Embedded in the street call of rươi vendors is the conjuring of autumn, when delectable cuisines from across the land of Vietnam come together on a dinner table.

Rươi vendors’ calls, similar to the prized worm itself, only appear for a brief time during the fall, particularly from the 9^th to the 11^th month on the lunar calendar when, as the owner of Hưng Thịnh, a famous chả rươi store in Hanoi, described: “The sky is above and the rươi are wiggling below.” Rươi is the Vietnamese name for palolo worm, an unsightly, two-inch-long sea creature that's the key ingredient of chả rươi, an omelete dish with tangerine peel, herbs, minced pork, and of course, chunks of rươi.

The seasonal appearance of rươi has been well-documented in Vietnamese literature. Vũ Bằng, a renowned journalist and writer, wrote fondly about the call of rươi vendors in a chapter specifically dedicated to rươi in his book, Miếng Ngon Hà Nội.

Vũ Bằng's depiction of the call of rươi vendors evokes the cultural imagination of Hanoi as an abundant culinary feast. The notion that plump and fresh rươi is mere footsteps away from the door of your home paints an all-too-comfortable picture about how a subset of Hanoians used to live. But all of that seems to be a memory of a distant past: the vivid and high-pitched sound of rươi calls in past Hanoi seems to have disappeared. 

Live rươi sold in big duct-taped boxes. Photo via AFamily.

On a Saturday afternoon, I spent a couple of hours walking through Thanh Hà Market, Ô Quan Chưởng and Đồng Xuân Market to retrace the sound of rươi calls in the hope that I might find some insights into where this call has gone. I secretly wish that the rươi that I encountered looked a bit more like sandworms from Frank Herbert's Dune. However, instead of gigantic, tube-like and having impenetrable armour, the rươi that I saw at wet markets and food stalls were tiny, flat creatures at the mercy of Hanoian ladies’ swift hands. Out of the box and into the frying pan. They are certainly not the most attractive creatures on Earth.

In a distinctly Vietnamese cardboard box with blue duct tapes, the rươi specimens collectively wiggled their six-centimeter slimy bodies on top of one another. It must be some sort of bizarre joke from mother’s nature that their colors are subtly reminiscent of bàng leaves, with fiery red and a dark shade of green; and that their bodies are covered in miniature hairs that bring to mind those of rambutans.

Despite rươi being one of the less visually engaging critters, chả rươi and rươi vendors alike could not help but urge me to take photos of the rươi. The cashier at Hưng Thịnh told me to point the camera toward the rươi box, not forgetting to highlight the worms' freshness, plumpness, and “good-for-publication-ness.” Some vendors at Hưng Thịnh markets also proudly advertised that many young kids like taking photos of the rươi. Other rươi vendors were even under the impression that I approached them to make content for TikTok. 

The people I met on my walk seemed divided as to whether or not the vendors from Vũ Bằng's writings still roam the streets of Hà Nội . The first seller I spoke to, a lady at Thanh Hà market, didn't recall hearing the sound of rươi vendors on local streets for the longest time: “Nowadays, people only sell rươi in stores. It’s rare to find street vendors these days.” She tucked her hands behind her back shyly when I asked if she could replicate the sound of rươi vendors, but then she smiled and happily hummed: “Ai mua rươi ra-à mùa.”

Is there a distinction between a rươi vendor and a poet? In a single call, the vendor manages to use consonance and alliteration — the “m” in mua, mùa, and the “r" in “rươi,” “ra" — to create a rhythmic effect in her call. By playing with the accents and modifying stresses with “ra" and “mua,” she infused music into her call. Simple in its effect, yet complex in its undeniably rich cadence, the call of rươi stands out among the eclectic corpus of Hanoi sounds. 

While I was more than happy to hear the sound for the first time on Hanoi streets, I also wondered why it was that the call for rươi has gradually disappeared. Her theory was that the demand for live rươi is no longer as high as before. In the olden days, rươi vendors would carry their gánh across neighborhoods after their main session at the market to showcase the leftover rươi to local families, enticing homemakers — especially the women of the households — to purchase them in time for dinner preparation. It’s hard to imagine that happening nowadays with the changing social landscapes of Hanoi.

That afternoon I arrived in Hưng Thịnh, a famous chả rươi spot in Hanoi. Here, for VND75,000, you can get the bigger portion with rươi visible on the surface while the VND45,000 option tastes more like your standard cutlet. As she scooped out delicious, sizzling pieces of chả rươi from the hot oil onto a plate, I struck up a conversation about street calls. Unlike the lady at chợ Thanh Hà, she offered a different perspective on rươi vendors: “It’s not so much that rươi vendors and their calls have disappeared,” she said. “It is because they only appear on specific roads near the Old Quarters, where there would likely be more customers willing to buy rươi and process the rươi themselves.” 

While walking across Đồng Xuân Market, I did pass by a rươi street vendor, đòn gánh on her thin back and bamboo baskets full of rươi before and in front of her, but she was passing by in silence. All around me, the noises of construction drills and motorbikes filled the atmosphere.

My brief search for the sound of rươi vendors’ calls ended up a meditation on what tiếng rao really means for Hanoi, for Saigon, the rising cities of Vietnam that are constantly negotiating between rubbles of its past and the high-rise buildings of the present. As the soundscape of urbanity — full of unattractive, dull, deafening noises — pervades our daily lives, the nostalgia of tiếng rao reminds us of a distant era when our hometown was more intimate and poetic.

This article was originally published in 2023.

“This passion for lions is in our blood. Many, many kids in the past dropped out of school or quit work just to go,” said Bành Chí Hùng, owner of Saigon’s Thuận Anh Hãng lion dance costume studio.

Unlike in the central region, where múa lân (lion dances) are most associated with the Mid-Autumn Festival, in Saigon they tend to be biggest during Tết. Still, the weeks leading up to the fall holiday keep him quite busy. Nearly all his waking hours are occupied by completing orders. Amidst this packed schedule, he invited Saigoneer to his Bình Hưng Hòa ward home studio to witness the process and some of the traditions lost.

Hùng (right) works alongside his team on the ground floor of his home, where nearly every wall and corner is occupied by lions.

Bamboo, rattan, and wire are meticulously assembled for the head’s frame before rice paper is glued on and left to harden before being hand-painted. The entire process takes up to five days, with another two required for the costume’s body. In total, they sell for VND5–7 million to buyers throughout the city and country, as well as overseas to France, the US, Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong, Thailand, and elsewhere. 

Careful planning and frame construction are essential to ensure the final lion meets client expectations.

Once the surface is completely dry, the color is added by hand.

Having spent practically his entire life surrounded by múa lân, Hùng has been able to observe trends and preferences in design shifts along with improvements in material quality. Newer lion head models have much lighter frames that are easier to lift. New glues are easier to paint on and thus allow for more intricate details and a wider range of vibrant colors. An influx of foreign influences has added Malay, Chinese, and Hong Kong patterns as well as facial features. But for Hùng, not everything new is better. “I prefer the traditional one more. The traditional one, looking at it, gives you a vintage lion feel.”

New designs are more colorful and complex than those Hùng grew up with.

While he has his preferences, Hùng must acquiesce to customer requests which can include new elements like stainless steel teeth and horns, and LED lights. One consistent feature remains, however, in the importance of the eye-dot. On an auspicious day, Hùng and his team make offerings and perform the dotting the pupil in the center of the eye. Anyone can take a lion home, but before it is truly ready for a dancing performance, especially in the south, it must receive the ceremony to ensure it has “spiritual energy, the soul.”

A head awaiting its important eye dot.

Completed heads ready to be delivered to customers.

“If my stuff is beautiful, people will copy it. If they see my stuff isn't beautiful, who would bother copying it?” quipped Hùng when surrounded by the colorful lion heads and costumes he has been making for nearly three decades. “The more people learn, the more people copy, the more valuable I am. Thanks to that, I must be proud of what makes you jealous of me, right?” he said with the confidence one deserves after international prizes and more annual orders than he can process.

While overshadowed by the lions, Ông Địa plays a crucial role in all performances and Hùng makes these masks as well.

Hùng makes somewhat traditional and more experimental versions.

While Hùng is one of the city’s most revered lion-head craftsmen, it wasn’t creating the costumes that first drew him in: “Honestly, when I was small, whenever I heard the drum beat, I would run out to watch. It's always been like that at home, hearing the drum beat, running out into the street to see where the drum was, where they were dancing.” His first and true passion is múa lân. After performing for many years, he began making costumes to use himself as mentored by previous generations. As he’s gotten too old to perform now, he focuses solely on crafting them as his business. 

Performers nowadays rise to platforms far taller than in the past.

In the olden days, múa lân was a more creative, unique undertaking. “In the past, everyone had their own style. Now it's an international style,” with all teams in competitions and performances performing “the exact same routine.”

While they take the art seriously, the performers are not preparing for a fight.

As well as a standardization of rhythms and dance steps and an increase in the height of dance platforms, múa lân has lost a rambunctious violence that was once associated with it. Hùng explained that teams in a competition wouldn’t always be content to settle the matter through dance alone. “Two lion teams would meet, the drummers would hype things up, and they would fight — literally brawling. But if they played a respectful bowing drum cadence, both sides would bow to each other politely, and nothing would happen,” he said with a clear fondness for the rowdy moments. With a wistful tone he added, “All those brawls happened back then, but now they're gone. Today, official permits are even issued for sanctioned competitions.”

While it's just practice, the heights remain real and dangerous.

While Hùng’s costumes are frequently used in international competitions, they are also used for the year-round ceremonies that accompany grand openings, weddings, and other celebrations. The groups that perform these must be ready at any time if hired and thus practice year-round to remain ready. 

Without crowds, the practice sessions lack pomp, circumstance and glamor.

After numerous rainouts, we were finally fortunate enough to watch the team practice. Watch some shots of the team in action below:

“Expat is a racist as hell term” — this is the take of Misan Harriman on the popular internet show SubwayTakes. The reasoning goes that the term expat, short for expatriate, is racist because it is applied to migrants unevenly. Along this line, Mawuna Remarque Koutonin writes in Silicon Africa: “Africans are immigrants. Arabs are immigrants. Asians are immigrants. However, Europeans are expats because they can’t be at the same level as other ethnicities. They are superior. Immigrants is a term set aside for ‘inferior races.’”

The argument goes that “expat” is designated for white Europeans and westerners and carries a certain kind of prestige and privilege that is made inaccessible to other peoples who are labelled “immigrants.” Similar sentiments can be found surrounding the recent controversy of a Bali-based, Dutch-run run club’s alleged discrimination against locals. As one Instagram comment on an Al Jazeera post reads, “They are not expatriate[s]. They are immigrants. Please don't label people of color as immigrants and call white people as an expatriate.” Or, as Fred Wissenk remarks closer to home in Vietcetera (though he appears to suggest we call all foreigners expats), “If you’re white, people automatically label you as an expat. I disagree with that.”

The Bali run club that allegedly discriminated against locals. Photo via The Guardian.

Yet, to accuse the term expat of racism is much too reductive and obscures nuance, for the simple reason that there exist plenty of non-white expats who are labelled or identify as such. Thus, the assumption that expats are white may itself constitute a kind of whitewashing, not just of the present but also of the past, overlooking, for instance, the history of South Asian expatriates in East Africa whom the British brought for colonial civil service positions. More broadly, it is also worth questioning whether words can ever be inherently racist, for the meaning and significance of words inevitably vary with context. This is to say, of course the term expat can be racist when wielded in racist ways — for instance, when one calls a white person an expat and an Arab person an immigrant, even when they occupy similar class positions and professions — but cannot be seen as an inherently racist term for the fact that “expat” denotes no single stable type of migrant, its use, meaning, and scope dependent on context and geography.

Defining the expat

Indeed, the expat is a notoriously slippery term, not only because there exist discrepancies between formal definitions of the term and everyday usage, but also between those who identify as versus those who are labelled as expats. So, what even is an expat? How should we understand the category in Vietnam? And what distinguishes an expat from an immigrant or a migrant? The Cambridge Dictionary offers the following definitions.

• Expatriate: “someone who does not live in their own country”
• Immigrant: “a person who has come to a different country in order to live there permanently”
• Migrant: “a person that travels to a different country or place, often in order to find work”

Firstly, what differentiates the expatriate from the migrant is that expats move across countries, while the movement of migrants may be either inter- or intra-national. “Migrant” is thus treated as the broadest migration category, hence why academic literature will describe the expatriate as a type of migrant. Yet, in practice, expatriates are often considered not as a subset of migrants, but rather a category separate from migrants, as is made evident when a Việt Nam News columnist follows up his use of the word “migrants” with the parenthetical comment, “sorry, ‘expats,’ this is you.”

On the other hand, the primary differentiating factor between expats and immigrants is presented as the intention of the duration of stay. An immigrant intends permanent residence, while duration of stay is undetermined and unspecified for expats. Yet, common and practical usage of the term, both within general publics and in academia, deviates substantially from such definitions — most often, what is meant by expats are none other than “rich, educated, developed elites,” whereas all other migrants are seen as immigrants. Still, even this definition appears to be imperfect, for as Sarah Kunz explains in her book Expatriate: Following a Migration Category — which has been indispensable in writing this article — those who are labelled and/or identify as expats often vary significantly in socioeconomic class, whose professions range from “diplomats and CEOs, to English teachers, humanitarian volunteers, yoga teachers and unpaid interns further down the socio-economic ladder.” Kunz describes of the expats she met during her fieldwork in Nairobi: “some lived luxurious lives while others barely made ends meet, and yet others relied on support from families ‘back home.’”

