the human condition.

Generational, racial, socio-economic, and political chasms can be reduced when one is granted access to a character's inner monologue and they “see” the world through different eyes. Strong female protagonists are essential as they allow men to better understand the challenges and strengths of all-too-often marginalized women, and present role models and comforting companionship for female readers.

In honor of Vietnamese Women’s Day, Saigoneer has selected five books written by Vietnamese authors that feature strong female protagonists. Each is a carefully crafted and entertaining work in its own right, but the brave and often-endearing women at their centers make compelling arguments for the value of female characters for readers from all backgrounds and demographics.

1. Pearls of the Far East | Nguyễn Thị Minh Ngọc

Photo via Tiki.

A young woman pretends to be the girlfriend of a soldier she knows to be dead while visiting his mother; a young woman seeks to re-establish her family’s successful fish sauce company as a way to connect with their legacy after they all flee the country; a young woman grows up in a roadside hourly hotel her mother runs while her teacher courts her; a young woman befriends a disabled boy who abruptly leaves only to reappear five years later: the scenarios presented in Pearls of the Far East force characters into difficult situations. Happenstances beyond their control, however, do not remove the their agency and their choices reveal the power women can have over their fates.

Adapted into a feature film staring Trương Ngọc Ánh and a young Ngô Thanh Vân, this collection of stories provides a mosaic of unique experiences highlighting the diverse trajectories lives follow. Often bittersweet, the endings eschew fairy-tale resolutions and invite readers to ruminate on unresolved questions. Far from escapism, the emotionally wrought narratives reflect the challenges of elevating beyond one’s material conditions.

2. An Insignificant Family | Dạ Ngân

Photo via Northwest University Press.

Compared to fighting a war, how difficult could love, motherhood and professional success be? An Insignificant Family by Dạ Ngân explores how women must cultivate self-reliance and fight for their personal happiness and the health and safety of their families.

After serving in the Southern Liberation Army, Tiệp, a fictionalized version of the author, is left with two children, a loveless marriage, uncertain prospects in a sexist profession and the abject poverty plaguing the nation. While her crafty ability to cobble together a livelihood with the scraps and tatters of a re-building nation is admirable, the most powerful moments of the novel come when she boldly pursues a relationship that society shuns, politics condemns and material conditions consistently thwart. The love story between her and a married writer from the north that plays out across the length of the nation via years of letters, train rides, and clandestine meetings, is a raw portrayal of the sacrifices one must make to maximize the circumstances life has handed them. If you want proof that happiness can be won via gritty determination, cunning independence and unceasing adherence to one’s internal compass, An Insignificant Family is for you.

Read Saigoneer’s profile of Dạ Ngân here

3. Chinatown | Thuận

Photo via Tilted Axis Press.

When we think of heroism, we typically imagine war or moments of extreme physical danger, but what about the heroics needed to endure the mundane? Thuận’s Chinatown investigates the resilience required to navigate the commonplace challenges of single motherhood, loneliness, migration, occupational drudgery and boredom.

In uncompromisingly repetitive prose, the unnamed narrator invites readers to experience her self-professed boring life filled with train rides to bureaucratic visa offices through shabby rural Parisian districts, bland sandwiches, cramped Hanoi apartments and petty office politics. By the time the novel circles back on itself, inching toward the very moment it began, readers will feel as if they have traveled a full route from 1980s Vietnam to present-day France with an individual who admits “I now knew enough to make people bored, and to understand that when people are bored they leave me alone.”

Chinatown is a testament to the resilience needed to simply make it through another hour, day, week, year, life. Far from grand or glamorous, the life offered might mirror that of the reader, or someone the reader knows, or perhaps a random stranger sitting nearby on public transportation. Regardless, it should cause one to look with a bit more sympathy and admiration at the small struggles women constantly face and overcome.

Read Saigoneer’s full review of Chinatown here

4. Green Papayas | Nhung N. Tran-Davies

Long stories don’t always require a lot of words. This picture book by Nhung N. Tran-Davies contains only a few sparse, evocative scenes and memories to bring its main character, Oma, to life as she lives out her final days in the hospital experiencing dementia. The narrator recounts her mother’s life for her own children, stressing how much Oma endured, including foregoing an education or food for the sake of a family she no longer remembers.

Photos via Amazon.

While the writing is simple and effective, the illustrations by Gillian Newland elevate the emotion contained in each description and scene, from shelter constructed in the wilderness to cramped post-war factories. Dedicated to her children in honor of their bà ngoại, Nhung’s powerful work takes on a metaphysical double meaning about the necessity of passing along stories while memories of them remain.

5. Dust Child | Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

Photo via Goodreads.

