Monthly Archives: May 2010

Memorial Day

On Memorial Day in small-town New England we clean the graves and decorate those of the old soldiers with the flag.  Since I moved South I have wondered what I am supposed to do down here, decorate Confederate graves?

Well, why not.  The rebels lost their bid to break the Union, extend slavery not only west but south, indeed all over the world, and after one hundred years they lost Redemption and Jim Crow too.

My favorite Civil War statue is in Memorial Park in Nashville, a park started with a convention for the holiday, to promote reconciliation.   Tennessee had a hard war, split, and the man in the statue sits, facing South, looking tired.

Most Southern war memorials went up later, in high Jim Crow, and stand facing North with a rifle.   I only know about the one in Nashville because I was visiting, at the Vanderbilt libary,  the only known copy of a novel by a French soldier who died in Ha Noi.

There is a street named for Jules Bobillot in Paris and most French cities, and still in some of the former colonies.  He died a week after being shot in the neck, I expect from a sniper, after fighting like a tiger against 10,000 Chinese at Tuyen Quang in 1885.

It was one of those loony colonial things where 200  held off an army.   It was a battle of no importance, impossible to explain even in terms of France conquering Viet Nam.  Bobillot was fighting alongside Vietnamese against Chinese whom Beijing considered bandits.

He was a writer from the streets of Paris, who joined up out of poverty, whose publishing friends brought his feats – fighting in siege tunnels with dynamite – to the world.  My grandmere’s schoolbook from 1914 has a page on Sergent Bobillot.

But the schoolteachers who came back from WWI decided they didn’t want heroes any more, and you would be hard pressed now to find a French citizen outside of the Foreign Legion who can tell you about Bobillot, even though his name is stamped in metal on a street in most cities of France.

I have great affection for the man, wish I liked his novel more,  and am grateful to him for bringing me to the tired soldier – Rebel?  Union? – in Memorial park.   The people who erected that statue genuinely wanted to reconcile.

A hundred years later we have done it.  My country now is largely populated by people who came after 1965, born on third base.  I will never decorate a Confederate grave, but my nieces and nephews and the children of my Vietnamese students may well.

What of Jules Bobillot?  They changed the name of his street in Ha Noi – it runs by the opera house – and I don’t know what happened to his statue and grave there.  The statue in Paris seems to have vanished in the German occupation.

I would like to revive his literary reputation, but he was a writer for his time, not the ages.   He was neither a hero or a villain of the French conquest.  The people who remember him are in the Legion, useful men to have around, but deliberately at odds with normal life.

They chant a poem written the day after Bobillot was shot, by Captain Borelli to a man who had died for him.  Some of it is pious tub-thumping, but the living tone is contempt, worth learning, if you don’t already know what soldiers often think about everyone else.

One way to wrap this up would be to point to Viet Nam, with its public commemorations of war that bore everyone stiff.   Once I made a polite remark about Dien Bien Phu day at a government office in Ha Noi and was stared at like I had suddenly dropped 100 IQ points.

Then I could point to the lively and rich family and community commemorations, for relatives on their death anniversaries and for ghosts at their wayside shrines.    The public and the private come together at places like the stark monument at Kham Tien street to the victims of the Christmas bombing, with colorful votive jars with incense around the edges, as Americans leave stuff at the Wall.

That would all be true.  But since it is Memorial Day, in the spirit of my tired Civil War soldier in Nashville, I would like to point to my hero Bobillot, the writer, the dead combat engineer.

No one is going to start reading him again but what he published in his lifetime was read to tatters.  No one can explain why he was fighting at Tuyen Quang because no one there could have either.

But no Vietnamese is going to hate him for enslaving them, since the nation has long since freed itself, and no European will scorn him for inspiring the young to march into the trenches.

Everyone who felt that way is dead and soon everything that exercises me will take more explanation than I will have strength for.  Just something to remember.

Dan Duffy

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A Life in Dreams

I never knew Tam Tran, but by all accounts, she was a young and vibrant activist, artist, and scholar whose lasting legacy among her peers was that she was passionate about the arts and social activism.  It was with much sadness that I first knew of her by reading that she and a fellow activist and friend, Cinthya Felix Perez, passed away in a car accident on May 15th 2010 while on a road trip in Maine. In her passing, her life’s work was highlighted among the many tributes to her, and through these tributes, I come to know Tam’s convictions and feel moved by them.

