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. Extramarital affairs and divorces carry certain stigmas in contemporary Vietnam, to say nothing of half a century ago. 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. 

Making matters worse, 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanoi's skyline. Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

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

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

The euphoria of construction and how it outpaced reality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rise of urban nostalgia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will tomorrow's nostalgia look like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

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

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

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

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

Photo via International Film Festival Rotterdam.

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

Video via Hsanchia YouTube.

Capturing the natural feel of Saigon

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

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

Gauger on set. Photo via the Orange County Register.

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

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

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

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

Lan and Thúy share noodles. Photo via IMDB.

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

The necessity of being ahead of its time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ongoing life of The Owl and the Sparrow

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details of “Heart” (2025).

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photos courtesy of Nguyễn Đức Tín.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watch Liên Bỉnh Phát's acceptance speech below:

Top photo via Tai Sounds.

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.

In Vietnamese cinema, the female figure has long been employed to deliver macro-level messages rather than just mundane narratives.

The period from 1975 to 1986 marked a major transition in the history of local cinema. According to Lịch sử Điện ảnh Việt Nam (The History of Vietnam Cinema) by playwright Nguyễn Thị Hồng Ngát, this era saw a shift from propaganda productions to more realist films and projects with mass appeal. After đổi mới, local filmmakers have created compelling characters in roles like grandmas, mothers, and sisters to symbolize the resilience and courage of Vietnamese people as they adapted to the nation’s economic, cultural, and social changes.

The ups and downs of a nascent cinematic industry

In 1986, Vietnam transformed from a planned economy to a market economy, bringing about numerous shifts in the lives of citizens. Cinema was one of the mass communication mediums that strikingly reflected these transformations. If the colonial decades gave rise to documentaries and shorts, cinema projects during the rise of socialism in northern Vietnam ushered in some novelty.

Still, the majority of films then were still revolving around war times, labor, and manufacturing, such as Vợ chồng A Phủ (1961), Chị Tư Hậu (1963), Vĩ tuyến 17 ngày và đêm (1972), Em bé Hà Nội (1974), etc. This period gave us a number of talented filmmakers, even though film productions were tightly regulated in both content and execution by the Department of Cinema.

Chị Tư Hậu (1963).

In the south, though there were war-themed movies, like Từ Sài Gòn đến Điện Biên Phủ (1970), the cinematic landscape comprised broader genres like comedies, including Tứ quái Sài Gòn (1973) and Năm vua hề về làng (1974); and romantic dramas like Chân trời tím (1971) and Sau giờ giới nghiêm (1972). In 1975, a range of subjects were featured in local films, even though the most popular titles were mostly war-related, like Mối tình đầu (1977), Mẹ vắng nhà (1979) and Cánh đồng hoang (1979).

Following đổi mới, the market economy resulted in a boom in commercial films, most notably the advent of “mì ăn liền” (instant noodles) projects. These low-stake, accessible, cheaply produced, and easy-to-watch flicks became considerably popular, leading to the rise of Vietnam’s first generation of movie stars like Lý Hùng, Thu Hà, Diễm Hương, and Việt Trinh. Towards the end of the 1990s, the genre lost its mass appeal as art house flicks and foreign collaborations arrived. Projects about Vietnam but helmed by foreign auteurs of Vietnamese descent — such as Trần Anh Hùng (The Scent of Green Papaya) and Tony Bùi (Three Seasons) — were recognized by international film festivals.

“A mother, a wife, a soldier”

The Nguyễn Dynasty, Vietnam’s last period under absolute monarchy, was significantly influenced by Confucianism in how it governed the country. The spread of Confucius teachings became less influential the more southward one moved. Australian historian Barbara Watson Andaya, whose research centers on women’s history in Southeast Asia, wrote that Vietnam during this era wasn’t just dominated by patriarchal beliefs, so matriarchal orders were still followed, and the role of the woman was still respected.

Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (1963).

Films that came out before đổi mới often chose to elevate the role of women through their wartime contributions. In these cases, women were both brave fighters on the battlefield and dependable support behind the scenes. Standout characters included the mother and sister figures in Mẹ vắng nhà (1979), Em bé Hà Nội (1974) and Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (1984).

The majority of female characters featured in movies of this period were involved in the revolution, like those in Đến hẹn lại lên (dir. Trần Vũ, 1974) and Cánh đồng hoang (dir. Vương Hồng Sến, 1979). Many of these were well-received when sent to film festivals organized by the Soviet Union. Nonetheless, besides being celebrated for their war utility, motherhood and sisterhood, few female roles could escape their main use: to consolidate and promote wartime paradigms.

More resources but less mental freedom?

From đổi mới onwards, the role of Vietnamese women in film expanded from just revolutionary icons or reminders of a time of loss and trauma. They started taking on new purposes to reflect the hopes, personal ambitions and new image of the nation in a new age.

The economic reform in 1986 gave way to private enterprises. Women could return to markets to open stores, bringing about the development of street vendors and family businesses operated by female members of the household. Private companies and foreign-invested firms also helped increase gender equality in the workforce. There was a noticeable increase in the number of young women living in urban areas with a stable career. They were afforded more freedom in their choices of entertainment and socialization compared to the previous generation.

An artwork at the exhibition “Đổi Mới - The Journey of Dreams” as seen at the Vietnam Fine Arts Museum in 2016.

Nonetheless, in her article “Gender in Post-Doi Moi Vietnam: Women, desire, and change,” human geographer Lisa Drummond pointed out that even though the economic reform ushered in many changes in the life of Vietnamese women, it also accentuated gender issues that have long been present in the culture. Cultural gender norms and chauvinistic traits in the local society couldn’t be toppled in a day, even though they weren’t as ingrained as before.

During this period, the Vietnamese woman always felt she had to balance between traditional expectations and contemporary ambitions. She had to maneuver the family’s urge for a firstborn son in response to the state’s family planning policies, hide their sexual needs amid the morally oppressive climate of rural Vietnam, while harboring hopes for a better working environment and living condition in the new era of the market economy.

Private and reticent, but not losing their voice

These gender issues were depicted quite prominently in Cô gái trên sông (dir. Đặng Nhật Minh, 1987) and Mùi đu đủ xanh (dir. Trần Anh Hùng, 1993). How these cinematic works portrayed male-female dynamics and relationships between characters showed that gender norms were very clearly defined in our collective minds. As such, men are defined by powerful personae who are intelligent but irresponsible; while women are modest, reserved, faithful and selfless.