A foreign teacher in Hanoi. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

To complicate things further, there is also the fact that the equivalent to the term “expatriate” often does not exist in other languages. For instance, an equivalent to the term “expat” does not really exist in Vietnamese. Arguably, the closest substitutes that exist are “người nước ngoài,” which simply means foreigner, or “người tây,” meaning westerner — though we should note that there also exists a term for migrants, “người di cư.” Neither does a translation for expat exist in Korean: expats residing in Korea are commonly referred to as “oekuk-saram,” which again simply means foreigner. While the French cognate expatrié or expatriée has similar connotations to English, the dominant meaning of the Spanish cognate expatriado or expatriada is one of exile, or those banished from their home country — which is in fact what “expatriate” denoted prior to the 20^th century in English as well.

But even within the English language, the term does not travel the same across geographies. For instance, in the US, one notices that the term expat is rarely used, for which there may be two reasons: one, the country’s dominant narrative of itself as a “land of immigrants,” and two, the fact that the US is much harder to simply come into and stay in the way that many expats do in other countries. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the Gulf states, where all foreign workers, ranging from the heavily exploited construction workers to high-ranking corporate managers, are called expats — arguably in order to restrict a sense of belonging for non-citizens who make up significant portions, or even a majority, of the population. As for Vietnam, it seems that distinctions between expats and immigrants are rarely made — though as we will see, this does not mean that the expat functions neutrally in Vietnam either.

Workers in Dubai. Photo via The New York Times.

Because of the term’s polysemy, to call “expat” inherently racist is rather reductive. Alternatively, a better way to understand the category is not as racist per se, but as racialized. To expand upon the notion of racialization, there is an important distinction to be made between describing a concept as racist versus racialized. An imperfect but useful example to think about is that of the concept of the human. Certainly, the human is a racialized concept. Here, we might think about how Leonardo Da Vinci’s drawing, ‘Vitruvian Man’ — which depicts a white, male, able-bodied person — is often invoked as the “classical ideal” or “universal model” of “Man.” And it is, of course, furthermore true that the concept of human is deeply intertwined with racist histories of violence and subjugation in which various colonized peoples were, and continue to be, denied the label of human as rationalization for such violence. But does that mean the concept of the human is itself racist? Debatable, but I think that most people would argue no. It may be useful to think about the term expat along similar lines: not racist per se, but racialized, normatively white — as well as, we should add, classed (obviously) and gendered (as evident in the fact that an “expat wife” is often not herself referred to as simply an “expat”). 

A brief history of the expat

The racialized nature of the expat is rooted in the history of empire and capital of the 20^th century that have shaped the category. We may understand the historical development of the expat in the 20^th century through three paradigms. To start, there was first the colonial expatriate, the likes of British colonial officers in India — or, as Anne-Meike Fetcher more vividly caricatures, “the British gentlemen who, after prolonged exposure to the tropical climates of South or South East Asia, suffer from world-weariness, alienation and alcoholism, as they are portrayed in the novels and short stories of Anthony Burgess, Joseph Conrad and Somerset Maugham.”

Servants around a British general and his guests in Bangalore. Photo via The New Statesman.

But with the wave of successful anti-colonial movements that swept the formerly colonized worlds following the end of World War II, expats came to mean something different. With the fall of European colonial empires rose to power a new global empire, namely that of the US, which dominated and shaped the world through both military and economic dominance. And central to the ascent of the US empire was the rise of US multinational corporations (MNCs), which emerged as powerful actors in the international political economy through their control of the flow of foreign direct investments. The rapid growth of US MNCs increased demand for a “new breed” of expatriate workers that would soon replace their European colonial predecessors: that is, the intracompany assignee transferred abroad for temporary periods of time for purposes of overseas management of operations.

Following the shift from the colonial expatriate to the corporate expatriate, the emergence of the next new model of the expat came in the 1980s and 1990s with the advent of neoliberalism, characterized by, in big-picture terms, minimal government intervention domestically and globalization and free trade internationally — the defining outcomes of which have included worsened inequality, decimation of the public, cuts in welfare, deregulation of worker protections, and the atomization of individuals.

In Vietnam, the neoliberal turn took shape in the form of Đổi Mới, which opened the country up to foreigners. As a precursor to the third type of expat that would follow the corporate expat, it is illuminating to take a look at the example of the multinational oil company Shell and the corporate restructuring they pursued in the 1990s. As Kunz details, with the neoliberal turn, Shell expats “got increased ‘choice’ and ‘flexibility’ but also found themselves more precarious and unequal. Payment structures were increasingly tied to individualised performance, implying greater inequality among expatriates and an emphasis on competition instead of the harmony thus far nurtured and expected.” While since at least the 1950s Shell expats understood themselves as part of and embedded within a larger “Shell family,” in the 1990s, the “company man” was re-fashioned into “individualised and disembedded global ‘expatriates’” — or in other words, neoliberal subjects.

Travel writer Mark Hodson and his friends at the Majestic Hotel in 1992. Photo via Saigoneer.

The new individualized, global expat was to be an early harbinger of the rise of what academics call the “self-initiated expatriate” (SIE) — a globally mobile worker who moves abroad without necessarily being told to, often highly-skilled. This includes, of course, the “digital nomad”-type professional, as well as English-language teachers, travel influencers, freelancers, and more. To clarify, SIEs did not replace corporate expatriates per se, who of course still exist — rather, they displaced the corporate expatriate as the dominant model evoked by the term “expat.” In many ways, SIEs are fundamentally neoliberal subjects in their reproduction of neoliberal ideology, in that their espousal of an international lifestyle often masks and obscures the fact that the feasibility of such internationality is itself ordered in uneven ways globally — dependent on, say, the strength of one’s passport or the feasibility of navigating borders and immigration systems, in addition to access to capital. As Kunz poignantly writes, “The self-styled international person, who possibly even rejects the label expatriate, in their performance of a celebratory and ‘border-blind’ internationalism… arguably has the markers of a tragic figure that is possibly well-intentioned yet hubristic, invested in rereading structural privilege as individual achievement.”

A view of Thảo Điền, a hub for expats in Saigon. Photo via Vinhomes.

Despite the association of the SIE with internationality and thus diversity, the SIE arguably remains racialized as white. For Kunz, this seeming contradiction must be understood via neoliberal ideology. Specifically, she suggests that the category’s “conceptual multiplicity and malleability” — its inclusion of “contingent insiders” of other backgrounds — helps to mask its largely racialized nature and in maintaining “a guise of a borderless internationality” that is in reality asymmetrically structured by persisting colonial and neocolonial relations, as much as the project of neoliberal globalization would want to have us believe otherwise. It is for this reason that criticism of the term expat as designated for white people is so common, despite the fact that non-white expats exist. From this view, the logic of (select) inclusivity of the category of the expat functions in the same way that the neoliberal celebration of “multiculturalism” and “DEI” by corporations functions to mask and obscure the violently racial nature of racial capitalism on a global scale.

The expat in Vietnam

The broad picture of the historical development of the expat from colonial to corporate to self-initiated expats offers a compelling account of the historically racialized nature of the expat, at least globally. But in Vietnam, the expat cannot be seen as racialized straightforwardly as white, given the significant population of East Asian expats. In fact, in 2025, a majority of the country’s officially counted international workforce — which, granted, is not the same as the population of expats, but is nonetheless illuminating — were from either China, South Korea, or Japan. Very tellingly, a Vietcetera article titled “Expats’ View On Working In Vietnam” features six expats, at least five of whom are not white, whose professions range from managers to yoga and ESL instructors. 

The opening ceremony of a Coca-Cola manufacturing plant in Hà Tây Province (now Hanoi) in August 1995. Coca-Cola is one of the earliest American MNCs to arrive in Vietnam following Đổi Mới. Photo by Hoàng Đình Nam via Instagram page @tonkin.jpg.

Yet, this does not mean that the expat in Vietnam is unracialized — it is more so that different types of expats are racialized differently. Here, it is useful to contrast the article cited above with another series of expat profiles, “Expats In Ho Chi Minh City.” While the former features majority Asian expats, the latter features overwhelmingly “western” expats. It is no coincidence that the article that features majority Asian expats focuses on the topic of work, while the profiles that feature majority western expats focus more broadly on the expat experience and lifestyle. This is because, in Vietnam, the two archetypes of “business” expats and “lifestyle” expats are “racialized” differently, as (East) Asian and Western respectively.

As one study of Korean expats in Saigon notes, interviewees often referred to their stay in Vietnam as “a long-term business trip” — which runs counter to what we might expect of “western” expats, by contrast. Thus, it is not exactly that race is irrelevant to the category of expat in Vietnam, but rather that the logic of race operates differently and unevenly, given the huge proportion of FDI from other Asian nations like Korea, Singapore, China, and thus the business-skewed orientation of Asian expats. The so-called “expat community” in Vietnam is thus in fact not singular — as Fred Wissink, the producer of the “Expats In Ho Chi Minh City” series writes of Korean expats, “they’re very closed off. It’s a 100,000-person strong community, but they’re all in District 7… They have their own group and don’t have to deviate outside of it to do business or live comfortably. Outside of the Korean community, there’s an estimated 50,000 expats in Saigon.” In line with our comments above, what we find here also is a kind of inter-expat stereotyping, for of course it is not true that “all” Korean expats live in District 7 nor live secluded from the rest of the city.

View of Phú Mỹ Hưng, often referred to as Saigon’s Koreatown. Photo via VnExpress.

While it may initially seem like, in Vietnam, the term expat is inclusive of all foreigners, two examples make clear that the expat by no means operates as an innocent category in Vietnam either. There are two instances that make this evidently clear.

Firstly, while it is true that the country has long been a country that has exported rather than imported “unskilled” labor, there still exists a notable population of manual laborers from abroad, specifically, from China. As anthropologist Nguyễn Văn Chính explains, while it is unclear what percentage of 33,000 Chinese contracted laborers in Vietnam are manual workers, it is commonplace for Chinese contractors in northern Vietnam to hire workers from China for several reasons, including ease of communication in Chinese and the relative ease of mobilizing workers from cities just across Vietnam’s northern border. Most of these laborers work illegally on short-term contracts, usually between three months to a year, though some stay up to ten years. Surely, according to dictionary definitions, most of these migrant workers should be considered not as immigrants but rather expats. Yet, at several moments in his study, Chính refers to them as “immigrants” — very telling moments of how “expat” remains a category both racialized and classed. 

As much as 90% of thermal power plants in Vietnam are built by Chinese contractors. Photo via UNDP.

Our second example concerns the most prominently covered naturalization of a migrant in Vietnam in the media: specifically, the story of Kenneth Atkinson, a British entrepreneur, who, after three decades of living in Vietnam, finally naturalized to become a Vietnamese citizen in 2025. Interestingly, the media coverage of his naturalization on Tuổi Trẻ and VnExpress does not once mention words like “immigrant” or “immigration.” The former is in fact categorized under the “Expat Life” column and the latter article is tagged with various tags containing the word “expat.” With respect to both Kenneth Atkinson and Chinese manual laborers, the point isn’t that the former is an expat and the latter are immigrants, but to point out “edge” cases in which the terms are not in fact wielded neutrally. 

Naturalized citizen Kenneth Atkinson at the launch of his memoir in September 2025. Photo via VnExpress.

At the end of the day, popular discourse around expats and racism tends to be reductive and obscures a more nuanced understanding of the phenomenon of “expats.” But even with a more nuanced understanding of the category, I think that there is a strong case to be made for the abandonment of the term altogether, given how confused and confusing the term remains. In opposition to abandoning the term, some may feel that the term “expat” may still be salvageable if used as a category to identify those who already possess a certain level of privilege. Yet, the problem with such a proposal is that what is intended as identification of privilege may in reality inadvertently constitute bestowal and/or reproduction of privilege and status, especially given that it is rarely possible to determine someone’s “level” of privilege in any straightforward way. Given this mess, it may be best that we abandon using the term altogether.

Bidding goodbye to central Hanoi, I took the National Road 21B to reach Tế Tiêu Neighborhood, a small community in Đại Nghĩa Township of Hanoi’s Mỹ Đức District. This fertile patch of land by the Đáy River is the cradle of a unique form of traditional folk art: Tế Tiêu puppetry.

As water puppetry (rối nước) is a better-known art form in Vietnam, sometimes, Tế Tiêu’s version is referred to as rối cạn (land puppetry) to differentiate the two.

On the day of my visit, the puppetry troupe was preparing for a show in the afternoon for a tour group, but the temple courtyard was bustling with activities right from the early morning. Someone was busy setting up the stage, another was arranging chairs, and technicians were testing the sound. In a room next door, rows of wooden puppets were hung neatly, awaiting their turn in the limelight.

The Tế Tiêu puppetry troupe comprises about 20 members, including some who are over 60.