Tam Tran was a graduate student in Brown University’s American Civilization Ph.D. program.  Tam’s family relocated after the war to Germany, where she was born, and then later settled in Southern California, where she grew up.  She self-identified as a “stateless refugee” which is an eloquent way of describing how the busywork of geopolitics and war produced statelessness, and that those who fall under that category enjoy the benefits of stateless protection, which is to say little to no protection.  This is the situation for millions of people who are global refugees.  Tam advocated for the rights of all those who fall outside the civic and social protections of the state, and in California where she grew up it is a vastly heterogeneous group.  In her young life she became one of the most ardent voices and proponents of the Dream Act, a proposed federal law that would allow undocumented college students in the U.S. to gain citizenship so that when they graduate they can legally live and work in the country of their residence.  It is estimated that 65,000 undocumented high school students graduate in the U.S. annually.

I wish I had known Tam Tran, I feel we might have crossed paths eventually, as Vietnamese women scholars interested in issues about social justice, education, and access.  She surely would have taught me much about the ways that art, advocacy, and scholarship can affirm each other.  She was an aspiring filmmaker, a graduate of UCLA.  Her short video “Lost and Found” (you can watch the video below) melded all of these into an eloquent testimony about the multitude sacrifices that undocumented students and their families make in order to enter the education system in the U.S.  If you have a moment, watch it and be reminded of what an accomplishment it is for anyone to graduate from anything, no less a university institution in the U.S.  It takes commitment, it takes resolve, it takes thick skin, and it takes support.  Tam’s demonstrated commitment to this cause connects the Vietnamese diasporic experience to that of many diasporic and refugee populations.  We are needy people who do a lot on our own.

I am becoming aware of her work, and of the movement for the Dream Act at a time when the national debates in the U.S. about Arizona’s strident laws against illegal immigration are raging.  It seems each side is trying to figure out the most rational perspective to justify their particular bents.  Tam Tran’s advocacy, and that of those who support the Dream Act, seems to offer us another important consideration.  That is to take a closer look at the lives of “undocumented” students who have invested their hearts into the education they have attained and the lives they have built, and to think about the true cost of denying them access to the rights of citizenship.  The U.S. is a country that espouses the virtues of education, but we find that public education in a large state like California is in the grips of an emergency, direly so.  The facilities and the means simply are not there.  So we are encouraged to nurture eager students, students who will want to be educated and who will make the most of inadequate circumstances.  If, as every campaigning politician reminds us regularly, education is the answer to all of our most grave social ills, shouldn’t we be jumping for joy when we find students who embrace the opportunity to learn and to engage in civic discussion and debate?  Or at least, shouldn’t that encourage those in the U.S. to reflect on our own critical capacities, say in our definitions and practices of citizenship and inclusion?

I hope that you will feel enlightened by Tam Tran’s video and read further on the Dream Act, if not to become further engaged in the  U.S.’s current debates about immigration, then to become further impassioned in your own life’s work–or both, as I have been.

You can read further about Tam Tran’s life and the Dream act  at:

latimesblogs on Tam Tran

Dream Act

-Cam Vu

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Paradise and Prisons: New York Times on the Con Dao Islands

The beach at Con Son Island

Vietnam is apparently going the way of Thailand. The New York Times wrote recently about the Con Dao Islands, once the site of horrific prisons run by the French, the South Vietnamese, and the Americans. Now these islands, particularly Con Son, the main island, are being developed as tourist hotspots. The island really is beautiful, as the Times slideshow makes evident, and also relatively under-developed.

I visited last summer and stayed at a beachside hotel, one of only a handful of westerners. Most everyone was a Vietnamese tourist, which, on the one hand, was refreshing to see. On the other hand, I had the feeling these folks were all really rich and patriotic Party members, as they all flew to the island, and went on the packaged tour of the prisons. In contrast, the very nice hotel employee who drove me to the airport has to take the ferry back and forth from mainland Vietnam when he wants to visit his family.