Đặng Nhật Minh is amongst the directors who contributed the most to the growth of Vietnamese cinema. As an auteur, he expressed much sympathy for Vietnamese women. After it was released, Cô gái trên sông faced significant censure to the point of nearly getting banned from screening, as it was deemed to be too “tarnishing” to the image of the soldier.

Cô gái trên sông pushed to topple long-established beliefs about women, how they love, and how they express that love.

A realist take on the war genre, Cô gái trên sông caused an uproar due to how it presented the revolutionist soldier as a player, and showed compassion for the main character, a sex worker. The synopsis revolves around Nguyệt, a prostitute living on a boat on the Hương River, and her quest to find a soldier whom she saved from enemy pursuit. When peace is achieved, she hopes to reunite with him, but her dream is shattered when that man, now a high-ranking official, completely brushes aside their connection.

In Cô gái trên sông, Nguyệt’s boldness proved the production’s push to dethrone long-established beliefs about women, how they love, and how they express that love. Besides, its portrayal of the revolutionary soldier as a heartbreaker and one from across the enemy line was faithful and provided a refreshing perspective for cinema at the time, especially when compared to the propaganda films of past centuries. Over the span of his career, even though the majority of Minh’s films were supported by the government, he found ways to edge by, expressing a strong personal voice and airing out his concerns for the country and its people.

Two of this works received support from the British and Japanese governments, respectively: Trở về (1994) and Thương nhớ đồng quê (1996). Both chronicle the journeys of women amid the nation’s cultural shifts in the market economy: urban women have access to spaces to unwind, socialize, and meet new people, enjoying a rich social life; while rural women lack opportunities to expand their social circles. Most of them were confined by strict moral codes and heavy expectations from society to fulfill their predestined roles as wives and mothers.

Mùi đu đủ xanh is a story about the passions and desires of women.

After 1986, Vietnam’s reopening to the world resulted in a number of cinematic works by foreign directors of Vietnamese descent being introduced to local watchers. Most notably, there was Mùi đu đủ xanh (1993), Trần Anh Hùng’s first-ever long feature. It became his most critically acclaimed work of the decade, clinching many international nominations and accolades.

Surrounding Trần Anh Hùng’s oeuvre, debates about “traditions” and “identities” seem never-ending. In Mùi đu đủ xanh, he portrayed an archetypal Vietnamese family, its time-honored customs, and palpable patriarchy via the role of the oldest son in the household. These family hierarchies were deeply entrenched in the minds of female characters, be it in the city or the countryside.

Trần Anh Hùng’s Mùi đu đủ xanh is a distinctively Asian love story — right beside the devotion of the woman lies the void of the man in the family. The plot follows Mùi, a young girl who moves to Saigon to be a live-in maid for a family of northern descent. Mùi, with her deep sensitivity, can detect the cracks and trauma in a seemingly harmonious household.

The mother and the grandma both have to endure the indifference and coldness of the family’s patriarchs. Their efforts and subtle sacrifices remain unsung. Even Mùi, when it comes to her own love journey, chooses to blend in the shadow, taking care of the one she loves from afar, as there’s already a fiance beside him, who’s superior to her in both appearance and poise.

The Asian woman’s affection is juxtaposed with the passion of western expressions of love.

In the movie, the Asian woman’s affection is juxtaposed with the passion of western expressions of love. It highlights how Mùi slowly overcomes the gender hurdles a rural woman often faces to step into the world of her crush, who was educated in the west and deeply influenced by its open lifestyle. In general, with the addition of diasporic films, especially those of Trần Anh Hùng, women in Vietnamese cinema after đổi mới became more multifaceted — at times, still modest, reserved, and obedient, but also strong-willed, progressive, and assertive when it comes to their own existence in the society.

The country shifts when women shift

In addition to highlighting gender issues of the Vietnamese society at the time, filmmakers also imbued their aspirations about the future of the country through women’s individual dreams. Two features that exemplified this trait were Lưỡi dao (dir. Lê Hoàng, 1995) and Ba mùa (dir. Tony Bùi, 1999).

Lưỡi dao came out during the apex of Lê Hoàng’s career, according to many critics. The film is set in 1975 in southern Vietnam, following the life of Nguyệt. After her family perishes during the war, Nguyệt comes to detest the revolutionary army. As her suspicion and fear abate through time, she discovers a shocking truth that forces her to choose between romance and honor. This character is a strong symbol of the efforts to heal wartime wounds, erasing decades of vengefulness that once plagued the nation.

Nguyệt is a strong symbol for the efforts to heal wartime wounds, erasing decades of vengefulness that once plagued the nation.

Meanwhile, Ba mùa, a feature film by Vietnamese American director Tony Bùi, sets up a Vietnamese landscape that’s admittedly quite romanticized, but still carries the spirits of the era. Released three years after the sanctions on Vietnam were lifted, it tells the stories of different female characters living in Saigon during this opening of the economy.

Ba mùa delivers segments that are colorful and sensitive to the intersection of old and new, traditions and modernity. Each woman in the movie represents a different value. Lan, a sex worker, seeks a wealthy life, trying her best to not repeat her mother’s miserable fate; she represents career ambitions and the preservation of youth. An, who was hired to pick lotus blossoms, touches the heart of her leprosy-stricken employer with her singing; she represents Asian intangible values, much like the pristine lotus that she collects.

Lan and An both strive for change, hopes, and the dream to continue living even after hurt and destitution.

If Lan is modern, pragmatic, and quick to leave behind the traditional mindset, An is a traditional woman, symbolizing the dissection of the old orders. Even though they come from different castes of society and make different choices, they both strive for change, hopes, and the dream to continue living even after hurt and destitution — just like how Vietnam was trying step by step to overcome an embattled history and its consequences to turn a new leaf.

Decades after đổi mới, these cinematic works are still recognized by the public and critics as the golden age of Vietnamese cinematic history. Their creators deftly brought the female figure out of revolutionary cinema’s entrenched archetypes. They supported female characters’ rights to live with their own concerns, issues, and dreams, ultimately painting a picture of a growing Vietnam amid a new era’s attitudes, standards, and refreshing perspectives about women.

There is a certain timelessness to the song ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ by Như Quỳnh, especially in the visuals of its very first performance. For generations of Vietnamese listeners, ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ is an icon in the hall of fame of Vietnamese music, but as I have come to discover, the melody that Vietnamese know as ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ has lived a life much richer and more transcendent than it might appear.