Some time later, troupe members returned from the field. They parked their bike outside and swiftly began changing into their performing costumes — brightly colored áo tứ thân and áo dài with accompanying headscarves. Every day, they are seasoned farmers hard at work cultivating plants in the field, but once on stage, they transform into masterful artists whose every movement is in sync with the actions and emotions of the puppets.

Lão Trượng, the opening character of Tế Tiêu puppet.

“Does someone like me need to announce my presence?” a deep, robust voice boomed out from behind the stage. In front, Lão Trượng appeared in his crimson robe, silvery beard, and measured steps. In water puppet shows, the narrator is Chú Tễu, but in Tế Tiêu shows, the narration is done by an elderly man, the symbol of the village’s most respected generation.

Phạm Công Bằng, an artisan and the leader of the Tế Tiêu troupe.

After the show, artisan Phạm Công Bằng sat down with me to retell the centuries-old history of Tế Tiêu puppetry, a rich tradition that’s not only valuable because of its artistry, but also how it anchors the soul and collective memory of an entire community.

Rối cạn, the cultural root of Tế Tiêu ancient village

In Vietnam, puppetry is closely linked to an agrarian way of life. It is how farmers express their love for life, the nation, and the people; their wishes for a content life; and their faith in kindness. Water puppetry is no doubt the most famous form, but land puppetry, despite being lesser-known, has also existed for hundreds of years.

Getting ready for a performance.

Tế Tiêu, as a region, is a historic land where early Vietnamese settlers founded villages. They cleared jungles to create farms and established cultural practices. According to local elders, puppetry has been here for over 400 years thanks to Trần Triều Đông, a court mandarin. In 1573, he relocated here to form a village, teaching the people to cultivate rice, creating the art of puppetry, and passing it down to community members. Since then, this art form has taken root here as a crucial part of the people’s treasured pastime.

Tế Tiêu puppetry has witnessed many ups and downs too. Wars and separations nearly wiped out its existence, but in 1965–1960, it was slowly restored and thrived thanks to the efforts of veteran artisans like Lê Năng Nhượng and Phạm Văn Bể. From many small groups, the official Tế Tiêu puppetry troupe was formed in 1956. The troupe still maintains around 100 plays today and thousands of puppets controlled by around 20 members.

Interacting with members of the audience.

Artisan Phạm Công Bằng told me, back then, puppetry existed alongside nature and followed the rhythm of the harvest season. A puppetry show wasn’t an ostentatious occasion. Once the harvest was over and farmers had more free time, villagers gathered at temple courtyards on full-moon nights. Before electricity was invented, kerosene lamps and moonlight were the only light sources illuminating those get-togethers. Puppeteers didn’t make a living from performing; they were just farmers entertaining one another. During the day, they worked in the fields, but at night, they retreated behind the curtains to put on shows. That’s why Tế Tiêu puppetry is considered a highly socialized art form.

After hundreds of years, puppetry is still a highly socialized art form.

After hundreds of years, the structure of puppet shows has changed: spectators are mostly tourists while performances are put on at tourist attractions, but that communal spirit is still mostly intact.

An amalgam of many art forms

Tế Tiêu puppetry is the combination of many different artistic skills, including puppet craftsmanship, staging, puppet control, singing, spoken words, and music. What’s more, many puppet plays are directly adapted from materials of chèo, tuồng, quan họ, and hát văn — many other genres of folk performances — to create puppet shows both diverse and recognizable.

There are many steps in the creation of a puppet.

According to Bằng, the creation of a puppet involves many steps, all of which require a high level of intricacy. Firstly, artisans choose a suitable type of wood to form the puppet body, often fig or jackfruit. Then, they carve out the body details; specific characters need to look a certain way. Once the physical form is done, body parts are assembled alongside control sticks in a way that produces movements as smoothly as possible. Then comes the beautifying stage when the puppet is painted, drawn on, and decorated to complete the character’s appearance and unique personality. Once that is done, outfits are created for the puppets. Finally, after a few adjustments, it can make its stage debut.

Buồng trò is the stage wings.

The main plays featured in Tế Tiêu puppetry often originate from real-life events and figures, such as historical characters, traditional customs, and spiritual lore. The background could include elements of agrarian life like rice paddy fields, rice milling, field ploughing, areca nut harvesting, water buffalo, and chickens. The source materials can include historical episodes like Thánh Gióng’s resistance against Ân forces (China’s Tang Dynasty) or the story of how Lý Công Uẩn moved the capital from Ninh Bình to Hanoi. Everyday activities like festivals, religious ceremonies, cultural activities, fruit collection, swings, palanquin procession, and wrestling are emulated using puppetry’s dynamic movements and colors. Each trope also carries didactic messaging to spread moral lessons and warn against vices and crimes.

A wrestling scene.

In order to best communicate the message and soul of the play, performers are expected to fully grasp the role of each puppet and the flow of the narrative to use the appropriate movement for each moment. The most common ones are walking, standing, arm-raising, head-turning, holding props, etc. Harder ones consist of emotional expressions, such as fright, joy, or sadness. Together, they form the “life” of the puppet. Mastering this life emulation requires not only flexible control, but also a deep understanding of each play and each character.

An equally crucial component of the performance is music and dialogue, guiding the emotions and rhythm of the play — sometimes it’s urgent and compelling, at times, it’s gentle and reverent. The orchestra accompanying the troupe includes percussion instruments like base drums, snare drums, and cymbals; and string instruments like đàn nhị and đàn tam. Depending on the play, performers  sing melodies from different genres, from common folk songs, spoken poetry, to tuồng, chèo, hát văn, and quan họ.

Nguyễn Văn Thuyết, the đàn nhị instrumentalist in the troupe.

The guardian of Tế Tiêu puppetry

In the field of land puppetry, perhaps the most well-known figure is Phạm Văn Bể, considered by many as a “walking dictionary” of puppetry and the soul of the troupe. Since he was eight, he had already shown great passion for puppets and then spent his entire life with this art form. He was well-versed in every step of the way from puppet making, scriptwriting, staging to instructing and performing.

Bể’s son is artisan Phạm Công Bằng, who grew up amongst the thuds of puppets being carved from wood blocks and the sounds of đàn nhị and drums. “It was his life story that inspired me to follow the family trade,” he shares. Bằng remembers vividly the elation when he held the first puppet he crafted himself in his hands. It was Thạch Sanh of the famous folk story Thạch Sanh–Lý Thông. His first performance took place when he was just 12 years old.

Standing in the stagewings, artisans could hear every laughter, every round of applause.

At the time, despite being the smallest and youngest member, he insisted on joining. Those formative experiences cultivated within him an affection for his ancestor’s lifework. After Bể passed away, the troupe lost a crucial pillar, but to Bằng, the work to keep it going is important as it encapsulates the collective memory of an entire community. “Standing in the stagewings, artisans can hear every laughter and every round of applause. When my hometown’s legacy is introduced to more people, I feel motivated,” he explains.

For someone who’s in charge of the Tế Tiêu troupe’s operation today, Bằng’s biggest concern is how to protect it from obsolescence, so that Tế Tiêu puppetry will continue to exist in the everyday life of villagers, and one day could become a unique tourist attraction for travelers.

What is culture? For someone who writes for an arts and culture publication, you’d think I’d have a quick and clean answer, but the more I ruminate, the more I realize it comes down to a sloppy assemblage of habits, ephemera, and minutiae: eating preferences, holiday attire, styles of sneezes, methods for counting on one’s fingers, variety of fruits to gift and an endless string of social norms. Pile enough of these choices together, and you end up with a distinct culture.

If one were to thus try and compile the many disparate points that comprise Vietnamese culture, one must make space for ngồi chồm hổm. As its oft-used English equivalent, “Asian squat,” attests to, the style of crouching low to the ground, perfectly balanced without a chair, is common across Asia broadly. Still, it is such a frequent sight in Vietnam, evidenced by the many social media posts foreigners make about it, that we should consider it an element of Vietnamese culture.

For illustrative purposes only and not guaranteed anatomical accuracy.

In these online discussions, westerners often admit to being wholly unable to chồm hổm. If you take a poll of your foreign friends and co-workers, you’ll likely find this to be true. But why? While there are plenty of theories as to why foreigners rarely can, it has less to do with the minor differences in body types and anatomies across ethnicities, and more to do with practice. To squat, one must have flexible ankles. Kids have these and thus are observed across cultures to be rather good at squatting. But unless one practices regularly, the body, like the mind, naturally becomes less flexible, and the ability is lost. This might explain why many Vietnamese of all ages can squat: they have plenty of practice when washing vegetables, fixing a motorbike, waiting for the bus or simply playing games on the floor when they don’t want to get the seat of their pants dirty.  

Squatting used to be a popular way to enjoy noodles in Vietnam (left). Photo via kevintruong.vn.

Sugarcane vendors are seen squatting on a Vietnamese street in 1950 (right). Photo via Vietnamplus

Of course, not all Vietnamese can chồm hổm, because of habits or physical shape. And perhaps, as the nation continues to develop away from the actions typically associated with squatting, even fewer will be able to. This shift would coincide with some local perception that chồm hổm is an inherently uncouth or rural activity best left back in the nation’s poorer eras, despite its potential positive health effects. This view may be exacerbated by the pose's resemblance to the posture one takes to defecate when no western toilet is present.

Proof of my squatting prowess from an early age.

I would consider the disappearance of the squat to be a great cultural loss. But I am biased. For inexplicable reasons, growing up very much white in America, I would chồm hổm at all times: while playing videos games, while studying in my school desk, even seated at  the family dinner table. While this caused much consternation amongst my teachers and parents — “Knees off the able,” my Dad would repeat several times per meal — I never grew out of it. And now, at least until my Vietnamese advances beyond that of an uncoordinated middle-schooler, chồm hổm is what most allows me to feel like I can fit in within Vietnamese culture. Not to mention, it’s far more comfortable and convenient than any chair I’ve yet to find. 

In the 2010s, my journey to study abroad took me to Singapore. Being a tiny person in an enormous city was a huge undertaking for a teenager, as I had to adapt to countless changes, from minute to major, at once: living in a different language, academic pressures, foreign customs and cuisines, and being away from my family. Gradually, things fell into place. The public transport worked well; the accent got more familiar; and I didn’t miss bánh mì and cơm tấm nearly as much as I thought I would; but there was one thing I never managed to entirely overcome — the bum gun-shaped void in my heart.

Singapore, like many other developed nations in the world, has a toilet paper culture. At the heights of the COVID-19 pandemic, I watched videos of American supermarkets being stampeded by the toilet paper horde in confusion. While I understand the rationale behind the phenomenon, toilet paper has always played such a trivial role in my growing up that it’s never occurred to me how important it could be elsewhere. I am an equal-opportunity hygienist, so I would never shame anyone or any culture for how they choose to service their tushy. You do you lah, Singapore.

Inside a bathroom at Jewel Changi Airport. Notice the miserable lack of bum guns.

However, I don’t need to go into too much detail about how undesirable toilet paper could be: clogging, chafing, fragile plies, abrasive surfaces, poopy finger tips, and not to mention the environmental cost of wood pulps. Bum guns rule with soft power instead of harsh deterrence. Bum guns care about the environment and your comfort. Bum guns will treat you — and your butt — right.

Back then, I would visit home once or twice a year, and, every time, that first spray after a long trip from the airport and months abroad would heal something in me. That water pressure. That laminar flow. That cooling sensation. There’s a certain comfort and privilege in spraying until you’re bored, knowing you have achieved peak cleanliness without checking.

I was not born into this accessible luxury. In the 1990s, most Vietnamese families, mine included, made do with a squat toilet, a water basin, and a big plastic mug. In the 2000s, when we managed to save enough money to renovate our childhood home, a seated toilet and accompanying bum gun became part of the picture for the first time.

A typical Vietnamese toilet in the 1990s.

The presence of bum guns became my personal hallmark to gauge Vietnam’s progress as I traveled across the country. To see if people’s lives got better, a comfortable toilet with a bum gun is usually the first sign. They started appearing at rest stops along highways to Đà Lạt and the Mekong Delta, and at public venues like malls and airports. From a luxury, the bum gun transitioned to a staple amenity at every home.

An assortment of bathrooms at Saigon coffee shops. Recognize any?

Imagine my disbelief when I landed in Changi, widely considered one of the best airports in the world, just to see nary a bum gun in sight. A total eclipse of the butt. I did an informal poll in my social circle. The US, UK, Australia, Canada, Ecuador, China, Taiwan: these are but a few nations existing sans bum guns. While you’re reading this, there are people going about their day in those countries alongside dingleberries.

A vintage bidet in France.

France is often credited with inventing the bidet, nozzles not included. Japan, of course, has built a global reputation for multifunctional smart toilets. Yet it is unclear who invented the bum gun. It might not have been Vietnam, but we have cultivated such a rich bum gun culture that I think it’s high time we take the lead to propagandize the beauty of bum guns to the world. I want bum guns to be a basic human right, the result of a social movement that Vietnam spearheaded. You, too, deserve a squeaky clean ass, comrade.

Having always been a little brother, I had to learn to be a big one when I was 10 years old. In the midst of the confusion of this new role, I found myself pressing my nose to this newborn’s head and inhaling as hard as I could. This “sniff kiss” was not an action I invented. Rather, it was an instinct forged through mimicry: I started noticing from this point that my father and grandmother both did the same thing to me.