Vietnamese tourist looks at exhibit of torture

All the usual anxieties about tourism apply here about the tensions between tourism and preservation, amusement and history, forgetting the past and pleasure-seeking in the present. Some people want to keep the pristine parts of Vietnam pristine, but  we won’t be able to get away from these problems by longing to keep places pure and tourist free (and the people who usually seem to long for this kind of purity are the western tourists who first get to a place and want to ruin it just for themselves).

The difference is between tourist places overrun by wealthy foreigners and tourist places where locals can afford to visit and behave in just as ugly or beautiful a fashion as international tourists. What will hopefully happen is that Vietnamese middle-class tourists will get more of a chance to see places like Con Dao and experience their own joys and anxieties about tourism, in conjunction with the Vietnamese who will have to service them, some of whom must also travel quite far from home to get to their place of work but by much less glamorous means than Vietnam Air.

If you plan to visit, though, be forewarned. I had a great time, zipping around on the back of my hired motorbike taxi, who I could barely understand because he was a migrant laborer who spoke with an accent from deep in the mainland south. Then I told a friend in Saigon about the island. She visited a week after me and contracted dengue fever, which only sounds cool when it’s the name of a band.

Viet Thanh Nguyen

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the war after the war

This post is going to be of a more personal nature…

I spend my mornings (usually) trying to write. Lately, and as usual, I am poring over details involving my family history, as I have been doing – it seems – for the 15 or more years that I have spent pursuing (or nursing?) these ghosts – attempting to articulate, to draw, them – that  pretty much have defined my identity as an “artist”: exodus, migration, displacement, mothers and silences, motherland and denials, the same tired old themes that some of us Vietnamese appear to be obsessed with; and, yes of course, (do I even need to mention it?) also I have been trying to write about The War.

Or, more precisely, for me at least, perhaps it is The War after The War — The Aftermath ((which is like ever wider but fainter concentric rings rippling out across a surface of water moments after the rock that initiated the splash has sank)) — that I am more preoccupied with.

Anyway, I am working and then there is a knock on the door. So I go to open it and there is the postman, with a box, sent from my sister in San Diego, to my home here in Portland, Oregon. The postman is Asian, cheerful and friendly, and he asks me, “Are you Vietnamese? I see Vietnamese name here,” pointing to my name addressed on the box. I say yes, and he says, “So am I! Nice to meet you!” And then we are smiling at each other in this happy moment of recognition, this automatic camaraderie, all due to knowing we have this critical characteristic in common.

We are of Vietnam but now we are here – we know it without saying it – for the same reasons. Those same tired old themes. War, displacement, necessary wanderings. And occasionally we will spot each other, noting through the traffic of our present daily lives, our similar, disguised differences.

Since I often spend a lot of time alone, in my own house (usually with only my 11-year old son to keep me company), caught in the writer’s obsessive habit of solipsism, the small interactions I do have with outsiders in the course of a day can sometimes resonate with more weight than they probably would for people whose lives are perhaps more normal (read:social) and less reclusive. So I went back upstairs to my work, musing over this little exchange, how this moment of contact initiated over “I see a Vietnamese name here” had made me feel, briefly, positively, in some way connected to something larger. It had made me feel almost good about myself. And I thought maybe I would write about it, but then the day went on. Errands, my son’s activities, etc. I decided it was not an important enough moment to write about after all.

But then it is the next day, and my son’s baseball coach calls with news about the baseball schedule. This is Coach Joe, whose son, sometimes when he goes up to bat, other mothers on the sidelines will turn to me and say, “There’s your son, he’s so cute,” or something to that effect. This is because this boy and my son in fact look  a bit alike. They are both half-breeds: this is apparent. Brown-haired, olive-skinned, with slightly Asian eyes. Both of them, need I say, are adorable.

My son, though, because of his long hair, also sometimes garners the assessment: “He looks just like a little Indian boy.” (By this, they usually mean Native American.)