One of the three braided narratives featured in best-selling author Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s second novel Dust Child tells the story of Trang, a young woman from the countryside who moves to Saigon to work as a bargirl during the war with America. When she becomes pregnant with her American serviceman boyfriend’s child she must grapple with the choice of having a child not only during war, but also against the desire of her family and in defiance of societal norms.

In beautifully poetic descriptions and moments of earnest self-reflection, Trang lays bare the consequences and opportunities of choosing motherhood. In some ways a coming-of-age tale, Trang's journey articulates the excruciating tightrope women must often walk between independence and filial responsibility while balancing their own desires and the expectations society thrusts upon them. Paradoxically, Trang's tenderness and innocence guide her through the process of replacing what is lost in the process of becoming an adult. It shouldn’t surprise readers that in addition to Trang's story, women in the book act as catalysts for forgiveness, healing and growth for not just individuals but nations.

Read Saigoneer’s exploration of Dust Child’s locations with the author here

Bonus: Longings: Contemporary Fiction by Vietnamese Women Writers

Photo via Texas Tech University Press.

As a bonus entry, Saigoneer recommends Longings: Contemporary Fiction by Vietnamese Women Writers. This recently published collection of 22 stories by female authors traverses a wide range of topics, perspectives, and styles. The women at the center of the stories confront natural disasters, domestic abuse, disappointing love, war, patriarchy and dire economic conditions. Providing conflicting interpretations and philosophies about the world, the narrators combine to underscore how women constitute a diverse, non-homogeneous group that can hardly be reduced to a single day of celebration.

Read Saigoneer’s review of Longings here.

Vietnamese Creators Teach Kids to Appreciate Rice in 'Con Ăn Hết Rồi' Book Project

2025-10-14T14:00:00+07:00

If one day, the grains of rice that you frequently put in your mouth suddenly start to move, talk, and give you a rundown on how they were created on the field, would you believe it? This seemingly absurd scenario is exactly what happened to Minh, a little boy who's the main character of Con ăn hết rồi!, a children's book by author Đỗ Nguyệt Hà and illustrator Lê Phương Quỳnh, also known as Buffy.

The book, released both in Vietnamese as Con ăn hết rồi! (I've finished my food!) and in English as Minh and the Magic Grains of Rice, discusses a topic that stays close to Hà's heart. She was born and raised in Thái Bình, a province in northern Vietnam, and has always wanted to write a story based on her background and interests in rural Vietnam and the environment. A workshop supported by Room to Read, a non-profit organization that distributes children’s storybooks in Hồ Chí Minh City, allowed her and Buffy to do realize that dream. The result was Magic Grains, a charming children's storybook using inspirations from Vietnamese folklore to deliver a meaningful story and educate kids on the issues surrounding food waste.

The English-language book cover.

The Vietnamese-language book cover.

In the story, Minh, the protagonist, refuses to finish his rice bowl and thus deeply offends the magic rice grains, prompting them to take him on an adventure to learn about how rice is made and how it should be appreciated. Some details in the book are connected to Vietnam's folk belief that rice was given to humans by the gods in heaven. In addition, this book makes an effort to maintain cultural authenticity by including many Vietnamese elements, such as proverbs that play a crucial role in detailing the process of making rice. According to Quỳnh, the creators fought to keep them in the book’s English edition: “Readers from American culture don’t know and understand much about Vietnamese proverbs. It took us a whole year to convince the publishing house to keep them, because they are the core of our story.”

The magical grains of rice lead Minh on a journey to discover the values of rice. Image via Chronicle Books.

During the process of creating Con ăn hết rồi!, Buffy worked side-by-side with Hà to develop the storyline as well as its illustrations. Receiving support and feedback from other artists in the workshop, they went through rounds of adjustments to fine-tune the character designs. For example, the concept behind the “Ông Trời” (King of Heaven) character went from human-like to being portrayed through natural elements like trees and clouds.

Still, Buffy's creative journey with this book wasn’t one without struggles. Minh’s transformation scene from his world to the magic rice grains’ dream world was one of the most challenging to draw: “Unlike in movies, where the transition between worlds can be easily portrayed through character movements, only a few frames in the book can be used to illustrate it.” It took her several attempts to finalize this scene because she needed to make the transition as straightforward as possible, while still fully depicting the main character's journey to the dream world and back to the main world. Fortunately, it all paid off in the end, as many drawings in the book turned out beautiful, conveying the exact message Buffy wanted to tell: positivity and happiness for the audience through her fun, whimsical, and colorful art style.

The concept behind the Minh character.

The concept art of the magical rice grains.