As a kid from the diaspora, I lost myself in thoughts over one poem I could relate to within my deepest senses. It's written by renowned Vietnamese-American poet Ocean Vuong, titled ‘Kissing in Vietnamese.’ I felt for the first time that there might be something bigger than me behind this peculiar habit that I thought was idiosyncratic. Vuong shares his experience with those sniff kisses, which he contrasts with western ones and their flashier display of affection. But this modesty makes the intimacy not less intense, as described in this part of the poem:

In researching my heritage to get to root of this habit, I have found that those kisses seem to be typical of Vietnamese people, anchored in the culture. Another aspect of the kiss that is shown here is that it’s usually done by family elders. There are similar customs in many Southeast Asia, according to a study that uses lexical semantic typology through “smell/kiss colexification” to demonstrate that the practice is unique to this region. It actually was a culture shock for European colonizers when they came to Southeast Asia, and many mentioned the quirk in their writings.

The entry for “hôn” (kissing) in the Annamite-French dictionary by Jean Bonet (1899). The description reads: “The olfactory kiss (by inhaling strongly through the nostrils as the Annamites do).”

For me it was never really about my cultural background; rather, it was a vital tool to feel and express affection in my own way. My feelings for it were straightforward: I liked the purity of inhaling the scent of my loved ones, as a way to sense them over and over. At the same time, as Vuong captures in his poem, the kiss could be fierce, born from an endless worry for those dearest to me that can only be soothed by this reassurance of life.

The sniff kiss had become so visceral for me that its cultural implication wasn't clear to me for a long time. It turned into a blurry concept in my mind, midway between an expression of love and a physical scent. The eccentricity of the quirk convinced me it was something my family and I made up, regardless of any country’s traditions. Even now, each time I tilt my head towards my grandmother, so she can sniff my forehead, I am reminded that in all of us there are dormant customs whose existence is beyond us.

Lê Phổ, ‘La Maternité,’ circa 1940s. 

It is up to us to uncover these hidden parts of our heritage by noticing that, be it over time or from a significant event, it is actually an inherited behavior. It might be hard, or even futile, but I find it beautiful that through an autoethnographic process, we can dig out an ancestral link from within each of us about how we love.

In 1799, the ferocious Tây Sơn army forced the first Nguyễn Emperor, Nguyễn Ánh, and his troops to flee to the sea. While making their escape, a great storm engulfed the retreating army. As their ship’s mast shivered and the hull shuddered, threatening to break it into splinters, a great whale rose from the depths. It lifted the emperor's boat and carried him and his men to safety. To thank the animal, Ánh bestowed upon whales the official title of "Nam Hải Cự Tộc Ngọc Lân Thượng Đẳng Thần," which was shortened to Cá Ông, or “Lord Fish.”

This story, apocryphal as it may be, is not the only such tale of cetacean rescue in Vietnam. Indeed, people up and down the country's coast tell modern-day stories of whales saving stranded fisherman. Mùi, the caretaker of a whale graveyard in Phước Hải Village near Vũng Tàu, for example, told me through an interpreter of a time in 2016 when a whale saved his life. He had been out drinking with a friend and on his trip home, their boat capsized. As the waves pushed him beneath the surface, he thought he was about to die. Suddenly, a large whale appeared under him and supported him on its broad back, shifting and rolling as Mùi lolled and floundered in the current. When eventually the whale steered the elderly man to the safety of another ship, it came as no surprise to Mùi, as he is a devout worshiper of Cá Ông.

A painting featured in Vũng Tàu's whale temple.

The silent guardians of the ocean

I first learned about Vietnam’s whale worship tradition thanks to a single-sentence caption on a photograph that had been entered in a national art contest. I’ve always been enamored with these ancient, intelligent and spectacularly foreign creatures and was curious to learn more about a religion devoted to them. Some of my friends who are native Saigoneers said they were vaguely aware of it, but didn’t know the particulars nor anyone that actually practiced it. The internet offered some information, but to get a better understanding, I needed to venture to the sea.

I traveled about 20 kilometers from Vũng Tàu through a small town and down a construction-ravaged coastal road to a stretch of sand near the sea. After passing beneath a welcome banner, I arrived at a large sand field dotted with mounds topped by tombstones. This rather remote spot is a whale graveyard, one of dozens in the country.

A woman arranging offerings in the whale graveyard in Phước Hải Village.

A woman — who was placing flowers, fresh fruit, glasses of rice wine and lit incense at each grave — paused to talk with me. She explained that she comes from a family of fisherman, and leaving offerings at the graves of the Ông lụy (whales that have washed ashore) and praying to Cá Ông at the site’s temple help to ensure prosperous catches. The fishermen usually work far out in the open ocean in international waters near foreign coasts, so giving offerings also helps to ensure safe journeys.

Mùi, the old fisherman who was rescued by a whale, has managed this graveyard for the past seven years and explained that whales don’t just physically intervene to safeguard against drowning. He recounted an instance of local fishermen working illegally in Indonesian waters. Foreign authorities had appeared in the area and the men were certain they’d be arrested. They shut off their lights and began frantically praying to Cá Ông. Miraculously, they evaded capture and continued on to a very lucrative catch. Mùi stressed that while whales were instrumental in defeating Chinese invaders centuries ago, they are not nationalistic. Rather, they will rescue anyone in need. For example, Mùi recently heard a story about a whale saving an American ship and bringing it to Russian shores. He also added that praying to Cá Ông can bring one good health and luck in finding a husband or wife.

Cá Ông as mortal beings

During her extensive research on whale worship in central Vietnam, scholar Sandra Lantz encountered numerous tales similar to the ones that Mùi shared. For example, around 1950, a man named Ly was fishing outside Phan Thiết when an unexpected storm threw his small ship into peril. He quickly began praying to Cá Ông and sprinkled salt and rice into the water as an offering. Within five minutes, the storm retreated, hovering ominously nearby. A whale then came to his boat and shepherded it to within sight of a nearby mountain and safe anchoring.

Lantz also found in her studies a belief that Cá Ông helps fishermen who perish at sea by returning their souls to shore. If the men’s souls can't make it to land, they will forever wander the open ocean as ghosts, but once brought ashore they can attain eternal peace.

Science offers an alternative to acts that are interpreted as instances of cetacean altruism. During storms, whales face difficulties navigating waves and benefit from leaning against boats, using them as steadying fulcrums. Even with the assistance, sometimes the efforts to stay afloat exhaust the animals to the point of death, upon which currents drag their corpses into the shallows. Similarly, whales will often fight predators not out of any devotion to people, but out of instincts to protect their own young.

The Phước Hải graveyard is home to more than two dozen mounds of varying sizes, each containing the body of a whale that has washed ashore near the tiny village. Each year, as many as 20 whales end up on the beach in the area. In whale worship, there is no specific distinction made between whales and other cetaceans such as dolphins and porpoises, and there have been virtually no scientific studies in Vietnam to ascertain which marine animals live in the area. Most of the animals villagers find are rather small — up to 1.5 meters in length — according to the woman I spoke with, so it’s likely that many of them are not technically whales. Moreover, there was at least one tortoise buried in the graveyard, brought in seemingly out of reverence, though not specifically associated with the religion.

A large burial mound in Phước Hải Village whale graveyard.

One grave in Phước Hải stands out from the rest. An enormous whale washed ashore on December 28, 2017. Mùi claims it was more than 10 meters long, while the woman giving offerings estimated it was closer to 7 or 8 meters. As far as anyone can remember, the 10-ton creature was the largest to have ever arrived in the village, and required a crane to bring it to its current resting place. Similarly sized whales have recently appeared on beaches in other areas of Vietnam as well.

Mùi explained that during its long life, that particular whale had saved many ships throughout the area, not just in Vietnam, but in Thailand, Myanmar and even Russia. However, after it failed to save an overloaded ship during a large storm, it committed suicide. Intentional beaching is, sadly, how Mùi claims the whales find themselves on the village’s shores. Having been unsuccessful in an attempt to rescue a human, they commit suicide out of shame or grief, according to lore.

Alter dedicated to Cá Ông at the Phước Hải Village whale graveyard.

Ông lụy are given elaborate funerals typically reserved for humans. People play drums and offer various fruits, meats, liquor, ghost money and flowers. Lantz notes in her research that Ông lụy are placed in bamboo coffins lined with red paper. Before being interred, the coffin is paraded through the streets so people can offer their respects. Whales have even been rumored to visit harbors during these funeral ceremonies to give a final send-off to their deceased brethren. If a whale is too large to move to the graveyard, and a crane is not available, some villages will elect a guardian to watch over the Ông lụy until the meat has rotted off its bones and can be more easily transported.

According to some believers, the first person to find an Ông lụy is bestowed with great luck, but only the elderly should bury one, because a human soul that the whale may have brought ashore might still be restless and seek to inhabit a young body. Each grave is marked with a tombstone that lists the date of burial for a given whale, as well as the boat or person that originally discovered it.

Cá Ông altar in Phước Hải.

Ông lụy remain buried for three years, a period during which locals like the one I met tend to their graves: replacing offerings and saying prayers. Much like humans, the whales receive anniversary ceremonies 49 and 100 days after their initial burials. Once three years have passed, the bones are dug up and meticulously cleaned. Unlike Vietnamese people’s disinterred remains, which are sometimes kept in the homes of family members, the whale bones are transported to nearby temples, called Lăng Ông, that are specifically reserved for whale worship.

Altar base filled with cetacean bones.

Whale mausoleums

I visited the Lăng Ông in Phước Hải, which rests in the middle of the village just a few blocks from the whale graveyard. In one small room, an altar dedicated to Cá Ông festooned with flowers and incense contains two elaborately carved whale statues and the fully articulated skeleton of an undetermined cetacean. A scrum of bones, including at least a dozen intact skulls, fill the altar’s hollow, windowed base. In addition to the altar room, an impressive multi-room structure serves as a community gathering site as well as a place for whale worshipers to pay their respects. A large platform in the center elevates a huge, freshly painted wooden whale statue.

Entrance to the Vũng Tàu temple dedicated to Cá Ông.

The temple is not dissimilar to many located on coasts throughout the country, including one in the middle of Vũng Tàu itself that I also visited. According to its management board documents, the temple was built in 1824, while emperors Thiệu Trị and Tự Đức provided for it with three dynastic investiture decrees in 1845, 1846 and 1850. In addition to two glass cabinets impressively crammed with large whale bones, it also houses an enormous, almost fully articulated whale skeleton and a huge wooden whale sculpture. Several paintings depict whales blurring the boundary between myth and biology.

Thứ Hải, a monk at the Vũng Tàu whale temple. 

Thứ Hải, the resident monk at the Vũng Tàu Lăng Ông for the past 20 to 30 years, explained to me that everyone in the area knows the power of Cá Ông and comes here to pay their respects and ask for prosperity. I talked to him beside a wall covered in aging photographs. The sepia snapshots offered glimpses of whale funerals and festivities going back decades.

In addition to the elaborate funerals, whale worshipers hold annual festivals to honor the marine mammals. The three-day events, which take place on different dates in different villages according to the lunar calendar, feature offerings, prayers, boat races, music and, in some cases, theatrical performances. Different communities celebrate in slightly different ways, but each allows citizens to pay their respects to Cá Ông, pray for loved ones lost at sea, and take a break from normal work schedules. People often wear their finest traditional clothing, decorate their boats and place colorful banners and flags around the city.

Like followers of most other religions, whale worshipers believe in a variety of superstitions. Lantz claims many adherents follow dietary restrictions that forbid the eating of Cá Ông’s assistants — swordfish, shrimp, sucking-fish and giant squid — as well as dog meat, because dogs frighten whales. Similarly, fisherman should not wear jewelry made of claws or teeth as those objects would scare a whale attempting a rescue. If a woman enters a Lăng Ông while menstruating, some believe whales may not save her family’s boats.

At Phước Hải Village whale graveyard manager Mùi (left) and his friend Ngọc (right).

I asked Mùi about the particular dietary restrictions and he compared them to Buddhist practices of only eating vegetarian food on certain days of the lunar calendar — some believers choose to follow this, and others don’t, with room for personal interpretations. He did add, however, that people are careful not to offer chickens to Cá Ông. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but theorized it dates back to ancient times when the calling of a rooster signaled people to venture into the fields, which left their villages vulnerable to invasion. Hải, the Vũng Tàu monk, downplayed the idea of forbidden foods or offering requirements at his temple, claiming that whale reverence comes with no such demands.

Whale worship vs. whale protection

The origin of Vietnam’s whale worship remains unknown. Some scholars have proposed it was introduced in the area by 4^th century seafaring Chăm and 10^th century Khmer people in southern Vietnam. Hindu animist beliefs which influenced early Chăm religions may have helped elevate whales to the status of gods in coastal areas.

Buddhism also offers an explanation. According to one legend, upon witnessing the plight of poor fishermen who were dependant on the tempest-plagued South Sea, Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva tore her cassock into pieces and threw them across the ocean. Each piece turned into a whale tasked with rescuing distressed fishermen. Upon noticing that the newly created creatures were rather small and unable to withstand severe storms, the Avalokiteshvara gathered elephant bones from the forest and gave them to the whales. This made them strong enough to complete their duties, and also gave them their Vietnamese name, cá voi — literally: elephant fish.