Now, on the phone, Coach Joe stops to ask me how correctly to pronounce my name. When I tell him, he then asks if I am Filipino or where I am from. I say that I am Vietnamese. And then in surprise he says that his wife is Vietnamese – his son is half-Vietnamese. And we laugh over this and say, “Oh, how funny,” and he says he will have to tell his wife to come over and talk to me at the next game. And this, too, like the exchange at the door with the postman, is a small bit of recognition that resonates with me. And because it has happened twice now, in two days, I have decided after all that I will write about it.

They are such small moments of recognition, but for some reason they do matter.

I grew up in a rural, mostly-white, quite conservative part of northern California; I grew up with a Danish-American father and a Vietnamese (though rebellious, non-traditional) mother. I do understand that it was with our best interests in mind that our parents raised us to be dismissive, even callous, toward the past, and toward our past cultures. Proudly, they would push the notion that we were more like “mutts,” and that being a “mutt” was something quintessentially American. (Our favorite family dog was a mutt, which my father swore contributed to his intelligence, not like those in-bred pure-breeds… as he saw it.)

My mother, for her part, told us little about Vietnam; and I never learned the language. I learned instead how to argue, to deny, to be cold and detached, to intellectualize – for many years I wrote stories from the viewpoints of enigmatic characters (a hitman, a kidnapped girl, so many people I simply was not), until at last something happened. I broke; I became – god forbid – sensitive and concerned, even curious, about the events, both personal and political, that had brought people like me here.

So I guess I don’t know, can’t really say, if the war is ended for someone like me. It is over, certainly, but there are no official dates to mark the end of aftermaths. There is no anniversary for the end of The Aftermath.

Thus we are still sifting through the ashes, through the smoke of it, some of us at least.

We are looking for artifacts or lost treasures or reminders, or just for something, perhaps because we like to search and to recover and look at old things, that we might be able to repair or re-use, in some aesthetically interesting fashion, or just because it helps us to feel a little better about ourselves, connected again, or useful. Perhaps. Or perhaps, yes, we just need to get over it.

– dao strom

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Operation Greenlight

Cinema Symposium 5 (UCLA)

I had the chance to take a peek into the world of Vietnamese Cinema this past weekend.

The panel consisting of Danny Do, Kieu Chinh, Minh Duc Nguyen, Nghiem-Minh Nguyen-Vo, Mark Tran, and Nadine Truong opened my eyes into the emergence and advancement of not only Vietnamese filming but culture. The value of film as a new medium into the culture is a delicate process that I believe many of the new filmmakers are gradually losing touch with.  Filmmakers are artists, craftsmen of their vision and storytellers. Vietnamese-American filmmakers however aim to put forth the ideals of Vietnamese culture in their films.

During the panel, the speakers discussed how the form needs to be appreciated by every culture, and not just the Vietnamese. Chinh listed examples such as “Slumdog Millionaire,” a famous Indian film that was created for an audience beyond India; it was created for a whole world. She explained how it became international with the anchor and cultural push of India.

Chinh spoke gracefully, her open-minded thoughts and knowledge made her easy to listen to. Through war she was able to maintain her culture, heritage, and acting aspirations.

She described that many young Vietnamese filmmakers entering the business, go into a different world then she remembers, instead they enter into a new Vietnamese- American movie world, not necessary the old world she was used to. “It is a new life, a new international community, more mixture.”

There was a lot of discussion about “making a film for the world” as Nguyen-Vo describes it “a community at large, a much bigger meaning.” While Tran focuses on digital advancement and different forms of storytelling. “Film is what you make out of it.” The new generation of Vietnamese-American filmmakers are prosperous, and have a large open and exciting world ahead of them. One day I do believe that Vietnamese-Americans will break out in the industry one day. Perfecting their craft as storytellers rather than budgeters or marketers is a challenge, as I watched the panel most of the questions and discussion came across as external. They gave the perception that film only revolved around more issues of budget, audience outreach, and marketing rather than art.

Operation Greenlight as the event was dubbed however seemed to me like a remake of the specialized overplayed, fast paced technique that American film makers tend to embrace and often overuse. The trailers I watched appeared to be Vietnamese personas of American culture. I feel like they have lost touch with the value of Vietnamese artistry and fell into American Hollywood hype.