In recent years, the music industry’s dynamics have shifted towards fandom and celebrityhood, giving performers more ownership over their music and forming a direct channel for them to communicate their artistry to fans. A song today is, more often than not, closely linked with its performing artist rather than its writer, because in many cases, they are the same person.

For much of Vietnam’s modern music timeline, however, the reverse was more common. Across the 1980s and 1990s, songs, first and foremost, were the creations of composers; and each song could have myriad versions performed by different singers, all vying for the earshot of listeners. My parents identify their favorite tracks by who wrote it, and would argue fervently over which vocalists had the best rendition. Composers were so revered for their artistry and personal style that at times their music could grow to become distinctive genres that are even alive and well today, such as nhạc Trịnh Công Sơn or nhạc Phạm Duy. It’s rather comical to think of a Ryan Tedder, Teddy Park, or Hứa Kim Tuyền anthology CD released today.

Như Quỳnh in the 1990s in her 20s. Photo via Nhạc Xưa.

One thing that my parents, and likely many listeners from their generation, would agree on, however, is nobody can sing ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ quite like Như Quỳnh. In an era of music when singers were often seen as mere technical executors rather than creators, the enduring impression that this particular version has etched onto our collective consciousness is a testament to Như Quỳnh’s star power, right from the song's very first debut performance.

A wintry love note not about winter

The title ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ could be loosely translated as ‘Winter Paramour.’ The song appeared for the first time in 1994 in the Christmas special of a variety music show by diaspora entertainment studio Asia. The rest of this festive set list naturally featured many Vietnamese versions of famous Noël songs, including ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! and the Spanish-language classic ‘Feliz Navidad.’

The title ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ seems a little hyperbolic at first glance, because the Vietnamese winter is typically much less melodramatic than that of the western world. Apart from some northern provinces where the weather does get chilly towards the end of the year (but no snow), our tropical climate renders winter in the rest of Vietnam rather impotent, hardly romantic enough to inspire seasonal love songs. In reality, the lyrics that composer Anh Bằng wrote use winter as a metaphor for the chilly demeanor with which the love interest treats the male narrator in his reminiscence. “Đường vào tim em ôi băng giá / How icy is the road to your heart,” the man laments as the rainy weather takes him back to those days with her. “Trái tim em muôn đời lạnh lùng. Hỡi ôi trái tim mùa đông / Your heart is forever chilly. O wintry heart,” the song ends on a rather bittersweet note.

‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ by Như Quỳnh, 1994.

This story of male yearning and missed connection is only apparent if one pays attention to the lyrics, because the performance is anything but forlorn. Như Quỳnh walks out on an ivory stage embellished with Christmas trees and white balloons, and starts singing. The music is bouncy and festive, and the melancholy lyrics take on a rather playful and tongue-in-cheek quality, when delivered by Như Quỳnh, as she smiles and sways in place. The song becomes a self-aware assertion from the female perspective, thanks to the Vietnamese language’s flexible pronouns — it’s as if she’s coyly affirming “Yes, it’s not easy to win my affection, what about it?”

The 1980s outfit that has become iconic. Photo via Nhạc Xưa.

This was Như Quỳnh’s first stage performance since she moved abroad; she was 23 years old in the tape recording. Even though she had performed publicly before in Saigon and even won singing competitions, many still single out this performance as the defining moment in Quỳnh’s career. I attribute this to the song’s broad appeal, to viewers both male and female, young and old. Its lyrics are underscored by nostalgia, a key quality that resonates with Vietnamese communities abroad and older fans. Male listeners are obviously drawn to the ingénue image she put on for the live recording; perhaps she reminded them of a similar crush during their formative years. Female viewers, on the other hand, could connect with the confidence and self-assertion in the performance.

Như Quỳnh (left) in a press event for her liveshow Xuân Yêu Thương in 2023. Photo via Thanh Niên.

She’s fun, dresses well, and is literally glowing. The makeup and fashion are flattering, and the singing is naturalistic and not overly indulgent in vocal acrobatics. In the performance, Như Quỳnh wears a red peacoat, a beige pleated miniskirt, black tights and a black beret — a look that has become so iconic that she even recreated it for her comeback concert in Hanoi in 2018. While this ensemble evoked heavy 1980s influence and might look a little dated if seen during the 2010s, it appears surprisingly in place today, given the resurgence of appreciation for retro aesthetics in the 2020s across multiple cultural disciplines from music, cinema to fashion.

The melody that transcends languages

‘Rouge’ by Naomi Chiaki, 1977.

That memorable live stage might have been the first time many Vietnamese heard ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông,’ but few are aware that this melody actually originated from Japan under the name ルージュ (Rouge/Lipstick), written by singer-songwriter Miyuki Nakajima for veteran singer Naomi Chiaki. ‘Rouge’ was released as a single in 1977 for Chiaki’s album, but it underperformed compared to the rest of the tracks. If ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ sings of regret and unfulfilled relationships of a man, ‘Rouge’ is the reminiscence of a woman who left home in search of a long-lost lover and had to find temporary work as a bar hostess. Her lover is nowhere to be found, and she reflects on how the journey has changed her, yet her sakura-color lipstick remains the same.

‘Vulnerable Woman’ by Faye Wong, 1992.

Still, ‘Rouge’ doesn’t have a direct link to ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông,’ as a middle evolution stage was involved. If you were an enthusiastic follower of Hong Kong TVB soap operas in the early 1990s, you would find the tune familiar as it appeared in the series Đại Thời Đại (The Greed of Man), albeit as a whole different song by Faye Wong. Wong’s Cantonese version, titled ‘容易受傷的女人’ (Vulnerable Woman), was recorded in 1992 and included in the series as an interlude song. Musically, ‘Vulnerable Woman’ is a heart-wrenching ballad of a woman expressing insecurity in a rocky relationship, urging her lover to stay with her.

The cover of the Rouge album by Naomi Chiaki where the titular song appeared for the first time.

The compilation CD that includes ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông.’

‘Vulnerable Woman’ is one of the most successful tracks of Faye Wong's album Coming Home.