If whale worship’s past is unclear, its future is equally uncertain. As younger generations move from fishing villages to large cities and abandon their ancestors’ trade, there are concerns that they will also abandon the religion. Additionally, the radical development of Vietnam’s coasts thanks to roads, housing and tourism projects threatens the very structures that support this tradition. Moreover, climate change is shifting local tides and making the graveyards more difficult to bring whales to.

Whale spinal bones at Phước Hải Lăng Ông.

Mùi, for his part, disagreed that cultural and socioeconomic changes could result in the demise of whale worship. He explained that people here are proud of the practice, and even if they are no longer fishing in the village, they learn how to properly honor Cá Ông from their parents, who learned it from theirs and presumably will pass it on to future generations. Hải echoed this belief and professed to not having witnessed any decline in worshipers in the Vũng Tàu temple. Still, it’s hard to imagine the fervor or dedication of current practitioners withstanding generations divorced from ever seeing, let alone being saved by, whales.

While pre-Đổi Mới policies resulted in the shuttering and destruction of some whale temples, Vietnam's leaders have recently taken steps to ensure this unique practice continues. For example, in 2013, the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism recognized the whale festival in Cần Giờ District outside of Saigon as an example of intangible cultural heritage at a national level. Twelve regional festivals in Đà Nẵng received similar recognition in 2016. Perhaps out of respect for the locals’ beliefs, or for its potential as a tourist attraction, Quảng Ngãi Province’s Lý Sơn District has plans to restore a 24-meter-long, 300-year-old whale skeleton and exhibition center with an investment of VND10 billion (US$437,000).

Whale skeleton displayed in Vũng Tàu.

It is easy to romanticize an obscure ancient beliefs and apply modern or idealist values to them. It would be nice to categorize whale worship as a form of nature worship committed to the plight of cetacean species and the biological health of the seas. Nothing, however, suggests its adherents are concerned with, or even aware of, the cataclysmic decline of global whale and fish populations, let alone solving the problem. Mùi claims he has not witnessed a change in the number of whales that wash ashore or a decline in fishing productivity, but his anecdotal observations are hardly definitive, especially in the face of mounting outside evidence. While governments around the world have established hunting moratoriums for many whale species, which has led to minimal increases in populations, their numbers remain decimated thanks to the massive whaling industries of previous centuries.

Perhaps more troubling is the reality that whales, dolphins and porpoises die as a result of the very activities humans request their assistance with. Cetaceans hunt the same fish that people are after, so many of the whales that wash ashore have not, in fact, committed suicide, but instead drowned at sea after becoming tangled in nets.

As I sat sharing shots of rice wine with Mùi, I couldn’t help but be conflicted over whale worship. On the one hand, as a great admirer of whales, I too profess a deep and profound respect for the incredibly intelligent and emotionally astute animals and consider them worthy of our time and offerings. But does the religion not also encourage human’s anthropocentric inclinations at the expense of the natural world? Can a person profess to love and honor a creature while doing nothing to protect it? Should we really want these majestic creatures to kill themselves as acts of penance for not rescuing us? Eight billion humans inhabit this planet, but how many whales remain?

Ultimately, it is not my place to say. After speaking with Mùi, I visited Cá Ông’s altar and lifted a strand of incense while praying for the survival of the whales, a prosperous future for the village, and my own private successes — aspirations that don’t have to be mutually exclusive. The joss stick’s smoke wafted apart in the air, like a whale song echoing into silence as it navigates up from the murky depths.

This article was originally published in 2018.

As Vietnamese society progresses, dogs and cats’ role in our families have gradually elevated to worthy life companions instead of mere animal help in previous generations. While the archive of pet names today seems endless and every day you can easily bump into pets bearing hilariously human names, tasty food dishes, or glorious adjectives, the naming conventions of Vietnamese domestic animals in the past had recurring themes that directly correspond to the cultural and historical atmosphere of when they were coined.

The simplest and most timeless way to name dogs in Vietnam, today or in the past, is still after their coat color. Popular examples include Vàng (yellow), Nâu (tan), Mực (black) or Vện (swirly). Vện is a distinctive coat pattern often seen on dogs related to the Phú Quốc ridgeback, one of a few dog breeds native to Vietnam. The earliest record, and probably most famous dog, from this naming formula was Cậu Vàng, the treasured companion of Lão Hạc in Nam Cao’s titular short story from 1943. This formula, sadly, also spawns the name Xà Mâu, a name often used to describe dogs afflicted with skin diseases that result in patchy skin and fur.

Cậu Vàng as depicted in a 2021 film adaptation of Lão Hạc.

Starting from the 1960s all the way until the decades immediately after the war against the US, a cheeky new naming convention emerged: dogs were named after American politicians with prominent involvement in the war. The most common ones were Giôn (Lyndon Johnson), Ních or Mích (Richard Nixon), and Ki, Kiki, or Kít (Henry Kissinger). In writer Nguyễn Quang Lập’s personal essay ‘Con chó Giôn của tôi’ (My dog, Giôn), part of the essay collection Ký ức vụn (Fragmented Memories), he reminisces about his most favorite furry friend growing up:

These were fascinating expressions of passive aggression that were also short and vague enough for plausible deniability. In today’s social climate, it is a little bizarre to think of anyone naming the beloved fur babies they pamper and care for after something so entrenched in wartime bitterness, but one could look into the role that animals once occupied in the typical Vietnamese household for a possible answer.

Across Vietnamese history, any animal kept at home usually served a specific utilitarian role to justify its husbandry: water buffaloes ploughed the field, chickens laid eggs, ducks gave feathers, etc. Dogs protected the home and cats hunted rodents; they often weren’t seen as pets or family members. These clear HR boundaries might have provided sufficient emotional detachment for people to engage in some sassy name-calling.

The popularity of the comic series Tintin helped Milou become one of the most common dog names in Vietnam. Image via Studio Brillantine.

Anecdotally, with every new decade, the prevalence of Giôn and Ních seems to have waned, perhaps due to their very glaring non-Vietnamese spelling. Ki and Kiki, however, are still going strong — dare I say, because, removed from their historical origin, they sound rather… cute? After the war ended and as quality of life in Vietnam improved, our family structure opened up to welcome more dogs and cats as life companions, and their naming convention also shifted to reflect this changing dynamic.

From the 1970s until now, there are increasingly diverse and affectionate ways to name pets: after a favorite food or fruit like Quýt, Mì, Bánh Bao (because people love food and their pets); just a dude’s name like Huy, Minh, An (because people see pets as their children); or after a wish of wellness like Lạc, Lộc, Như Ý. Descriptive names based on appearance, of course, are timeless — like Vàng, Cam, Nâu, Xù, Bông, Béo, Vằn, and more.

Misha, the mascot of Moscow 1980, on a stamp. Image via Wikimedia.

There are, still, two common names with cultural significance that arose during this time period. Firstly, Mi Lu, Lu Lu or Lu originated from Milou, a white Wire Fox Terrier in Les Aventures de Tintin. This French-language comic was one of the most iconic European series of the 20^th century, documenting the thrilling global adventures of Tintin, a Belgian reporter, and his dog Milou. Legally dubious Vietnamese translations started circulating pre-1975 and continued throughout the 1980s, as part of the rise in French-language cultural products in Vietnam at the time, which brought Lucky Luke, Schtroumpf and Tintin to local readers.

Lastly, one less common but fascinating Vietnamese dog name with surprisingly European origin is Mi Sa or Misa, local versions of Misha, the official mascot of the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow. Misha is a cuddly bear designed by children’s illustrator Victor Chizhikov, widely deemed the first character from a sporting event to achieve major commercial success. Moscow 1980 — and by extension, Misha — was also historically significant to Vietnamese because it was the first Olympics in which Vietnam participated after the war ended, even though we didn’t win any medals.

In 2024, The New York Times published a list of the 25 most iconic pieces of furniture from the past century, selected by a panel of designers, artists, and curators from the world's leading museums. Unexpectedly, the Monobloc, a plastic chair found in almost every corner of Vietnam and across the globe, had somehow secured a seat.

When the news broke, Vietnamese news sources were quick to jump on the story. The resulting coverage mostly followed a comfortable, recurring motif: a humble object of the streets, long embedded into the fabric of local life, now finally validated by the international gatekeepers of taste! Journalists dutifully cataloged the chair's role in fostering Vietnam’s culinary and social gatherings, noting its constant presence at beer stalls, in family courtyards, and various scenes throughout the country.

Notably, the Monobloc was the only entry without a credited creator. Photo via The New York Times.

Yet, looking beyond the headlines, I found a barrage of conflicting interpretations regarding the chair's inclusion. While most of the designs were celebrated for their aesthetic innovation or the genius of their creators, the Monobloc was chosen for its absolute, relentless ubiquity. There have been millions, perhaps billions, of them produced and scattered across the world.

Sifting through internet forums, I noticed that global sentiment toward the Monobloc was also split into two opposing camps. In many countries, people despise it openly, describing it as an eyesore that clutters the landscape and an environmental blight. Yet elsewhere, particularly in Vietnam, the chair is spoken of with a certain fondness. Here, we quite like it for being cheap, practical, and always dependable.

The local press quickly capitalized on the Monobloc making the list. Photo via VTV24.

How can something so simple be both cherished and disdained? What exactly about it is so appealing to some and so offensive to others? Is it genuinely useful, or merely plastic waste masquerading as furniture? Out of all these descriptors, what is the true nature of the Monobloc?

To find an answer, we have to trace the chair back to its inception, even if its origins are just as murky as the way we view it today.

The Monobloc, as the name suggests, is cast from a single mass of plastic. It is typically made of polypropylene, a thermoplastic that yields to shape under high heat.

The chair first emerged in the aftermath of the World Wars, as nations lunged toward industrialization. At the time, plastic was hailed as the substance of the future because it was light, durable, and did not rely on traditional resources like wood or metal, which had become scarce during the war years.

Amid rapid breakthroughs in material science, designers began experimenting with plastic as a new frontier for mass-market furniture. The hope was to create products that were flexible, inexpensive, and more accessible to the general public.

From left to right, Panton Chair, Bofinger Chair, Universale Chair, Fauteuil 300. Photo via Vitra Design Museum.

This era witnessed many would-be precursors to the modern Monobloc. In 1967, Verner Panton introduced the Panton Chair, famous for its seamless, flowy curves. Over in Germany, Helmut Bätzner developed the Bofinger Chair, the first model molded from fiberglass-reinforced plastic. Around the same time in Italy, Joe Colombo launched the Universale Chair, which featured detachable legs to allow for adjustable heights.

This lineage grew even closer to the present in 1972, when French engineer Henry Massonnet introduced the Fauteuil 300. This model possessed the silhouette we recognize today: slim, equipped with armrests, and very stackable. 

But the real turning point was in 1983, when the French Grosfillex Group launched its Resin Garden Chair. This was designed for the mass market with exceptionally low production costs. Crucially, the patent was not copyrighted, allowing manufacturers worldwide to copy and modify it, priming the chair to become an international icon.

On a functional level, the Monobloc is the result of meticulous calculation. The backrest is perforated to drain rainwater for outdoor use. The frame, while thin, is surprisingly resilient, with a curved back designed to cradle the sitter. The legs are reinforced to handle heavy loads and spaced precisely so they can be stacked without warping.

Inside a chair factory. Photo via Works That Work.

According to Witold Rybczynski in his book Now I Sit Me Down, the entire production process takes less than two minutes. Plastic granules are mixed with pigments and additives before being melted at roughly 220°C. This molten mixture is then injected into a mold under immense pressure. Once cooled, the mold opens to reveal a chair ready for use.

The greatest expense in this production line is the mold itself. A single set can churn out millions of perfect copies, distinguished only by color. These molds often cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. For this reason, the Monobloc was always engineered with high-volume manufacturing in mind. A factory can only break even after selling hundreds of thousands of units. 

A beach in Naples, Italy. Photo by Brett Lloyd via Another Mag.

Pragmatic in both design and economics, the Monobloc possessed everything needed to take over the world. From France, it quickly swept through Europe and crossed the Atlantic to North America, populating gardens, cafes, beaches, and weekend picnics.

But this very popularity would soon turn it into a pariah in the western world. Critics, as quoted in Smithsonian Magazine, accused the Monobloc of being “in the worst possible taste” and “cheap, ugly and everywhere.” 

In cities like Zurich and Barcelona, local governments have gone so far as to banish the Monobloc from public spaces, treating it as a sort of urban clutter. To certain designers, the chair is the ultimate symbol of mindless consumerism and a grotesque aesthetic that strips a space of its character. And because it is so inexpensive, people often discard a broken chair rather than repair it, reinforcing its image as a disposable item and contributing to the plastic waste crisis.

Two chairs at the Dead Sea. Photo via Elle Decor.

Yet the journey of the Monobloc in the so-called “developing world” offers a starkly different perspective. Far from the contempt found in Europe, the documentary Monobloc by Hauke Wendler reveals a different reality. 

Trailer of the documentary Monobloc.