Con ăn hết rồi! was Buffy’s first book illustration project, and to her, it was vastly different from drawing one or two standalone pictures, which involves drawing whatever she has in mind without having to create a first sketch. Producing an entire illustrated book, however, required her to go through various steps, such as creating first sketches, designing characters, visualizing the world and the background, identifying how a certain amount of content in the book can be illustrated, creating a storyboard for the books’ illustrations, and so on.

The creators make a point to include Vietnamese proverbs in the book.

Buffy shared that this book helped her learn a great deal about the creation of picture storybooks and their diversity in terms of themes, approaches, and content across different nations, in addition to enabling her to publish her own book. The process also strengthened her love for making picture books. Many scenes in Con ăn hết rồi! hold special meanings for her as well. One of which is the scenes where the rice field transforms through different season: “I love depicting something through various perspectives, different times like that. I think it was an enjoyable experience.”

Lucky envelops by Buffy.

As the book materialized, so did Buffy’s realization that illustration could be more than just a profession — it's the thread that has interwoven with her life since childhood. Growing up, she found making friends difficult, so drawing became her way of entertaining herself when the world felt too distant, and this hobby later grew into a burning passion. “I felt like I had a certain sense of peace whenever I drew,” she recalls. “So I thought ‘oh, maybe I should pursue this career path.’” Through many ups and downs, she realized that talent alone wouldn't be enough to succeed in this industry; persistence and hard work are crucial, as one cannot expect to produce beautiful artworks on the first try. It takes many attempts and much effort to achieve it. Her true joy, however, lies in the process of creation itself. “It was that journey of creating, that emotion when you get to make something with your hands by yourself…I feel like those are the happiness of making art.”

Book cover artwork by Buffy.

Everything Buffy learned throughout her journey with art was distilled into Con ăn hết rồi!. It's a story about appreciating small things in life, which perfectly reflects the way Buffy sees drawing and creativity. For her, they have always been both a refuge and a revelation, flourishing quietly and consistently with passion, patience, and care. “It’s like the universe saying that I can only do this, I can only draw for the rest of my life,” she said. Perhaps that, too, is its own kind of magic: the joy of creating, line by line, grain by grain.

Illustrations courtesy of Buffy. To see more of her works, visit her Instagram account @f.buffy.

Enlightening Misery Under French Rule Explored in 'Light Out and Modern Vietnamese Stories'

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

Light Out and Modern Vietnamese Stories, 1930–1954 offers the contemporary reader an honest glimpse of a period in Vietnam history characterized by corruption, exploitation, dehumanization, poverty, and starvation. The Vietnamese texts, both a novella and accompanying short stories, not only delineate the immediate influence of French colonization on the sociopolitical functions of Vietnam, an enterprise solely designed for its economic potential, but also expose the extending impact on the quotidian lives of proletarians, particularly the peasantry.

The 18 complementary short stories in Light Out and Modern Vietnamese Stories, 1930–1954, carefully selected by the translators Quan Manh Ha and Paul Christiansen, do not highlight a single common theme addressed in the novella Light Out by Ngô Tất Tố; rather, each story explores its own social issue, and, as a whole, the collection paints a complete picture of the historical period with a variety of perspectives. However educational the book may be, by no means is it a pleasant read, as the dominating pessimism, gloomy picture, and blunt and unembellished language reinvigorate a tragic and tumultuous period in Vietnamese history.

A brutal look into the misery of the peasantry under French colonization

As the centerpiece of the book, ‘Light Out’ (Tắt đèn) serves as the predominant text, extensively outlining the Vietnamese experience during colonial Vietnam under the French. Though beginning with a glimpse of farm workers’ quotidian life, the pastoral scene is suddenly disrupted by a conflict instigated by their masters’ unpaid poll taxes. Immediately, the novella addresses an issue permeating colonial Vietnam: the exorbitant taxes levied on the Vietnamese peasantry by the French, while denouncing the economic and local political corruption and labor exploitation experienced by titled workers.

In Light Out, this is evident when the aforementioned plowmen receive undue punishments on behalf of their masters’ negligence with tax payments, or when the village mayor who, in the midst of a vehement argument, admits to fraud implemented through tax collection. Such corruption is extended in Nguyễn Công Hoan’s included ‘Carrion Eaters’ (Thịt người chết) by the coroner, who abuses his position to seek a disproportionate bribe from Mr. Cứu. Through their uncensored depictions of the foundational corruption in the system governing villages, many stories expose the systematic poverty imposed on the peasantry and delineate the oppression that impedes any means of escape or social advancement: simply, one is born a peasant and dies as a miserable peasant.

“Famine and hunger are so prevalent in both the novella and the short stories that starvation becomes the norm — and even banal. Perhaps even more terrifying is the thought that these scenes reflect the actual social situation during colonial Vietnam; they are but a glimpse of historical reality.”