The TV drama turned out to be widely successful, achieving top ratings in Hong Kong that year and spreading to neighboring countries. ‘Vulnerable Woman’ went on to win Song of the Year soon after, and spawned a smorgasbord of covers across Asia in many languages — including Vietnamese, in the form of ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông.’ Singaporean band Tokyo Square released an English-language version, ‘That Is Love.’ Burmese singer Aye Chan May recorded a version called ‘တစ်စစီကျိုးပဲ့နေတယ်’ (Broken Apart). It shape-shifted in Turkey as dance track ‘8.15 Vapuru’ by Yonca Evcimik. There are also numerous other versions in Vietnamese, Mandarin Chinese, Thai, Khmer and Khmu. The melody might stay largely unchanged, but it's fascinating to witness how it reinvent itself in completely different genres: the Turkish version is the most different with an Ace of Base-esque reggae influence, while the Singaporean rendition remains faithful to Faye Wong's instrumentation. Regardless of how similar or transformed the arrangements are, the lyrics are almost always different. 

‘Broken Apart’ by Aye Chan May, 1996.

These translations might seem random, but they fit right in with the prevailing cultural trends at the time, where Asian singers were localizing their favorite foreign songs left and right. Japan looked to the west for cover inspirations, resulting in fascinating artefacts like Hideki Saijo’s rendition of ‘Careless Whispers.’ Hong Kong, on the other hand, went through a Japanese Wave in the 1980s and 1990s, giving rise to a hits like ‘尋愛’ (Searching for Love) by Anita Mui, a cover of ‘Plastic Love’ by Mariya Takeuchi. Vietnam was enamoured by Cantonese media, especially music and TVB dramas, in the 1990s, so songs by Andy Lau, Shirley Kwan, and of course, Faye Wong, were making their way into the cultural landscape of Vietnam en masse. Sometimes, the adaptation cascade does a funny thing, resulting in the cross-cultural evolution of ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ from ‘Vulnerable Woman’ from ‘Rouge.’ If someone tells me now that ‘Rogue’ was a cover of something else, I swear I will lose my mind.

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.

The several dozen family altars that formed a hodgepodge pile had each been abandoned in graveyards. For many, this would make them extremely inauspicious. But to artist Nguyễn Quốc Dân, they are perfect for making art.

Cemeteries provide the renowned artist with much of the material he needs for his particular style of art, dubbed Tái Sinh-ism, or Taisinism in English. This was evident when Saigoneer visited his 2,000-square-meter home and workshop in Hội An. Empty bottles, jugs, jars, nets, blankets, bags, electronic casings, pipes, tubes, wires, fabrics, flooring, decor, and decorations: The castoffs of capitalism run amok populate the property. 

We had been ushered inside after the rambunctious pack of friendly dogs was pushed away from the gate guarding the inconspicuous frontage on the outskirts of town. Dân, immediately identifiable by his beard and long hair, was busy overseeing a new construction project on the site, so Huỳnh Huy stepped in. During a planned bicycle trip across Southeast Asia, beginning in his hometown of Bến Tre, Huy stopped at the Recycling Workshop whose mission and philosophy enticed him to stay for more than a year. He has the scars on his hands to prove his dedication to the art and was the perfect person to explain Tái Sinh-sim to us.

Before showing us around the workshop, Huy shared the ideal place for one of Dân’s pieces to be displayed by way of a question: “What is the most secure building in the world?” Unable to provide the correct answer, he responded: “The UN building. Imagine the world’s leaders sitting around one of these statues.” 

Denim jeans shaped and glued into the form of seated Buddha; a television case melted into the warped visage of a helmet or military mask; a hotel duvet contorted and secured in the shape of a cloaked figure: picturing these works beside the world’s most powerful leaders reveals both Dân’s ambitions for his art and the importance of the message he aims to convey. The cavernous metal space that Huy led us through was built according to Dân’s specifications and only completed after several construction teams called it impossible. Large circular doors at the front and back can be swung open and closed to cast crescent moon shadows. 

While Huy pointed out various statues, often asking us to guess what they were made from, Dân appeared to show off the building’s most astounding element. A sunken floor in the middle of the room contains a living tree, while the roof directly above it features a large skylight. Dân has devised some unseen system so that water on the roof can pour in, perfectly mimicking a moderate rainstorm. Dân commenced the downpour, removed his pants, and began making frantic music on the various metal drums, plastic bottles, and discarded surfaces beside the tree. Possessed with an insatiable energy, his solo seemed to stretch on indefinitely while Huy explained how the surrounding art pieces were made.

Many of the works are created by applying “intense heat” to items reclaimed from trash piles and landfills. Time is precious as the melted compounds harden rapidly, so Dân and his team must work quickly to create the intended shapes, often with the support of mannequins and other garbage serving as molds. The process is dangerous, and Huy claims one of the people who helps make them has damaged his fingertips to the point he can now grip burning material. Meanwhile, the team frequently forgoes the face masks useful for protecting against toxic fumes because they are simply too hot to wear. But according to Dân, an artist must be willing to suffer for the work as much as the soul of the material has suffered.

“How much do you think this bottle costs when full, and how much when empty?” Huy asked while lifting a familiar detergent bottle. The answer: VND35,000 full, VND15,000 empty, and then a fee to have it disposed of. The value of items society perceives as worthless trash, compared to what we are paying for, was our entry point into the philosophy of Tái Sinh-ism. This “Rebirth-sim” is not recycling, which aims to give a second life to materials that are of a lower financial value, while up-cycling is the same idea, with a slight reconfiguring of economics. In contrast, Tái Sinh-ism is a complete transformation that elevates items to works of art that cannot be reduced to monetary value, regardless of auction prices or sales receipts. The materials’ lifespans are not extended, but stretched towards eternity with an aim of ensuring they never return to a landfill. 

Landfills play a central role in Tái Sinh-ism. Dân spent his childhood scouring trash with his mother, the pittance offered by salvaged garbage providing for their basic needs. He continues to visit these landfills, albeit with a different mindset. Cemeteries also provide much of his material because unscrupulous individuals looking to dump items illegally appreciate the seclusion and taboo that surround them. Many of the mannequins that Dân uses for his molds and for a towering statue of mannequins were found in cemeteries, for example. And as Dân’s reputation has spread, “trash finds us,” Huy said, noting how supporters will often arrive with various scraps.

Dân resting in a landfill. Photo via Nguyễn Quốc Dân's Instagram page.