The first half of the film captures the complaints of Germans before moving to other countries to see how the chair is actually used. The further the director travels from his home, the more he discovers that the chair is welcomed and utilized in ingenious ways.

When he arrived in India, he met Harnek Singh, an employee at Supreme Industries, the country’s largest producer of plastic chairs. Singh explained that not long ago, many poor households in India did not even own a proper chair. The arrival of the Monobloc changed that. Cheap to make and easy to produce on a larger scale, it spread quickly across the country. Had even half that demand been met with wooden furniture instead, he said, the pressure on local vegetation would have been devastating.

From top to bottom, left to right: Monobloc chairs in Germany, Brazil, India, and Uganda. Photo via Monobloc documentary.

In Brazil, Wendler traveled to Recife, a coastal city where residents in impoverished neighborhoods rely heavily on waste picking for a living. At local recycling workshops, broken plastic chairs are collected, shredded, and melted down to be cast into entirely new objects. Far from being discarded as waste, these chairs serve as a vital raw material that fuels the local circular economy.

The story takes an even more resourceful turn in Uganda. There, the Monobloc serves as the primary frame for low-cost wheelchairs distributed by the organization Free Wheelchair Mission. By repurposing this chair, the group has slashed production costs to just a few dozen dollars per unit, a fraction of the price of a standard wheelchair. The simple assembly and readily available parts allowed the project to scale rapidly. By 2019, the organization had provided over 1.1 million Monobloc wheelchairs to people with disabilities across more than 90 countries, including Vietnam.

A Monobloc on a Vietnamese train car. Photo by Chris Hilton via Adventure.com.

A Monobloc wheelchair in Đà Nẵng. Photo via iotilverdensende.

Taken together, these stories seem to suggest that people's relationship with the Monobloc mirrors the condition of their environment. Those in less privileged regions often see it as a precious commodity and a practical solution to their community's lack of resources. Rarely is it a concern whether a chair is cool-looking or what design philosophy it might represent.

Whereas in more affluent societies, familiarity breeds contempt. When basic needs are met, people have the freedom and the financial means to curate their identities through consumption. In such a context, the Monobloc is often dismissed as a mere byproduct of mass production. It fails to signal style or personal flair, standing in direct opposition to the ideals of individuality that many strive to project.

This article is by no means an indictment of the western framework, nor is it an absolute verdict on which perspective holds more weight. Rather, it is a mere observation of how our lived experiences can drastically shift our perception of an object that is otherwise deemed universal.

Encountering the Monobloc through these global accounts, I find myself returning to the same question posed at the beginning: what, exactly, is this chair at its core?

The only answer I can offer is a personal one.

As it turns out, as a Vietnamese, I find my idea of the chair at odds with many of the aforementioned notions. I’d even dispute the most mainstream argument that the Monobloc is inherently culture-less, for I can tell from miles away the difference between a white chair by the Sicilian sea and the bright, neon green variety in a local quán nhậu with the quasi-bitten-apple logo on its back, which wouldn’t have been able to exist anywhere in the west due to copyright law.

I’m also immensely grateful for the livelihood it has given me and my fellow countrymen, in many ways. In a small way, I’m grateful for the one singular chair my neighbor has left out on our shared front porch, which no one has bothered to steal, on which I regularly put on my socks before heading out or drop my groceries after breathlessly climbing two flights of stairs.

In the big way, I’m grateful that it has provided stable seating for beer-bellied uncles catching the evening breeze by the canal, blue-collar workers leaning back for a quick nap between shifts, and passengers squeezed into crowded Tết trains when extra plastic chairs line the corridor.

Photo via Flickr.

I’m inclined to be biased, of course, as some of the best meals and best times I've had happened on various incarnations of the Monobloc. So mostly, I’m just really grateful that Vietnam doesn’t yet have a discourse on its aesthetic or social merits, and that here, the Monobloc is simply, wonderfully, a fact of life.

Islam is the fastest-growing religion in the world, yet Vietnamese Muslims represent as little as 0.1% of the country’s population. Most are ethnic Chăm, while a few are foreigners and a few converts. After traveling to Châu Đốc in An Giang Province, where the majority are located, I was mesmerized by the unique cultural mix this community represents.

I visited a few times during Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. Muslims around the world celebrate this holy month by praying during the night time and abstaining from eating, drinking, and sexual acts between sunrise and sunset. In 2019, Ramadan finishes on June 4, with Eid al-Fitr taking place on June 5. It is believed the Quran’s first verse was revealed during this period of the year.

At the end of Ramadan, the Chăm Muslims celebrate Eid al-Fitr, which translates literally as the “break-fast festival,” by wearing new clothes, visiting relatives and gathering food. Kids play with candles and new toys while young people stay up all night. Many also choose to get married during the festival.

In Châu Đốc, wedding celebrations go on for three days. People visit the family of the bride and groom to congratulate them, enjoy traditional green tea and eat snacks. On the final day, the groom goes together with his family and friends to the bride’s house for a celebration. It lasts for hours and culminates in the announcement that they are now husband and wife.

The following photos represent the daily life of the Chăm people during Ramadan, Eid al-Fitr:

Sunset over the Mekong River in Châu Đốc, where many families live in floating houses.

Family restaurants could be found around the village

A Việt-Muslim family.

Old people waiting for the sun to set before breaking their fast.

Kids and young men playing traditional games just before the sunset.

The backyard of a mosque where people get together to play games.

Men gathering together to break their fast.

Men and women gather to pray Taraweeh, an extra prayer that is usually only performed during the nights of the holy month of Ramadan.

The night is the only time when Muslims can eat and drink during the month of Ramadan so fried food and nước mía stalls open late.

Kids play with candles during the night.

Joining the bride or groom’s family to drink green tea and to congratulate them during the three-day wedding celebrations.

The bride and groom in their house finally announced as husband and wife.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2019.

To say that Tết gathers together everything most beautiful in Vietnamese culture would not be an exaggeration. More than a threshold between the old year and the new, it is also a time when people feel they can return to, and relive, the traditional values that define them.

It is there in those year-end markets, where one searches for the familiar flavors of home. It is there in the square bánh chưng, shaped like the earth, and the cylindrical bánh tét, round like the sky. These are humble offerings, yet deeply reverent, placed before one’s ancestors. And on the afternoon of the 23^th day of the last lunar month, families erect cây nêu (tall bamboo pole) in front of their homes. A small wind chime hangs from it, trembling in the breeze as a quiet gesture meant to ward off misfortune.

Whenever strips of red paper begin to appear along Hàng Mã Street, I find myself thinking of ông đồ who once wrote characters on dó paper. What does the person who comes to ask for a character truly seek, if not something beyond a few strokes of calligraphy? And what does the giver offer, if not something beyond a flourish of black ink?

Silk robes and scholar caps

In the Confucian civil service examination system, candidates who passed three rounds and earned the degree of Tú Tài, a licentiate-level qualification, were known as “ông đồ.” Many never entered official service. Those who advanced only through the lower examinations would continue preparing for higher rounds such as thi Hội (the metropolitan exam) and thi Đình (the palace exam). In the meantime, they often supported themselves by teaching, hence the name “thầy đồ,” literally "scholar-teacher,” or by writing on commission.

Ông đồ reading, 1915. Photo by Léon Busy.

In the book Traditional Vietnamese Customs, compiled by Toan Ánh, a passage reads: “Elementary learning had no state-run schools, yet in every village there were a few ông đồ who taught children. Books were handwritten, as printed books were very expensive. Every ông đồ kept a small library, and students copied their lessons from the master’s books…”

Being recognized as an ông đồ required more than just wearing a traditional robe and knowing how to write. The title was reserved for those who possessed both literary skill and wisdom. Even if they had not achieved high academic honors, they maintained their integrity, lived honestly, and followed tradition. This was because, in earlier times, education was seen as a way to learn not only how to read and write but also how to be a person of virtue. The scholar was a symbol of intellect and character in society. People revered them not just for their elegant brushwork but for their clear conscience and steadfast values.

In the past, people sought out ông đồ when they needed “special scripts” (xin chữ) or someone literate to help with formal documents. This gave rise to the tradition of requesting and giving calligraphy. During festivals and especially at Tết, students and those devoted to study would ask for specific characters as a way of absorbing good fortune and intellectual blessing.

There was an unspoken etiquette to asking for a script. The petitioner would bring a modest offering such as betel and areca, tea, or tobacco, and come to the scholar’s home. The scholar, in turn, had to be solemn and respectful, giving his art only to those who truly valued the written word, rather than those merely pretending to be cultured.

Ông đồ on the street of Hanoi, 1913–1917. Photo by Léon Busy.

Characters were written in calligraphic form and rendered on many styles on sheets of red paper. Red, in eastern belief, is the color of luck and auspicious beginnings. The writer would let mood and instinct guide the brush, shaping letters into forms that were sometimes striking, sometimes unexpected. Each character that emerged beneath the scholar’s hand was more than a work of calligraphic art. It carried temperament, personality, feeling, and the distinct creative imprint of the individual who wrote it.

A word worth a thousand in gold

The old saying “nhất tự thiên kim,” meaning “one character [is] worth a thousand gold pieces,” is associated with Lü Buwei, as recorded in Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian. The powerful Chinese chancellor once hung his book at the capital gate and offered a reward of gold to anyone who could add or remove a single character. His authority was so immense that no one dared step forward to revise it. Over time, the phrase became a classical allusion to writing of exceptional value.

Beyond its physical form, the written character is a means by which humanity preserves memory, opens understanding, and connects across time. That is why words are likened to gold. Dr. Cung Khắc Lược, a veteran calligrapher, explains: “Thought, emotion, and the inner life are always expressed through language, through vocabulary, through text. A single character written on a page, a word from the heart and mind offered to another, is worth a thousand gold pieces. It surpasses material wealth.”

Ông đồ stationed in front of Hương Pagoda, Hanoi, 1995. Photo via Flickr user lonqueta.

Over the years, the practice of asking for characters has grown more widespread, becoming a cherished custom each time Tết returns. From the mountains to the delta, regardless of wealth or status, anyone who comes with sincerity may ask for a character.

Each brushstroke carries a particular wish or intention. One might request Cát Tường (auspiciousness) or Như Ý (fulfillment) to pray for peace within the family. Others ask for Phát, Lộc (prosperity, fortune), or Tài (excellence) in hopes that their work will prosper and unfold smoothly. Young people often request for Chí (resolve) or Đắc (achievement) as a way to steady themselves in the face of hardship.

The ritual is no longer bound by the formalities of the past. The giver need not be an elderly scholar in traditional robes with silvered hair and beard. There are now modern calligraphers, western-trained writers, and women who are taking up the brush.

The art, too, has moved beyond black ink on red paper. Characters are carved or brushed onto wood, stone, bamboo, silk, or brocade. Seal script, clerical script, regular script, cursive, running script, every form has its place. Along city streets and in temple courtyards, people queue patiently for characters that unfurl across the page like phoenixes in flight and dragons in motion, a beautiful custom that feels inseparable from the first days of the new year.

Modern calligraphic masters come from all walks of life. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Dedicated “scholar streets” have also emerged to honor this traditional custom. In the north, the Temple of Literature is widely regarded as a symbolic “village of examination candidates.” In the south, the practice of asking for calligraphic characters dates back to the 17^th century, when the Nguyễn lords expanded southward to develop new territories, followed by waves of migrants from the north and central regions. It was not until the late 17^th century, however, when Chinese communities began settling and cultivating the areas around Biên Hòa and Đồng Nai, that the custom truly flourished. The long coexistence of different cultures has, in subtle ways, shaped the distinctive character of this southern tradition.

Today, more than half of the calligraphy masters are students of classical Sino-Vietnamese studies or simply lovers of the art. Those who come to request characters span every age group, social background, and profession. This is not a fleeting trend. I see it as an act of cultural transmission. Whatever changes in form or setting, the essence of the custom remains intact. The person holding the brush pours care and craft into every stroke. The one who asks comes with respect for learning and for the traditions that have shaped it.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

[Top image by Léon Busy.]

Every year, as the pages from my block calendar peel off, bringing me towards another Vietnamese New Year, my mind once again fills with nostalgia about an old Tết. Tết in my memory begins with my childhood in a small house nestled under a coconut grove on the outskirts of Bạc Liêu in the Mekong Delta. Those were days of hardship, yet my parents worked hard so that Tết could bloom magnificently for all of us.

Born into the Year of the Buffalo (1973), I grew up during a time when poverty was common among Vietnamese people. Those who survived the war struggled to make ends meet. Everyone I knew didn’t have much to eat all year round, and children had to do all types of odd jobs to help put food on the table. Like all my friends, for the entire year I looked forward to Tết because it was the only time when we could eat good food and receive a new set of clothes, and even some lucky money.

A time to shed old leaves and apply new paint

In my memory, Tết preparations started months before the lunar year’s end. In September, my father tended our pond to make sure that our fish would be ready for Tết. We planted chilies, onions, cabbages and leafy vegetables, which my mother and I would bring to the market to sell in order to buy the many necessities for our celebrations: pork, dried green peas, sticky rice, dried shrimp, fruit, firecrackers, and offerings for the ancestors’ altar. If we were lucky, there would be enough money left for my parents to buy each of us — their three children — a new set of clothing.