With a cycle of poverty, the peasantry are inevitably thrust into destitution, where hunger becomes a regularly endured hardship. This state is a salient issue sustained throughout the book, from Dần’s tantrums and Mrs. Dậu’s struggle to produce milk for Tỉu in Light Out to the beggar’s resolve to eat from a dog’s bowl in Nguyễn Công Hoan’s ‘The Teeth of an Upper-Class Family’s Dog’ (Răng con chó nhà tư sản) or Mai’s immodest sacrifice impelled by desperation in Thạch Lam’s ‘Hunger’ (Đói). The living conditions of peasantry are aptly characterized as a state of constant privation, and the writers deliver the brutal reality directly without euphemistic expressions nor beautifying the situation. One can only shudder at the gut-wrenching scene of starved villagers littering the street market that Kim Lân so matter-of-factly depicts in ‘Common-Law Wife’ (Vợ nhặt). In fact, famine and hunger are so prevalent in both the novella and the short stories that starvation becomes the norm — and even banal. Perhaps even more terrifying is the thought that these scenes reflect the actual social situation during colonial Vietnam; they are but a glimpse of historical reality.

Ironically, the only suffering depicted in all stories is strictly that of humans, particularly the proletarians, and especially the peasantry. Never is the reader’s sympathy invoked through the hardship of an animal on the brink of starvation. In fact, the death of any animal, for that matter, is simply absent from all stories in the book, except for the brief mention of the death of Mr. Hoàng’s German shepherd in Nam Cao’s ‘The Eyes’ (Đôi mắt), which is ascribed to the consumption of hazardous waste rather than starvation. The living conditions of animals are presented in a manner that generally supersede those of the peasantry.

In ‘Light Out,’ while the Dậu family endures punitive consequences for unpaid taxes, the mother dog earns no whipping for she has no monetary responsibility, and when Mrs. Dậu visits Deputy Quế’s house, she observes in the courtyard pigeons, sows, and chickens living an undisturbed and luxurious lifestyle, one that drastically contrasts the penury conditions of the Dậu family. In ‘The Teeth of an Upper-Class Family’s Dog,’ while Lu, the Braque d’Auvergne, is regularly fed by its owner, the beggar is in critical condition due to hunger. Such intentional juxtaposition addresses the demeaning aspect of the severity of the peasantry’s living condition, for it presents savage creatures as objects of envy. The severity is only intensified by the recurring presence of the rooster in ‘Light Out,’ who is neither worried of financial burdens nor interrupted amidst the submission of his glorious crow. The symbolic presence of the rooster denotes that even the rooster leads a better life than any peasant.

Portrait of Ngô Tất Tố as featured in the early 1940s in Nhà Văn Hiện Đại. Image via Wikimedia.

The perils of forced westernization

As delineated, many of the stories explore the implications of French colonialism and its immediate impact on the general functions of local villages and the lives of villagers, though they prompt a rather simple question: where are the French? Rather than directly addressing or portraying a French figure, many stories portray the overbearing presence of the French through depictions of foreign influence on the daily operations of business and life, such as the use of the western counting method, calendar, and clock, or the western clothes among the colonial landowners and other bourgeoisie. Such prevalence of western influence forms a dichotomy between the old ways (i.e., folk customs and traditional methods upheld by Vietnam before French colonization) and the new ways (i.e., imported western traditions and methods), a division which advances the debate of what old ways to maintain and what new ways to adopt.

Yet, with the rapid westernization imposed on Vietnam by its dominating French colonizer, the Vietnamese public was forced to adopt the unfamiliar new ways with no compromise. This manner of westernization and its immediate consequences are heavily criticized in Light Out, as any implementation of the new way is always accompanied with errors and confusion: for instance, the western counting method, rather than the traditional oriental method, leads to numerous recalculations for the mayor or the sestern calendar, as opposed to the lunar calendar, which results in an additional financial burden that confuses Mrs. Dậu and even the Mandarin.

“In essence, the narratives call for a progressive re-examination of the state of cultural representation, both for the old and new, rather than an outright rejection of westernization.”

Vũ Trọng Phụng also plays on this absurdity in his ‘From Theory to Practice’ (Từ lý thuyết đến thực hành) by bluntly beginning the short story with “He was Westernized,” only to then satirically proceed with refutations of the fact that expose the hypocrisy practiced by the man. In each case, however, it is not the new way per se that is directly criticized but the underlying issue of user error caused by unfamiliarity with the new ways or the inability to completely abandon preference for certain old ways. Thus, in essence, the narratives call for a progressive re-examination of the state of cultural representation, both for the old and new, rather than an outright rejection of westernization.