While Dân’s work and lifestyle may sound wacky, he is not the art world outsider he may sound to be. His creative talents were recognized at a young age, and he received generous assistance to study at the HCMC University of Fine Arts, where he studied and practiced more conventional contemporary styles. Understanding the foundations, traditions, and aims of these works, while amassing trash materials in his rented Saigon room, led him to an artistic epiphany. Dân believes that all art must address the questions of the day. The questions that elicited cubism and modernism, for example, have been addressed by many practitioners over the past decades, while the question of what to do with the mind-boggling amount of trash our species churns out remains unaddressed. Tái Sinh-ism is his response to that question.

Dân’s experience in navigating the art world, to say nothing of his charisma, has surely helped him achieve a level of success. Quantified by social media followers, news coverage, or public shows, including a recent VCCA exhibition in Hanoi, he can be considered a well-known artist. This notoriety allows him to proselytize for Tái Sinh-ism, with curious locals and foreigners making a pilgrimage to his studio when in Hội An. Meanwhile, he provides classes and workshops for children to help them nurture their creative spirits while instilling at a young age a revolutionary approach to garbage. 

Nguyễn Quốc Dân's exhibition at the VCCA. Photo via Hanoi Times.

You don’t need to be a full-throated convert to Tái Sinh-ism to take a trip to Dân’s workshop. He will welcome anyone, and if you go in with an open mind, you are likely to depart with a new way of thinking that will return any time you see a pile of trash on the street or left over after a museum gallery opening. At the very least, you will appreciate the genuine kindness and humble eccentricity of Dân and his marvelous works of art.

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.

Deep beneath the ocean surface, colorful ceramic fragments have been scattered and stacked upon one another for centuries. Some remain whole, others broken, many still covered with corals and ocean dust. Once precious commodities, these pieces have become time capsules, carried into the Vietnamese waters by ships that never reached their destinations. What stories might these centuries-old ceramic artifacts hold about Vietnam’s connection with surrounding kingdoms?

Map: Six ancient ships excavated in Vietnamese waters. Image via Vietnam National Museum of History.

In the 1990s, at least six shipwrecks were found and excavated in Vietnamese territorial waters — from both the Gulf of Thailand and the East Sea — through efforts by Vietnamese and international archaeologists and authorities. Hundreds of thousands of artifacts from each shipwreck were discovered, studied, preserved, and now held in different major museum collections in Vietnam as well as abroad. Today, a permanent collection of “Asian ceramics,” found from shipwrecks dating from the 9^th century until the 18^th centuries, are now on display at the Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Installation view of permanent collection ‘Asian ceramics’ at Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

One of the first factors that captures a viewer’s attention in a ceramic piece, perhaps, is its colors and patterns. We begin tracing the details: who or what is depicted, where this piece might have come from, or what purpose it once served. Such questions lead us to imagine the lives of those who could afford and own these expensive-looking objects, perhaps belonging only to wealthy families or individuals in the past. 

Yet, more than just old commodities or museum displays, these shipwrecked ceramics tell us a bigger story of Vietnam in the centuries-old maritime trade, long before the arrival of the first Europeans. They revealed Vietnam’s connections with neighboring kingdoms and positioned the country within the East and Southeast Asian trade routes and beyond, offering a broader perspective of Vietnam as a part of both art history and global trade history.

Installation view of permanent collection ‘Asian ceramics’ at Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Beginning with artifacts from Vietnam itself, a collection of high-quality Chu Đậu ceramics was found from the 15^th-century Chàm island shipwreck in Quảng Nam. It includes an estimated total of 240,000 artifacts, including ceramics of foreign origins, excavated over three years from 1997 to 2000. Chàm Island (Cù Lao Chàm), which belongs to Hội An, occupied a significant position along the Southeast Asian trade routes. Originally produced in Hải Dương, Chu Đậu ceramics flourished in the 15^th century and are renowned for their fine lines and decorative motifs of flora, animals, landscapes, and folk-inspired themes. The pieces found in the Chàm island shipwreck were primarily blue-and-white wares: housewares, containers, utensils for eating and drinking, and items used for religious ceremonies. Designed specifically for the overseas market, the ceramic pieces highlight both the kingdom’s development of export ceramics and participation in international trade.

Plates. Polychrome-glazed stoneware. Chu Đậu ceramics. Vietnam, 15th century.

Details of Chu Đậu ceramics. Vietnam, 15th century.

An important collection from the shipwreck features “Chăm pottery,” as described by the museum text: glazed ceramic crafted by the Chăm people or using Chăm techniques within the Champa kingdom (present-day Central Vietnam), dating from 2^nd to 17^th centuries. These objects seem to have been overlooked in Chăm history, compared to the more prominent religious statues in museum collections. The artifacts on display include brown-glazed, green-glazed stoneware dishes, bowls, and ewers. Highlights on display is a large dish decorated with Chăm script along its edges, alongside large jars with floral motifs.

Plate. “Cham pottery”. Vietnam, 15th century.

“Cham pottery” from the permanent collection of Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Champa’s pottery production and maritime trade have flourished since the 10^th century, maintaining strong networks with the Philippines and other Southeast Asian kingdoms. Although production declined significantly due to the fall of Vijaya state and the invasion by the northern kingdom of Đại Việt in 1471 (during the Later Lê dynasty), the Champa kingdom played a significant role as a destination and waypoint by merchant boats from surrounding kingdoms in Southeast Asia and beyond, even serving as intermediaries between Đại Việt and the Malay Archipelago within the Muslim trade networks.

Details of “Cham pottery” from the permanent collection of Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Off the southwest coast, towards the Gulf of Thailand, the maritime trade with the Ayutthaya Kingdom (present-day Thailand) is evident in the Hòn Dầm Island shipwreck in Kiên Giang in the 15^th century. A large quantity of Thai ceramics, including celadon stoneware and brown-glazed pieces, was produced by kilns in Sawankhalok and Sukhothai. On display are celadon stoneware of patterned dishes, elephant-shaped lamp stands, as well as an elephant figurine with soldiers, partially attached with coral remains. In addition, iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware includes Kinnari and elephant-shaped ewers, covered jars with patterns, and bowls decorated with lotus and chrysanthemum motifs, with petals spreading elegantly across the surfaces.

Bowls. Iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Covered jar. Iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

 Kinnari-shaped ewer (left) and Elephant-shaped ewer (right). Iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Elephant-shaped lamp stand (left) and War elephant figurine (right). Celadon stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Details of a stemmed dish. Celadon stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Continuing along the timeline, the largest quantity of 18^th-century Chinese porcelain was found from the Cà Mau shipwreck, dating to the Yongzheng reign (1723–1735) of the Qing Dynasty and excavated between 1998 and 1999. Most of the pieces were blue-and-white and multi-color wares produced at Jingdezhen kilns in Jiangxi and many from Guangdong. Their decorations commonly depict Chinese landscapes and human figures, and the assemblage includes plates, bowls, teapots, tea cups, kendi, snuff bottles, etc.