A few weeks before Tết came, my father studied the weather patterns, talked to his friends and decided on the day to pluck the leaves of our apricot tree, mai. I watched in amazement as the barren tree started to sprout countless green buds which grew fuller and fuller as Tết drew nearer. My father monitored the watering and fertilizing of his tree every day to ensure they bloomed at the exact right time. As was true of the peach flowers we used to have in the north, if our mai blossoms bloomed brilliantly during the first day of Tết, our family would be blessed for that entire new year. 

Regardless of how poor we were, Tết was the time to look and feel good, so every year, about two weeks before it arrived, we scrubbed and painted our house. My brothers and I moved our wooden and bamboo furniture out to the front yard and gave it a good wash, splashing water at each other while we worked. We then crawled into our most tattered clothes and covered our walls with a white paint we mixed ourselves using limestone powder and water. We laughed and joked while we worked, feeling happy as the gleaming white spread under our hands.

A family in Sa Đéc in the Mekong Delta with rows of apricot trees that are stripped off old leaves. Photo by Andy Ip.

After the house was scrubbed and cleaned, I spent hours helping my mother prepare a special pickled dish using onions and scallions we bought at the market. They had to be fresh, still attached to their leaves and roots. More importantly, they had to be bite-size. Bringing them home, we washed any dirt and mud away, then soaked them overnight in water diluted with ash I collected from our cooking stove (we cooked mostly with rice straw or tree branches during those days). The ashy water helped tame the onions and scallions so that the next morning they no longer made my eyes weep when I peeled off their outer layers to reveal their glistening whiteness. Sitting side-by-side with my mother in our front yard, I talked to her about our plans for the New Year, about the food we would cook, and whom my parents had chosen to be the first person to step into our house on the first day of Tết.

Many hours of squatting on low stools to prepare our pickled dish always made our backs sore, but as we spread the peeled onions and scallions out on thin tin trays to dry them in the sun, we felt happy to watch the white alliums grin back at us. They looked like flowers that had sprung up from the earth, like the purest type of beauty. While waiting for them to dry, I gathered small twigs to start a fire in our kitchen while my mother measured and mixed vinegar, sugar and salt into a pot.

Once it cooled, we poured the pickling liquid over our onions and scallions, which we had arranged artistically into glass jars. From time to time, I would help my mother carry these jars out to the sun, to make sure that our pickled onions and scallions would "ripen" in time for Tết. They always made the perfect side dish, to be savored with dried shrimp, sticky rice cakes, and boiled or stewed meat; their fragrant sour-sweetness melting in our mouths.

The week before Tết was the busiest, but also the happiest. One of the most exciting events was to drain our pond to harvest our fish. We had no motorized pump back then, only a bamboo bucket we connected to two strong ropes and took turns swinging to get the water out of the pond. Our hands would grow tired and hours passed before we saw fish jumping up and down, trying to escape the increasingly shallow water. Our pond was not large, but large enough to reveal different secrets each year. Besides the tilapia fish my father farmed, we also often found mullet, catfish and perch.

For quite a few years, I was not allowed to go into the drained pond to catch fish with my two elder brothers. Standing on the pond’s bank, I burned with jealousy as I watched my brothers jump around in the mud; their faces blackened, their teeth gleaming in the sunlight as they cheered and laughed. Each time a fish was captured they would scream with excitement, lift it high into the air while it wiggled madly, and then throw it on the floor.

My job was to scoop the jumping fish into a bamboo basket and release it into a large tin bucket filled with water. Sensing that I was unhappy, my parents would tell me that catching fish with your bare hands was not a task for a small girl like me. Of course, they were right. My brothers’ hands were often injured. One year, a catfish pierced its sharp thorn into my brother’s finger. He ran into the house and when I found him half an hour later, he was under his bed, clutching his hand to his chest, crying like a baby. I laughed at him so hard, but a few months later, I too was stung by a catfish’s thorn. The pain pierced into my bones, so hot, deep and searing, that I could not help but crawl under our bed and bawl like a newborn as well.

Candied coconut by any other name

Tết would not be fully ready without mứt dừa, a type of candied coconut ribbon. As someone with "monkey genes" who could climb well, I was tasked with the responsibility of picking several fresh coconuts from our trees. Our small garden was filled with fruit trees, and my favorite were the coconut trees that spread their protective arms over our house, singing us lullabies by rustling their green leaves against our tin roof. These coconut trees bore plenty of fruit all year round. I quickly got up to the top of a tree, leaned my body against the biggest leaf and selected the coconuts which gleamed with several golden stripes on their dark green skin. The flesh of these coconuts would be perfect: not too thin and not too crunchy. Hanging on to the tree with one hand, my other hand would swing a sharp knife to chop the chosen coconuts from their stems. They made happy thumping noise as they kissed the ground.

Just like catching fish for Tết, preparing candied coconut ribbons was a joyous family event. My father and brothers chopped and then peeled away the thick outer layers of the coconuts. We then drilled holes through the hard shells, tilting the fragrant juice into a large bowl. Later, my mother would reward each of us with a glass of delicious coconut water. The rest we would be put aside to make thịt kho trứng — pork and eggs stewed in coconut juice — an essential Tết dish that's common in the Mekong Delta.

Braised pork and bittergourd soup are two popular Tết dishes. Illustration by KAA Illustration via Behance.

Making candied coconut ribbons was fun, but it was also a test of our skills and patience. After separating the white coconut flesh from its hard shell, we peeled the brown, inner-skin away, then shaved the coconut flesh into thin, long ribbons that we dipped into hot water. After draining them, we mixed them with white sugar. Our neighbors often added food coloring to make red, pink and even green coconut ribbons, but we preferred ours to be white and natural.

After a few hours, when the sugar had completely dissolved into the ribbons, I would make a low fire in the kitchen for my mother to cook the coconut ribbons in a large frying pan. To help the sugar crystallize, she occasionally stirred the ribbons with a long pair of chopsticks, giving them an equal amount of heat while not breaking them. My job was to keep the fire very low, so as not to burn my favorite Tết dish. It was the most delicious job as I only needed to put out my tongue to taste the sweetness of Tết in the air. About an hour later, we would have a basket full of long, curly coconut ribbons, crystallized in their fragrance.

The craft behind bánh chưng

As the mai tree’s golden flowers started to bloom, a breeze would sweep across nearby rice fields and waft to my nose, whispering that Tết was about to knock on our door. With this aroma in the air, we made traditional sticky rice cakes, or bánh chưng. Bánh chưng is a must-have for northern Vietnamese during Tết. My parents, who had uprooted themselves from the north and planted themselves into the soil of southern Vietnam during the late 1970s, embraced their northern heritage by making bánh chưng every year while our southern neighbors prepared bánh tết.

Both of these sticky rice cakes use the same ingredients, including sticky rice, dried green peas and pork. However, bánh chưng is wrapped with lá dong (phrynium leaves), which grow abundantly in the north, while bánh tết is wrapped with lá chuối (banana leaves) which you can find anywhere in the south. In addition, bánh chưng is square and thick, while bánh tết is long and round. Lastly, while bánh tết can have a “sweet” version (made with sweetened bananas), bánh chưng only has a savory version that includes pork and green peas.

The night before the important day of making our bánh chưng, I helped my mother soak dried green peas overnight to remove their skin. We also soaked sticky rice and separated good grains from the brown and yellowish ones. My brothers squatted in the yard as they helped my father split bamboo stalks into thin, flat strings. These strings would be used to tie the leaves around our cakes. My mother explained that bánh chưng needed to be boiled for hours, so plastic or nylon strings would not be healthy.

Once these tasks were complete, my father would ask me to help him cut down lá dong leaves from our garden. When we moved south, he searched all over for dong plants, which were hard to find and harder to grow in the tropical climate. With these plants growing in our garden, we felt we had brought with us a part of our ancestors’ village. We cut the precious leaves from their stems, piled them up gently, and brought them to our yard to wash away any dirt and insects. We took care so that no leaf was torn. Softening them under the sun or over hot coal, we set them aside.

On a large working area, my mother spread out a clean, large straw mat. Onto the center of the mat we placed the dong leaves, bamboo strings, bowls of the drained sticky rice, dried green peas and marinated pork. As we had no fridge, my mother had to wake up at five that morning to go to the local market to buy the best pork available. It needed to be fresh, with a precise balance of lean meat and fat. Bringing it home, my mother washed and cut the pork into large pieces, then marinated it with freshly ground pepper, fish sauce and salt.

One of the extraordinary things about my father is that except for boiled or fried eggs, he can’t cook, yet is a master at making bánh chưng. While my mother, brothers and I struggled to form our bánh chưng into square shapes, using wooden molds to guide us, all my father needed was his bare hands.

He started by arranging several lá dong leaves on to the mat and placing a layer of sticky rice, green peas and marinated pork on top, which he then covered with another layer of green peas and sticky rice. Covering his artwork with several more lá dong leaves, he folded the four sides, tugging the leaves into each other so that they made a perfect square. He then tied the square cake with the bamboo strings he had made with my brothers.

Tranh Khúc Village in Hanoi is known for their special bánh chưng.

My father explained that the strings had to give space for the rice and dried green peas to expand when they cooked. Yet they had to be tight enough for the rice not to spill out. He said that in northern Vietnam, where the weather was cold around Tết and families didn’t have refrigerators, bánh chưng would be released immediately into deep wells after they were cooked. Resins from the lá dong leaves, once meeting the cold water, would form a thick protective layer over the cakes. The wells would act as refrigerators, keeping the cakes fresh for weeks.

My father was so famous for his bánh chưng-making skills that many of our relatives and friends often asked us to make bánh chưng for them. While there was a lot of work involved, we did not mind since it would be more economical to make and boil over 30 bánh chưng at one time, sufficient for seven families and for the entire duration of Tết.

After we were done with wrapping the bánh chưng, my mother took out a gigantic pot that she had borrowed from our rich neighbor. The pot was large and expensive, thus in our whole neighborhood, there was only one family who could afford it. Families took turns borrowing the pot to boil their bánh chưng and bánh tết. The owner was happy to lend it because although we were financially poor, we were rich with generosity towards each other.

For the boiling of bánh chưng, my brothers dug a hole in a corner of our garden and my father started a fire with the biggest logs he could find. It takes up to 10 hours for the bánh chưng to cook, and therefore, this was the only time all year that my brothers and I were allowed to stay up all night to look after the fire. We huddled against each other in the dark, telling scary ghost stories that made us giggle and huddle even closer to each other. In the early morning, we scooped out the small bánh chưng, which we wrapped ourselves, and had them for breakfast. They tasted delicious, even though they looked shameful compared to my father’s perfectly square cakes.

The last night of the year

My father knew a lot about bánh chưng because he is the eldest son of my grandparents. He also knows a lot about the rituals of worshiping ancestors because Vietnamese ancestors are believed to "follow" the eldest son from north to south. On the last day of the old year, my father carefully cleaned the family altar and arranged a special display, which included an incense bowl, a pair of bánh chưng, fresh flowers, a bottle of homemade rice liquor, and fruits of many colors. My mother and I cooked special Tết dishes, such as boiled chicken, glass noodle soup, steamed fish, stewed pork and eggs, fried vegetables, and orange gấc sticky rice.

We offered our food to our ancestors around 5pm on the family altar, and after allowing our ancestors to "eat" this sumptuous meal for several hours, we gathered and enjoyed the best food of the year. The cutting of my father’s bánh chưng was a ceremony by itself; after untying the bamboo strings and peeling away the outer leaves, we arranged the strings across the cake’s green surface. Turning the cake upside down, we held the two ends of each string, pulling them towards each other, thus cutting the bánh chưng into square or triangle pieces. The taste of my father’s bánh chưng still remains in my mouth today; fragrant and savory. It tasted perfect, together with the pickled onions and scallions which my mother and I had prepared.

After cleaning up, I would clutch my mother’s hand as we walked to a nearby pagoda. Holding burning incense in front of my chest, my eyes closed, I would pray to Buddha to bless me with lots of lucky money that year. As I was never given any pocket money during the rest of the year, Tết was my only chance to gather savings, which I kept in a clay pig on my bookshelf. If I had enough lucky money, I would be able to buy a new book.

Returning home from the pagoda, I would see that my brothers had hung our firecrackers on our front door, anxiously waiting for the time to set them on fire. I wish I had joined them then, because firecrackers would be banned a few years later, hence the disappearance of this long and special tradition. But at that time, I helped my mother as she hurried to set up a tray of offerings, laden with fruit, flowers, liquor and incense. I carried the tray with her to our front yard and lit the incense. Watching how long my mother prayed to heaven, I sensed how important this ceremony was to her and to our family. I felt that all the gods were coming to join us, and my ancestors were also present.

Chúc mừng năm mới

Finally, the New Year approached with the faint sounds of firecrackers from far away, then moving closer and louder towards us. My two brothers would fight for the right to ignite the firecrackers, while I stood, frozen in fear, my hands over my ears.

We woke up very early the next morning, with yellow mai flowers brightening our living room. Smoldering incense filled my senses, and my happiness soared. Firecracker remnants rested like a blanket of pink and red on our front yard. We were not allowed to sweep anything away during the entire first day of the New Year, so as not to chase our luck away. I admired this red and pink carpet all day as it was twirled up by a dancing wind or rested peacefully under the gold, yellow and white chrysanthemum and mai flowers.