With such saturation of suffering, this book becomes the voice on behalf of an illiterate population subject to anti-humanitarian actions and policies, invoking not only sentiments of sympathy and justice but also a spirit of revolution and reform. Further enlarging the literary significance of the book is the copious representation of early 20^th-century Vietnamese authors paired with a nuanced translation that delivers to the reader the Vietnamese writers’ perspectives on the colonial period of Vietnam in an accessible form. This book is a substantial contribution to the limited selection of translated Vietnamese literature that may only be described as a triumph in literary history.

Within the Shocking Brutality of Queer Novel 'Parallels' Rests Poignant Poetry

2025-08-25T14:00:00+07:00

Parallels by Vũ Đình Giang shocked me. While I refrain from spoiling its plot, allow me to share my experience when reading this novel, as translated by Khải Q. Nguyễn, to better explain how the book jolted me from expectations and why the experience provides a unique and valuable addition to the array of Vietnamese novels translated into English.

Parallels, originally published in Vietnamese in 2007 under the name Song Song, follows the lives of three homosexual men in an unnamed Vietnamese city. As established from the onset, it shifts focus between H, a relatively stable design firm employee; and G.g, his artist boyfriend, who seems disturbed from the beginning. A third character, Kan, who works with H, eventually enters to create a love triangle. Told via alternating perspectives interspersed with epistolary moments, the story flirts with surrealism before establishing reality as more frightening than any hallucination.

Cover of the Vietnamese original Song Song. Photo via Tiki.

Each of Parallels’ numbered chapters begins without establishing whose perspective is being offered, causing initial challenges in orienting oneself, particularly early in the book when reader tries to become acquainted with the characters and settings. Upon adjusting to this style, I could focus on what I believed to be a novel content to dwell on stylized depictions of the men’s mundane lives, augmented by articulations of emotional and psychological upheaval. About one-third of the way through, I sensed the book had settled into its final form where, absent a plot, the described moods, feelings, and ideas about art and life would constitute its gravity. The experience, I expected, would be a bit like how chapter 26 opens, with G.g opining: “People often complain that a year goes by too quickly. But for me, it often feels too long. Throughout the past year, there were no significant incidents or events. After work, I didn’t say goodbye to my colleagues; I just got on my motorcycle and left. After leaving any group of people, I immediately reverted to my original position, the position of an individual object. That rapid qualitative change was the result of a metaphysical needle being inserted into my body, draining the blood, and then pumping air in. I’d become an empty shell, a lifeless corpse, a hollow carcass. I’d be nothing but an empty nylon bag dragged along by the wind.”

An acrid strangeness fills the space where a plot could fit early in the book. H and G.g fritter away their time with bizarre games, including filling a basin with a putrid mixture of household goods and ingredients so as to drown the sun via its reflection. They paint mushroom caps so H’s co-workers think he is consuming poisonous fungi. They even discuss plans to murder an adopted puppy upon its first birthday while G.g repeatedly fantasizes about murder: “I didn’t feel guilty when I thought about killing him. I thought it was a beautiful idea, very poetic. Fly. Fly. Fly. I wanted to see how humans fly. I was waiting for a chance, and I would do it.”

Initially, I took these bouts of imagined violence as the angsty ramblings of poetic young adults, intoxicated by their macabre posturing. When G.g calls H in the middle of the night to announce that he is surrounded by wild wolves, H’s rational response assured me that there was a clear line between fantastic derangement and reality, and at least one of the characters knew which side we stood upon: “Do you think you’re lost in some wild forest? Listen to me, this is the city, and wolves can only come out of the Discovery Channel.”

However, soon the violence ramps up, and along with it, enough clarity to remove any uncertainties that could have cloaked terrific carnage in the surreal daydreams as had been suggested by a quote attributed to the puppy that comes before the first chapter: “Don’t rush to trust anyone, don’t try to find meaning in actions; maybe they’re simply a game, maybe it’s all the product of madness.” While I will leave it vague enough so as not to ruin a reading of it, the actions are in line with a grisly Hollywood movie that would need scenes trimmed before it could be screened at the local CGV.

Along with the violence, the novel’s approach to sexuality undergoes a radical shift in the second half of the book. At first, I was struck by how commonplace the homosexual lifestyles were presented, and found myself reflecting on how this reveals a normalizing of gay relationships in society. Love between men was referenced with the casual respect paid to any routine aspect of life. For example, early on H remarks off-handedly when describing G.g’s home: “So many times I’ve had to discard used condoms that G.g left under the bed, and I always had to have a tube of lubricant available, for G.g didn’t care.”