Chinese blue-and-white porcelain. Qing China, Yongzheng era (1723–1735).

In addition, many pieces feature European motifs. A notable example is a plate decorated along the edge with sea wave patterns, with images of two men and another man walking with a buffalo. According to Nguyễn Đình Chiến’s article “Đồ gốm sứ trong các con tàu đắm ở vùng biển Việt Nam” (Ceramics from the shipwrecks off the coast of Vietnam), the plate depicts a landscape of a fisherman village in Deshima — an artificial island served as a Dutch trading post in Nagasaki, Japan in the early mid mid-17th century — showing a sand hill, with a lighthouse, a church, and houses by the fishing boats appearing behind. This indicates that similar wares, including milk bottles and wine jugs, were made to fill the demand from the European market at the time.

Plate. Chinese blue-and-white porcelain. Qing China, Yongzheng era (1723–1735).

One standout piece from this shipwreck is an artifact composed of stacked Chinese blue-and-white tea cups, referred to by the museum as the 18^th-century “Sea sculpture.” Despite its small size, it embodies both fragility and endurance, surviving against the underwater pressure and through layers of time. Its mass of wrecked and broken remains fused together. The positioning of the cups suggests how such wares may have been packed within containers during their journey across the sea. Although the ship’s routes and destinations remain unknown, the shipwreck’s location in Cà Mau waters suggests that it may have been heading south from China towards the Malay Archipelago, before continuing across the oceans to other continents.

‘Sea sculpture.’ Chinese blue-and-white porcelain. Qing China, Yongzheng era (1723–1735).

Despite the tragic fate of these ships and the commodities they carried, their remains serve as significant evidence for archeologists and historians studying Vietnam’s maritime trade since the dynastic periods, which is often overlooked nowadays in the overall history. Ceramic artifacts, once part of the expensive global products, carry aesthetic values, traces of life across continents. Shipwrecked ceramics offer an alternative lens of understanding interconnectedness between art and other socio-political dynamics and trade histories. They move beyond land-centric narratives and highlight Vietnam’s strategic location between East and Southeast Asia within the global trade, even amid social and political upheavals, and the rise and fall of kingdoms.

The permanent collection “Asian Ceramics” is on view at Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History. More information can be found on the museum’s official website.

If given the opportunity, what would each of Vietnam's provinces select as a mascot?

Saigoneer has pondered this question before and discussed the fact Vietnam doesn't have an active mascot tradition similar to Japan's. While this is not yet a reality, art agency Monstio has just given vision to our dream in the form of a mascot stamp collection project that assigns a unique character to each of the pre-merger provinces. To attract attention to their brand identity and project label work, the team has released the Mát-xờ-cốt 63 project on their Facebook page.

Based on the team's research and exploration, each mascot nods to a well-known element of the province. Inspiration comes from culinary items, such as Cà Mau's crabs, Bình Thuận's dragonfruit and Bắc Giang's lychee as well as architectural images including Kon Tum's ethnic minority homes and Kiếp Bạc Temple in Hải Dương. Referenced cultural activities include Đờn ca tài tử in Bạc Liêu and Bình Định's unique martial arts. Some of the province mascots are illustrated via their natural features, flora and fauna including Cao Bằng waterfalls, Lào Cai's famed mountain peak, Bình Dương's cherished sao trees and Đồng Tháp's lotus. A few historical events are also referenced, such as military victories in Điện Biên and Quảng Trị.

While not available as actual stamps, they are a beautiful digital collection that allows us to reflect on the vibrant diversity of the nation. Moreover, in their cataloguing of many now-merged provinces, they represent a time capsule of sort that can engender nostalgia as we become accustomed to new boundaries and names.

Have a full look at the collection below:

Cellophane lanterns, the nostalgic anchors of our past full-moon festivals, are still alive thanks to the nimble fingers of craftspeople at the Phú Bình lantern “village” in Saigon.

Just take a stroll in the neighborhood of Phú Bình on Lạc Long Quân Street of District 11’s Ward 5 these days, you’ll feel a palpable sense of anticipation for mid-autumn celebration.

Phú Bình Lantern Village is the most vibrant during the Trung Thu season. Photo by Cao Nhân.

I can’t take my eyes off the houses here which are enveloped from floor to ceiling with finished lanterns of all shapes, designs, and sizes. This tiny artisan village evokes in me a wistful feeling about the mid-autumns of my childhood, when our old customs were safeguarded like a treasure amid the city.

Lanterns on sale. Photo by Cao Nhân.

According to the lantern makers I meet here, around the 1950s, thousands of people from Bác Cổ Village in Nam Định Province migrated here to make a living, carrying with them their ancestors’ signature craft. This historic artisan village has been making traditional lanterns since then.

Cellophane lanterns are Phú Bình's specialty product. Photo by Cao Nhân.

In their heydays, around the 1970s–1990s, the bustling scene at this lantern-making community was once the talk of the town, as there were hundreds of families in the trade, producing enough to supply across the southern region and even export orders.

Over time, due to changing demographics and the advent of battery-operated lanterns, few of those hundreds of families have maintained their trade. Today, artisan families mostly produce for wholesale orders instead of retail as before. Each handmade lantern costs around VND30,000 to a few hundred dong, though more elaborate designs can cost even more.

New competition from battery-operated lantern toys has made it harder to sell traditional lanterns. Photo by Cao Nhân.

I’m mesmerized by the swift fingers of the artisans as they weave bamboo strips, make the frames, paste on the cellophane, and deliver the brushstrokes of colorful paints. The lantern makers tell me that it is not too hard an art, but it’s time-consuming and involves many steps.

Lanterns are made from bamboo, colored cellophane, and powdered paint. Photos via Tạp chí Du lịch Tp. HCM.

To form an aesthetically pleasing and durable lantern, it’s important to prepare all the components properly. The bamboo strips must be from old bamboo trees that are freshly cut to retain their tensile strength and prevent termite damage. The cellophane must be glued on smoothly so the painted patterns appear clean. Each step of the way requires high levels of detail from the artisans to produce final products that are neat and visually striking.