I put on my new set of clothes for Tết that I had wanted all year long, while my brothers burned left-over firecrackers in our front yard. When my parents were ready, they called us into the house, handing each of us a red envelope containing our lucky money. We would bow our heads, wishing them health, luck, success and happiness, before busting out of the house, waving the red envelopes on our hands.

But we were not allowed to go into any neighbor’s home unless we were specially invited. One's luck for the whole year depended on the fortune and character of the first person to enter one's home on the first day of the New Year. My father often chose a senior neighbor whose children were successful and who had a gentle and cheerful personality. The neighbor would often come before 7am on the first day of Tết, bringing my parents lots of good wishes and a red envelope for me, since I was the youngest member of the family.

During Tết, families in Saigon gather at flower markets to pose for photos, buy new plants for their home, or just simply to soak in the festive ambiance.

Around noon our house would be filled with greetings from relatives and neighbors. Everyone visited the house of everyone else in the neighborhood. We served our visitors green tea and candied coconut ribbons. Our family members took turns visiting the houses of relatives and friends, making sure that someone was always home to greet and take care of unexpected visitors. Snacks and food were served around the clock.

All the food my mother and I had spent many hours preparing came in handy; even though we were discouraged by traditions from cooking during the first day of the New Year, we could always serve our guests a good meal with our bánh chưng, stewed pork in coconut, as well as pickled onions and scallions. When the cooking resumed on the second or third day of Tết, we would make sweet and sour soup with our fresh fish, and serve our guests the ripest vegetables from our garden. From our home flowed an endless river of chatter and laughter, while I would occasionally sneak into my parents’ bedroom to count how much lucky money I had received. 

Thinking back, I realize that my parents were very strict in raising me and hardly ever showed their emotions during our daily lives. It was only during Tết that I saw their tender sides. Tết also allowed me to be a bit naughty and not be scolded or punished, and it allowed me the rare privilege of accompanying my parents whenever they visited their friends.

Many Tếts have gone by, though my memories from one particular Tết remain vivid. My mother had taken me to visit one of her good friends who lived on the other side of the rice fields from us. I remember the vast rice fields spreading their green arms out towards the horizon as we walked. The sun was setting, tilting light onto my mother’s long, black hair. Flocks of white cranes rose up, dotting the blue sky with their flapping wings. We walked among the singing of rice plants and the perfume of a spring that embraced us from all directions. I wished then that I could go on like that forever and ever beside my mother.

These days most Vietnamese families, including my own, no longer celebrate Tết the traditional ways due to all the demands of modern life. Still, regardless of how busy we are, we set aside time to enjoy Tết with our loved ones. Families are united for Tết, and friends who may not see each other for the rest of the year will meet and enjoy a meal together. Perhaps Tết is important for all Vietnamese because it reminds us of how happiness can derive from our cultural heritage, and how wonderful it is to stop running after our material desires, at least for a few days, and enjoy what we already have.

This article was originally published in 2020.

Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai is the internationally best-selling author of The Mountains Sing and Dust Child. She has received many literary awards in Việt Nam and internationally, including the Lannan Literary Awards Fellowship for a work of exceptional quality and for its contribution to peace and reconciliation.  A version of this article was originally published in Vietnam Heritage.

My favorite candy used to be Hershey’s Kisses. Wrapped in colorful, sparkling foil, these little nubs of decadence made me feel special as a child, not just because of their sugary sweetness, but also because, for much of Vietnam’s contemporary history, you could only enjoy them if you have relatives abroad.

The last war that plagued Vietnam severely fragmented the country in more ways than one, broke up families and eventually resulted in Vietnamese becoming one of the largest diasporic communities in many western societies, known as Việt Kiều in the Vietnamese language. As a kid, I couldn’t fully grasp the complexities behind the term, I just knew that my aunt was one, and she often gave me Hershey’s Kisses when she came to stay with us, so her visits were always a highly anticipated occasion of my formative years.

The first evening on the day she landed, after a family meal, we would gather around the big suitcase as she gave out carefully labelled bags of presents for each person. Over the years, her visits have blurred into one amorphous blob in my memory, so I struggle to remember what I received. I remember the diverse range of Kisses colors, but mostly what remains ingrained in my mind is the fragrance of her luggage — it is a distinctive yet malleable aroma, or even amalgam of aromas that’s hard to put into words, a mystifying mùi Việt Kiều.

Hershey's Kisses once felt like an exclusive treat for Vietnamese kids with relatives abroad. Photo via Tasting Table.

Mùi Việt Kiều, in my memory, was neither a perfume nor from any recognizable artificial smell genres like floral, herb, or fruit. It wasn’t detergent- or food-forward, it just was. As an adult, I’ve forgotten about it, until a few weeks ago, a curious TikTok video popped up on my feed, advertising a bottle of laundry essential oil with “authentic hương Việt Kiều.” It was astonishing because, for the longest time, I’ve always assumed I was alone in noticing its existence, but someone out there has not only identified it but also commercialized it?

I’ve shared my observations with friends and colleagues, and while everybody confirmed they too have sensed mùi Việt Kiều, no one can pinpoint what it is exactly, apart from vague claims like “I’ll know it when I smell it.” The comment section beneath the laundry oil video was much more illuminating and helpful; someone claims it’s the smell of Irish Spring soaps, while others are sure that it comes from Bounce dryer sheets and Aquafresh toothpaste. Energized by possibilities, I made the next best decision: obtain every suggested item in the theories and did smell tests.

The dubious fragrance as advertised on Shopee.

This is the point where I have to admit that there’s no closure at the end of this journey. None of them smells as good as my aunt’s luggage, even though at various points over the years, it too was filled with Irish Spring and Aquafresh. It is entirely possible that they have recently changed their scenting formulae or that my childhood memories have gotten too murky, but perhaps, the most likely scenario is that there’s no definitive mùi Việt Kiều. Each luggage during each visit smelled ever slightly different depending on what it encompassed: a little bit of Hershey, a whiff of Ocean Spray dry cranberries, a touch of Kirkland multivitamins, etc — all piecing together a little smellscape of America that appeared so exotic and quasi-mythological to little me.

Today, globalization, cultural exchange and advancements in logistics have all but dismantled the myth of American products in Vietnam. How I could very easily procure all the scented items for my smell tests from local shops and online platforms is a testament to this shifting dynamic. Hershey is now readily available, but Vietnam’s progress has also given rise to a plethora of local chocolates so excellent I haven’t touched Kisses since. When we didn’t have much, every little thing was so special and treasured.

The most memorable (and tasty) source of mùi Việt Nam. Photo by Hoàng Vũ via Thanh Niên.

Back in the day, as my aunt’s visits inched to a close, her empty suitcase would gradually fill up again — this time chock-full of distinctively Vietnam items to stock up her pantry and to be given out as gifts on the other shore: dried shrimps, coffee beans, lacquer combs, silk áo dài, Thái Nguyên tea, lotus hearts, and a sizable and eclectic collection of various mắm. Sometimes I wonder about that moment, when, after flying halfway across the globe, she would arrive at home and unzip that suitcase. Does it give out a distinctive smell, too? A mystifying mùi Việt Nam that’s hard to put into words.

I have never bought a lịch bloc, or tear-off calendar, for personal use, because every new year, I'm bound to be gifted a brand-new one. In Vietnam, a calendar is often something one purchases as a present for others.

The tear-off calendar has been a typical item in local households for centuries. There were even records of Nguyễn-Dynasty authorities overseeing the production of new calendars to give out during Tết. The act of ripping off a page from the calendar block is so historically relevant that it even gives rise to the crude slang phrase “bóc lịch,” loosely translated as “calendar ripping,” referring to jail time.

Brightly colored calendars sold alongside Tết decorations at a store in District 5.

In recent years, it's reported that all calendar sales have been on the decline because new calendar designs are repetitive and boring; people routinely receive them as free promotional gifts; and since the time and date are readily available on smartphones, tear-off calendars have become somewhat obsolete. The iconic Tết staple is no exception to this drop in popularity.

When it comes to Tết gifts, many prefer to receive aesthetically pleasing items like gift baskets, which can be displayed at home, making rooms feel fresh and new. Calendars, in contrast, simply offer mundane images few remember to tear off. 

Lịch bloc comes in many sizes for every home.

But I feel that we might take calendars for granted because beyond their stated function of time-keeping, they affect our lives in subtle ways. My mother often uses the pages to write checklists for her morning market trips. My family occasionally uses them for food wrapping or as just a placemat to discard fish bones during family meals.

This page will often end up on the dining table as a fishbone holder, or in the trash after a doodle session is finished.

My most vivid memory with calendars, however, dates back to when I was five. I loved drawing and couldn’t fight the urge to scribble everywhere, especially on the wall. My parents had to put a stop to it before I ruined the house. So they gave me spare calendar pages to doodle on and thus tearing a new page off the bloc became an exciting routine.

Lịch bloc may eventually lose its main function, but their spare papers and their offering of marginal conveniences will remain a part of our lives. Even though they may not be as significant as other Tết gifts, they have one advantage over fancy, expensive presents: when Tết is over, decorations are taken down, snacks from gift baskets are all eaten, and we all go back to our normal lives, but there will always be a calendar on your wall for another 300-some days, with all of its Tết visuals, maintaining a touch of festive energy remains in your house throughout the rest of the year.

"In the early 2000s, the market experienced an exodus of painters due to the shift to digital; it was difficult to retain customers otherwise. I didn't want my craft to be forgotten, so I started everything all over,” Nguyễn Hoài Bảo told me in Vietnamese when I visited his studio.

Bảo, born in 1986, is one of the few traditional sign painters who is still practicing his craft in Saigon.

“My father used to run a workshop that made hand-painted signs in Đồng Tháp. I started learning about the trade when I was 13. I would go to school in the morning and help out at the workshop in the afternoon. I got the ropes of the job pretty quickly and my father recognized my potential, so naturally I followed in his footsteps.”

Traditionally, hand-painted signs employed a simple palette comprising red, blue, green, and yellow — primary shades for grabbing attention easily. In their heydays, these signs were a staple for businesses wishing to advertise their products and services. Such high demands kept Bảo’s family workshop booked and busy.

But as times changed, modern methods took over. Plastic lamination, acrylic panels, and LED lighting emerged as more eye-catching assets and soon dominated the market. Many artisans had to give up their trade due to declining income. As the number of customers seeking hand-painted signs dwindled, Bảo's family also made the difficult decision to abandon their lifelong work to keep the business going. “It was tough, and I was devastated. I thought my profession would fade into obscurity.”

In 2017, seeing how vintage aesthetics were trending again, Bảo took a leap of faith and relocated to Saigon to set up a new workshop. “I chose Saigon for a fresh start because there’s so much potential here. When all things nostalgic were becoming popular again, Saigon was one of the very first to embrace the trend," he said. "As I was starting from scratch, new customers didn't know who I was or what I was capable of. It took a lot of passion and sweat to pick up my brushes again and get to where I am today.”

Gradually, he was able to build a customer base steady enough to receive orders every day. Many clients from abroad who took a liking to Bảo designs even came to Vietnam themselves to pick them up. “I remember this one Japanese professor who loved Saigon so much that he visited me and ordered a sign with the '333' beer logo to decorate his office in Japan,” Bảo recalled.

According to the artist, a hand-painted sign's price ranges from VND800,000 to a few million đồng depending on its size. Unlike modern signs, these traditional signs cannot have “add-on” fixtures such as LED lights or letter cutouts. However, they can showcase a distinct brand identity and offer greater durability as well. The longer these signs are put on display, the more rugged and “authentic” of a look they acquire.

Bảo explained the meticulous process behind his work: “After receiving a request from a customer, I design a sample for them to review. If they agree with the design, I will proceed with measuring and welding a metal frame, then fit in onto a metal sheet. Next comes two coats of base paint, with each layer being painted four hours apart. Once the paint is completely dry, I begin sketching, outlining the details in pencil, and then adding in the colors.”

Bảo still uses Bạch Tuyết-brand paint, the same kind he used when he was just an apprentice to his father, as it's durable and reasonably priced while offering a variety of colors to choose from. The painter handles every step from gathering materials to finishing the sign, thus explaining the name of his shop “Một Mình Làm Hết” (lit: Do it all myself).

Since every part of the process is handled by Bảo, he sees each sign as his “child” and puts a lot of care into nurturing it. He told me, “When I'm out on the street, I can spot which signs I've made at a glance. I remember them all. In those moments, I feel proud because at least I know I've made some sort of contribution. And it's not just my own works that make me feel that way; whenever I come across any hand-painted sign, I feel joy.”

Throughout our conversation, Bảo also expressed his admiration for the late artisan Hoài Minh Phương, who devoted his entire life to preserving the art of hand-painted signs despite financial difficulties. Up until his recent passing, he was seen with brushes in hand.

“Up until now, I have a stable stream of orders, but I often worry if my work would become a lost art in the future. That's why I don’t keep any trade secrets. Anyone who wants to learn how to make hand-painted signs, I'm ready to share, so that together, we can preserve what's left of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas in Saigon 1970. Photo via Đại Kỷ Nguyên.

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

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.

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.