Somewhat rapidly, this changes, and the novel becomes filled with lurid details and graphic descriptions of BDSM. This particularly occurs as the characters share stories of their pasts, including Kan who recounts a lover who enjoyed being beaten:

“Kneeling, arms bent forwards at the elbows, he tilted his head upwards at an angle of about fifteen degrees. His thighs were wide apart. With that posture and his white, naked body, he looked like a frog with its skin peeled, patiently waiting for its prey.
The bait was the lashing of the whip.
The frog’s face deformed with each convulsion. Its mouth opened wide; its tongue was filled with foam, it groaned incessantly, and it soon reached the climax of its orgasm, sending a strong stream of semen onto the bed.”

While not interested in discerning morality, these depictions, which include a predatory relationship between a young, possibly underage man and a much older man who becomes his "adoptive father,” seem to relish in their potential to unsettle polite society.

Much like the transition from daydreamed violence to horrific bloodshed, this move from blasé depictions of sex lives to graphic retellings upended what I had assumed Parallels was at its core. These surprising shifts, I realized, are rather unique to Vietnamese literature translated into English. Many translated novels offer familiar narrative arcs that at least follow the rules they set out for themselves at the onset. While some such as Nguyễn Ngọc Tư's Water: A Chronicle, deviate from conventional storytelling techniques, plot structures and movements, relishing in intentional mystery and lack of closure, and others, including Thuận's Chinatown, refuse to meet reader’s expectations for tension and meaning, I have yet to read one that so flagrently upends the expectations it establishes.

Having finished the novel, I will return to the beginning, re-reading with awareness of where it ends and suspicion that the slippage of angst into mayhem should have been obvious, and I merely glossed over the hints. Or maybe I misunderstood the reality of the ending. And if either of these is true, it’s of little importance, because while the plot and its consequences, which are both legally profound and emotionally wrought, provided the tension that carried me through the book’s final half, it’s the unique style, voices, and heart-wrenching anecdotes that will remain with me. These are present from the very beginning.

In juicy, metaphor-rich prose, readers are gifted access to the complex interiors of complete individuals. It’s unclear which moments within these minds frightened me most; those when I heard echoes of myself, or recognized that the full spectrum of humanity contains individuals with diametrically opposing experiences and philosophies: “People thought I was simple, and a bit unstable. I didn’t give a fuck. Caring about what people thought was a waste of time. I had my own goals and principles. I lived for myself and because of myself; I did what was needed to meet what I aspired, demanded, worshipped. I knew I was selfish, but I was happy that way. I only cared about what I wanted, and I took up all its ramifications. Norms belonged to another paradigm that had nothing to do with me. I had my own universe, my own satellites, and I revolved around my own orbit.”

A Story of Personal, Political Reckoning in a Singaporean Writer's Fictional Wartime Vietnam

2025-07-14T10:00:00+07:00

The Immolation first came to me as a bewildering surprise: at a now-relocated bookshop in Singapore, the book caught the eyes of the 17-year-old me. It was not so much the cover’s pale blue background, or the expression of ennui on the author’s post-impressionist portrait, but rather its dealing with the American War. After all, the title directly referenced the iconic protest by the Buddhist monk Thích Quảng Đức, who set himself on fire on the street of Saigon.

Written by Chinese Singaporean writer Goh Poh Seng, The Immolation was first published in 1977, and republished in 2011 by Epigram Books. A note on the its setting: even though the country name is never mentioned once in the book, the proper nouns’ orthography, as well as mentionings of US presence amidst jungle battlefields and bars in the city-capital, etc. are ostensible nods to real-life Vietnam as the novel’s (unnamed) Southeast Asian country setting.

Francis Khoo (left), a lawyer, was among 150 people who staged a demonstration outside the US Embassy at Hill Street, Singapore in 1973. Together with Professor Daniel Green (hidden) from Nanyang University and Lap Choo Lin (center), a University of Singapore graduate, they presented individual petitions to US President Nixon. They were protesting against the bombing of North Vietnam by the US. Image via National Archive Singapore.

The Immolation centers around Thanh, a doctor-turned-wannabe-poet who returns to Saigon after having studied abroad in Paris. He joins the guerilla National Liberation Front (NLF) with his diverse cast of peers, while being haunted by the sight of a monk smiling as he sets himself ablaze, and his relationships with friends, particularly his love interest, My. Through the course of the story, Thanh questions what it means to live and die for a political cause. Henceforth, the novel is a bildungsroman — a literary work focusing on a character’s journey to maturity, and an ambitious one at that — as it demonstrates Goh’s attempt at tackling postcolonial issues set in a country different from his own, while also articulating existential concerns through the eyes of relatively young, idealistic people.