The frame for a star-shaped lantern and the finished product. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Phượng, a lantern producer I come across here, shares with me: “Anyone who’s been doing this for long enough will tell you that this is not difficult work, but you just need to be meticulous and precise in every step. For me, I’m most happy to see my family create something together, bringing to life pretty lanterns and playing our part in preserving a beautiful facet of our culture.”

Lanterns are decorated with powdered paints. Photo by Cao Nhân.

As I sit there marveling at the completed lanterns, my fingertips caressing the sleek surface of the red cellophane, I can’t help thinking about that time when my grandpa helped me make a giant star lantern for a competition at school, and how I had so much fun assisting him in cutting the cellophane, drawing the design, etc. I both miss and feel for this art form, and I wonder how long it will persist, and whether the children of future years will be able to marvel at those vivid shades of red and yellow like I am right now.

A star lantern. Photo by Cao Nhân.

That is perhaps the same concern I share with the people here who've been marking lanterns for decades. Of course, to keep the passion going, Phú Bình’s lantern makers have created new designs to follow the market’s taste and trends, like lanterns that are shaped like dragons, crabs, and rabbits.

Apart from brick-and-mortar retail, the artisan households here have started listing their products on e-commerce platforms and social media channels to reach more young consumers and promote the image of a traditional craft village.

Artisan Nguyễn Trọng Bình. Photo via Tạp chí Du lịch TP. HCM.

Nguyễn Trọng Bình, a third-generation member of Phú Bình, tells me: “This year, the number of orders has increased significantly compared to past years. This made us incredibly happy. Since March, right after the Lunar New Year, I’ve already started working. In any other year, it would have taken until May or June for the first orders to arrive.”

A batch of lanterns ready for shipping. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Nguyễn Thị Tươi, another lantern maker, shares with me: “My family’s lantern business has been around for over 20 years. We are lucky to be well-loved by many so we can still maintain our trade until now. Our younger generation is trying to promote our brand more so more and more people will know about traditional mid-autumn lanterns.”

It makes me happy to hear about these positive developments in the livelihood of the lantern makers here, because as long as the craft exists, the village remains. Just like they’ve always done, over decades, the craftspeople here will continue to breathe life into thousands of lanterns every year, keeping the lights on so that everyone’s childhood is filled with the colors of Trung Thu.

Sometimes, just surviving is remarkable.

The short documentary, Lẽ Sống, looks closely at what it takes to make a simple, honest living in the Mekong Delta and posits that the resilience and sacrifices of the region's women foster hope for society's future.

Lẽ Sống focuses on the daily lives of two women in Vĩnh Long Province: Nhã, a single mother who provides for her daughter by running a phở restaurant; and Thuý, a businesswoman who sells fish in the local market. Both invite the filmmakers to their homes and places of work, where they offer matter-of-fact descriptions of their daily routines, past struggles, motivations, and aspirations for their families.

The details Nhã and Thuý share about shrewd business practices, admiration for education and family, endurance in the face of poverty, and communal kindness resonate because the views represent those of many women in the Mekong Delta, and Vietnam generally. Certainly, we all have friends, neighbors, relatives or simply familiar faces in our neighborhood who have similar experiences. But it's not often we encounter such open and well-edited portraits. The 14 minutes we spend with the two women affords viewers a chance to understand better the commonplace actions that aren't often dwelt upon but reveal a strength worth celebrating. 

The film is the passion project of Huy Phạm and Mike Abela, made for no money beyond the daily logistics budget. The pair of California-based friends have done similar projects in the past, including 2015 looks at a hột vịt lộn vendor in Saigon and the a woman who sells bún riêu in Cần Thơ's floating market. When sharing their latest work with Saigoneer, Huy noted: “Mike and I used to sit in his apartment watching Anthony Bourdain and wishing we could go to Vietnam and do something like that. We enjoy the culture and the people so much.”

It was an ordinary Saturday summer afternoon in the late 2000s, and I was sitting in my mom’s office while waiting for her to finish her work, watching YouTube on one of the computers in the room. It wasn't just any video for kids, but a scene where a wolf downs a whole pack of cigarettes at once and blows the smoke into a locked telephone booth to try to suffocate a hare inside. That seemingly absurd scenario came from none other than Hãy Đợi Đấy!, one of my favorite cartoon shows.

Ну, погоди!, known in Vietnam as Hãy Đợi Đấy!, was a staple in many Vietnamese childhoods alongside other iconic children's media such as Tom and Jerry or Phineas and Ferb. It was one of the first series I watched once I became aware of cartoons’ existence, and unlike other Disney or Cartoon Network series, I could thoroughly enjoy it without having to understand the language, even though it was a Russian cartoon.

The earliest concept of the two main characters in Happy Merry-Go-Round.

The official series title card.

Hãy Đợi Đấy! was created for Soyuzmultfilm, a well-known animation studio in Moscow, by three prominent Soviet writers, Aleksandr Kurlyandsky, Felix Kandel, and Arkady Khait. It premiered in 1969 as a two-minute pilot featured in another animated anthology series named Happy Merry-Go-Round. It became a stand-alone cartoon show thanks to the public’s positive reception, with 16 episodes aired between the 1960s and the 1980s. Contrary to the Soviet-produced animated features at that time, which either contained adult-oriented themes or heavily educational messages for children, this series followed a slapstick comedy formula and a simple, repetitive storyline, starting with a Wolf chasing a Hare, the Hare managing to outsmart the Wolf, and the Wolf yelling in agony, “Ну, кролик, погоди!” (Hey, rabbit, just you wait!) at the end of every episode.

The Wolf's smoking habit has raised concerns amongst parents.

The cartoon sparked some controversies surrounding how the Wolf was depicted as smoking a lot for a children's show, and some were concerned that the violence might be harmful to children. Nonetheless, Hãy Đợi Đấy! still reached immense levels of popularity, both domestically and internationally, becoming a cultural symbol in the Soviet Union and Russia.

Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ on VTV was the first place where Hãy Đợi Đấy! appeared.

Hãy Đợi Đấy! came to Vietnam for the first time through the show Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ, an anthology program for children on national television that featured cartoons from different countries. Due to the lack of television content made for Vietnamese children during the 1970s and 1980s, the cartoon instantly became a sensation. Indeed, the scene of children in the neighborhood huddling together in front of a black-and-white TV, waiting for Hãy Đợi Đấy!’s familiar opening title card and song was a core memory for many. Many moments from the show were also deeply ingrained; notably the Wolf’s hilarious sprite with the memorable pink flower-printed boxer, the Hare’s laugh whenever it successfully evades the Wolf’s attack, or the Wolf screaming, “Nu, Pogodi!” at the end.