Sensitivity to Vietnamese culture and historical details

I am pleasantly surprised to see Goh approaching Vietnamese culture and historical details with much sensitivity, amidst the host of English-language media at the time centering the western perspectives towards the American War. One can’t help but wonder what specific research processes Goh has taken to write a novel with empathetic engagements with Vietnamese elements.

Through his characters, Goh waxes lyrical about tangerines in the Central Market evoking the festivities of an incoming Lunar New Year, “black, broad-backed” water buffaloes having a bath alongside squealing children in the countryside, or fish sauce: “its heavy, tangy taste was something so age-old, so familiar as to be part of the people of his country […] Without it, no local meal could be considered complete.” He focuses on the struggles of the Vietnamese in wartime, writing about simple spears and booby traps, but also the Vietnamese landscape. “We sometimes forget how beautiful our country is,” My comments. “[We] only remember the fighting; we only see the suffering, […] the beastliness and the evil. [Some] day, after the victory, our people will inherit peace and this beautiful country again.”

Thích Quảng Đức self-immolates in Saigon to protest religious discrimination in 1963. Photo by Malcolm Browne.

A number of historical details are thoughtfully inspired and embedded into the novel. History lovers might recognize Goh’s vivid references to the 1960s student demonstrations against the regime’s dictatorship and US interventions, the 1968 Tet Offensive that includes a brief attack on the Presidential Palace in Saigon, and of course the Buddhist crisis that peaks at Abbott Thích Quảng Đức’s self-immolation. Particularly memorable is a scene where the characters hide inside a bomb shelter: “Thanh huddled in the darkness, his body flexed, his chin resting on his knees, foetal in the womb of earth. The earth smelt of dampness. Even with all that noise, he thought he could hear water trickling, like lilliputian drumming.”

“Thanh huddled in the darkness, his body flexed, his chin resting on his knees, foetal in the womb of earth. The earth smelt of dampness. Even with all that noise, he thought he could hear water trickling, like lilliputian drumming.”

Some historical facts and names of certain characters and locations are, however, imperfect. For instance, it can’t be fully verified if NLF fighters ever conducted espionage in bars, nor the extent to which some of them would elope from their missions. One also wonders whether the spellings are changed in service of Singaporean readers more familiar with the Latin orthography of English and Malay; some names are spelled “Kao” and “Thing Hoai Pagoda,” words that don't exist in Vietnamese. These inaccuracies nevertheless, should not be interpreted as defects in and of themselves. Instead, taken as a whole, I recognize Goh’s respect for and desire to understand more about Vietnamese people and happenings. It seems that his characters, especially Thanh, act as vessels for Goh himself, or any non-Vietnamese readers, to acculturate into the Vietnamese setting — observing first-hand, being amazed by the Vietnamese scenes, while empathizing with Vietnamese guerilla fighters’ experiences.

Nuanced characterizations and the irony of ideological wars

Literature professor Dr. Ismail S. Talib, who wrote the preface to the edition, discusses Vietnam’s geo-political importance as an iconic battleground for post-colonial ideologies and its relative distance from Singapore, and how they are possible reasons why Goh decided to implicitly set his novel there, while exploring themes concerning post-colonial Southeast Asia at large. His cast of Vietnamese characters is diverse and nuanced, exemplifying the different kinds of people with their own reactions and rationalizations to wartime political causes.

Goh Poh Seng was a Singaporean novelist and physician. Photo via Wordpress.

In contrast to Thanh’s brooding uncertainty, his best friend Quang Tuyen is a pragmatic and optimistic journalist with a c’est la vie attitude towards wars and their dilemmas. Meanwhile, his love interest My is a fellow student whose personal sufferings become the catalyst for her idealistic and dogged support for the guerilla’s efforts — she even often chastises Thanh for his constant doubts. It is lovely to read about the cheeky and sincere dynamic between the two friends, and, likewise, the lovers’ earnest yet tricky relationship from Goh’s beautifully crafted dialogues. There are also those like Kao, a peer whose words twisted ideologies in his selfish favors against Thanh himself; Thanh’s father Monsieur Vo, who wanted to shelter his son from joining the guerrilla despite being aware of the government’s corruption; or fellow sympathizer Xuan, who's facing doubts on whether to support the cause fully or protect his family. By constructing characters as diverse individuals across backgrounds, characteristics, and degrees of involvement in a political cause, he rebukes views of revolutionaries as one fanatical monolith blindly devoted to a movement, or those harboring doubts towards it as cowards. Ultimately, perhaps Quang Tuyen says it best: “Just because I am joining the Cause, doesn't mean that I agree with everything […] One reason I'm fighting is that I want the right afterwards for more of our people to be human beings.”