The samovar, a Russian tea-making utensil.

The fox's depiction is inspired by famous Russian singer Alla Pugachyova.

A scene from the special episode celebrating the Summer Olympics in Moscow.

While watching Hãy Đợi Đấy!, the audience may notice many Soviet/Russian cultural references sprinkled throughout the series. Some of those references include the samovar, a utensil frequently used in the Soviet Union/Russia to make tea; the Fox singer from episode 15 being a caricature of Alla Pugachyova, a famous Russian singer; episode 16 paying homage to the well-known European fairy tales among Slavic communities; an entire episode celebrating the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow; traditional clothes or dances; and many, many more.

The series on a stamp.

After the normalization of diplomatic relations between Vietnam and other countries like China and the US in the early and mid-1990s, many new goods were imported into Vietnam, including a lot more children's media from other cultures. From Disney movies to Chinese-speaking cartoon series with Vietnamese dubbing, Hãy Đợi Đấy! slowly lost its relevance in the Vietnamese market as its simplistic and crude style of animation could no longer compete against the glamorous animated features from big studios. Additionally, the death of Anatoli Papanov, the Wolf’s voice actor, was a blow to the show, and the two episodes created in 1993 using Papanov’s voice archives were a critical failure, resulting in Hãy Đợi Đấy! fading out of the spotlight. Nevertheless, for Vietnamese who followed the cartoon first when it was aired on Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ, Hãy Đợi Đấy! was a key childhood landmark. Its cultural influence in Vietnam is shown by the way “Nu, Pogodi!” became a household catchphrase for many Vietnamese people from Gen X, even though they do not know the language.

Boarding a boat.

On the Ferris Wheel.

Today, when I look at Hãy Đợi Đấy!, I do not see just the Wolf and the Hare’s endless chase and banter, but a bridge across time and cultural background. For people in my mom’s generation, there was the rare, childlike joy of watching something child-friendly in black and white. For me, there was a world of wonder that I immersed myself in every Saturday afternoon. It became more than mere entertainment, but a reminder of how stories and culture can transcend physical boundaries. I wonder if the writers and director of Hãy Đợi Đấy! knew the profound impact their creation had on members of an international audience, like me. 

Fragments of history, whether through imagery or text, often feel distant in time, yet so familiar when encountered visually. Combat sketches, postage stamps, and typography from propaganda posters invite viewers to ask: how do they speak to today’s generation, living half a century after the war, and what do they reveal about our collective memory of Vietnam today?

Known for its extensive collection of wartime propaganda art, Dogma Collection has launched Collection+, a new initiative that invites members of the arts community to engage with its archive alongside their own collection. For the debut exhibition, running until November 2, 2025, combat sketches, postage stamps and typographic materials are selected and presented by Thanh Uy Art Gallery (Hanoi), Bưu Hoa (Saigon) and Lưu Chữ (Saigon). The collaboration doesn’t simply put historical materials on view, but repositions these fragments from the past in a contemporary setting, holding a dialogue with today’s viewers. In doing so, the past that seems far away is now reframed through the familiarity of Vietnamese collective memory, reminding viewers how deeply wartime visual culture continues to shape the present.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

The combat sketches, presented by Hanoi-based Thanh Uy Art Gallery, open the exhibition by offering viewers a glimpse of life on and off the battlefield. Gallery founder Đức Thanh Uy selected works created between 1960 and 1972 — the most intense period of the American War in Vietnam — highlighting women as central figures in the long revolution towards independence. Scenes of militia women and guerrillas marching, guarding the sea, or practicing their aim appear alongside depictions of daily activities and bonding moments, emphasizing a strong sense of community and collectivity. Seen today, the sketches are regarded as precious artworks that reveal a more humane and intimate side of wartime life, while also confronting viewers with the difficulty of imagining what it meant to live under constant threat of war.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

Bưu Hoa, a virtual archive dedicated to Vietnam’s lost postage stamps established by art director and illustrator Đức Lương (Luongdoo) in 2017, presents its first in-person exhibition in collaboration with Dogma’s collection, featuring stamps produced between 1958 and 1967. The display highlights the significance of postage stamps in Vietnam’s historical and political context since the era of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. The most striking aspect is the meticulously hand-painted detail, depicting animals, plants, battlefields, industrial development, and the diverse communities of Vietnam. Despite their small scale and original communication purpose, these stamps carry immense historical and political weight, and their imagery conveys a sense of “richness” — of natural resources, cultural values, and collective achievements — affirming national identity even in times of war, scarcity, and the long process of nation-building.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

If paintings and stamps offer certain visual imagery of life, typography in propaganda and daily use captures viewers’ attention differently, evoking emotions and shaping perceptions through the written Vietnamese language. For this exhibition, Saigon-based independent graphic design collective Lưu Chữ selected propaganda posters according to their color palettes, compositions, iconography, and typography. As the exhibition text notes, their interest lies in how messages are conveyed through style and form. The display brings together photographs of typefaces from present-day street slogans and banners, archival newspaper print, lettering sketches, resistance-era propaganda posters, and a video documenting the production process, accompanied by publications on Vietnamese propaganda art for those seeking deeper knowledge. With bright, colorful palettes and bold, condensed letterforms, the works show how propaganda once functioned as a call to action that lifted collective spirits. What appears nostalgic or purely aesthetic to contemporary viewers today carried a sense of urgency and immediacy for previous generations.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

Sketches, stamps, and typography — the three main elements of the exhibition — were originally created for visual documentation and communication, and perhaps even as acts of survival, with their creators uncertain if the paintings would endure through the war, or the postage stamps would reach their destinations. Although the war already ended 50 years ago, these materials feel surprisingly familiar to our current generation, even though we have never lived through wartime or post-war periods. Perhaps, it is our daily exposure to state media and street propaganda that makes them feel immediate. They reflect cultural values and show how our aesthetics have evolved, shaping the collective memory and national identity we inhabit today. It is more than just about preserving the past, as they mirror our present, and reflect on where we come from and how far we have come as a nation.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

Photos courtesy of Mắt Bét and Dogma Collection.

“Collection+” is now on view at Dogma Collection until November 2, 2025. More information on the exhibition and opening hours can be found on this Facebook page.