Students march to decry US involvement in Vietnam in 1965. Photo by AP.

It then might be difficult to classify the book as either in support of or against communist guerrilla warfare in Vietnam. Vietnamese readers should not be expected to find a concrete unwavering message of devotion, from frustratingly transient character arcs to an ending that leaves them at an ambiguous cliffhanger with none of the senses of triumph, and a reflective yet indecisive main character with arguably bourgeois and defeatist tendencies: “After the bloodshed, would anything be written on that page?” Thanh ponders. “No, there will be nothing. […] This battle would not even make it to the footnotes of any future history written about their time. No one would know. Probably no one would care either…”

Nonetheless, a great number of examples of Vietnam’s war literature, notably those produced post-reunification, are not too different. From Lê Lựu’s satirical A Time Far Past to the famous The Sorrow of War by Bảo Ninh, these works, while different in their tonalities, strip away the need to reinforce reunification’s feelings of triumph, and instead focus on war traumas and systemic post-war struggles. The Immolation exemplifies Goh’s sensitive foresight to the human condition, acknowledging the desolation of war, but also larger existential themes, such as the ironic freewill that might liberate us from one suffering… to another, yet remains the part and parcel of life.

The Immolation exemplifies Goh’s sensitive foresight to the human condition, acknowledging the desolation of war, but also larger existential themes, such as the ironic freewill that might liberate us from one suffering… to another.

All in all, with such ambivalence and bittersweetness, The Immolation will not attempt to offer readers a definite view of the American War nor a solution through a tumultuous socio-political landscape. “Words. They do not expiate. Nothing can do that,” Goh wrote self-insertingly. “But they make you a little healed, whatever you’re suffering from, or rather the real thing you’re suffering from: man disease.” At this point, it has been my second time reading the novel. Compared to his previous debut novel, If We Dream Too Long, The Immolation has unfortunately not garnered much attention in Singapore or Vietnam.

Maybe I’ve been waxing poetic over this book. I am aware that I might have put the book on a pedestal as a Vietnamese person residing in Singapore, a country already without much overt historical or cultural relations with where I originally come from, compared to its more immediate neighbors. The Immolation, as a novel dealing with political strifes that come with nation-building in Southeast Asia at the time, now becomes, to this reader, a sentimental emblem of shared regional concerns, characterized by empathetic appreciation, and a vision towards an interconnected and, even if idealistic, universal human experience. Perhaps by writing with each other, and reading for each other, a book is no longer a Singaporean novel, nor a Vietnamese one, but a novel we can call ours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Đoàn Lê at age 75.

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

Đoàn Lê in the film Book to Page.

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

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

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

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

‘Xúy Vân,’ Đoàn Lê (1993).

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2018.

[Photos via An Ninh]

Sao La, Self, Hmong Identity: The Many Layers of Poetry Collection 'Primordial'

2025-04-08T11:00:00+07:00

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.”

In Latest Short Story Collection, Andrew Lam Explores Diaspora Drama via Literary Fiction

2025-03-23T10:00:00+07:00

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.

Guilt, Mortality, and Hope in 'Khát Vọng Cho Con' by Poet Du Tử Lê

2025-03-15T10:00:00+07:00

“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:

every time I see the obituaries – I was indifferent as if they were the weather forecast
or even more unperturbed than that

these days, death can no longer surprise us
as it is always here by our side like a shadow

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:

if I ever die, I have no regret
once I take death as the inevitable escape,
a miraculous escape
death is the prize, the last and the only one, for those who are here today

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.

in this era there’s time for checking lottery tickets
dreaming of winning (even it’s the participation prize of 2,000 đồng)
my son, 2,000 is quite a big deal
enough to craft a detailed plan for careful spending
although 2,000 is just enough for a pair of pants

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:

I start to feel anguished thinking about your future in this square box house
I do not know what to say to you
oh my son, the one whom I have not named and whose face I have not seen
I think I could die anytime

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.

I am still anguished not knowing what to leave behind for you when I die
why is there nothing for you? at least I have lived half a life
without building any legacy
what a misfortune for you and humiliation on me.

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:

the night is as soft and viscous as our hope for the future
oh our hope for the future, when could it come true?
and you – will you exist when the truth manifests itself?

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.

Korean Culture Has Stolen Vietnam's Hearts. What About Korean Literature?

2025-02-27T15:00:00+07:00

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.

'I Wander Alone' and 'Your Shirt Button,' Two Poems by Nguyễn Quang Thân

2025-02-24T10:00:00+07:00

“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.

'The Colors of April' Invites Numerous Generations of Vietnamese to Reflect on War

2025-02-05T05:26:00+07:00

“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.

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.