New Vietnamese filmmakers following the air of American Hollywood that all their films are beginning to lose touch with Vietnamese culture. The panels spent a large amount of time discussing movie budgets but the underlying matter that many of these young filmmakers do not mention is that a lot of large budgets go into the need for a good-looking film, rather than artistic expression.

Vietnamese films have transformed from being symbolic expressions of our culture into imitations of American Hollywood. Which I think it’s a true loss, films like Slumdog Millionaire stay to their Bollywood roots, while many of the trailers I witnessed in the panel appeared to be very Hollywood.

-Catherine Vu

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Loudspeakers in different languages

The war’s over. I am so glad. I can go back to sleep. I haven’t been able to for most of April.

All of last month, the war raged on. Yes: that war. You know what I’m talking about. That little annoying thing that made no sense to so many people. The one that changed America, and Viet Nam. It won’t friggin’ go away. That stubborn thing ended in April, 35 years ago, but it’s still here.

Public loudspeakers have been a feature of life here in Ha Noi for decades. Government news and directives. Productivity and corruption. The week’s social campaign. Party meetings. Neighborhood alerts to new trash and parking policies. Martial music.

When I moved here three years ago, the public loudspeakers stopped being so loud. The people were complaining. No one really listened to them. They disrupted the buying and selling. The loudspeakers interfered with many of us trying to read other news on the internet. They contradicted what people experienced in their real lives.

I’m told some people sneaked up to their roofs at night like thieves and reached out to cut the wires. Others paid workers to point the thing skyward and waited for the rain.

For a while, it seemed the loudspeakers listened to the people for a change. They just simply shut up, or faded away.

Little did I know. The wire were still live. This past April, the loudspeakers were at it again. It was the war, all over again. 8am. 4pm. 8pm. War, war, war.

During the war, the loudspeakers must have been helpful. Sirens, air attack alerts, orders to evacuate and seek shelter. Last month, as the loudspeakers went back to work, they might have reminded the older generation of those difficult and hurtful days when American aircraft sent bombs exploding all over the place. Rolling thunders, or some such awe-inspiring war campaign slogans.

Now, there’s a new generation. And what comes out of the loudspeakers is simply a bothersome, irritating chatter. It keeps you from sleeping or enjoying your coffee, it makes it difficult to listen to your i-pod.

And it talks about something no one really wants to hear in this town. The Vietnam War.

They sure like to make a big deal of that victory. And believe me, 35 years later, that victory—the ‘liberation of South Viet Nam’ and the ‘nation’s reunification’ is a big deal. Some say it’s just a way for the party to maintain moral authority. We did it.  We defeated a big country. We reunified the nation. That just went on and on and on on the loudspeakers for most of April.

Doesn’t matter that some people also think ‘we’ defeated the country only to surrender to its economic and Kentucky Fried Chicken power a couple of decades later. And some have also been talking about reunification, except that they wonder what would have happened if the nation had been reunified under a different regime.

Visiting Saigon, a Ha Noi friend wistfully said, “Sometimes I wish the Americans, and the French could have stayed longer. Give the North some of the openness of Saigon.”

She was referring both to architectural openness, the wide streets and more orderly construction. And she was also referring to the cafés, the shops, and the sidewalks where people openly go about their business, enjoying themselves, with little apparent interference from the police, and the bureaucrats. And she was referring to the attitude of the people, saying what they mean, and meaning it.

She’s of a generation that hadn’t really thought about the war, other than the stuff told in school. The hard sacrifices and the determination of her parents’  generation, the heroic exploits to defeat a big and brutal enemy. Some of that is true, but as time passes, she’s learning other things.

Back in Ha Noi, she and her friends came to hear three Vietnamese American writers read at the gallery and café I run. She says her English wasn’t good enough to get it all, but she was beginning to get a sense of what it meant. For the people who weren’t victors. Who sought refuge in America and worked hard to create jobs, new roots and new identity for themselves outside the country.

That was the stuff writers Ben Tran and Andrew Lam talked about one night in the gallery . They talked of defeat, of new opportunities, of memories of another Viet Nam.

Andrew Lam at Tadioto

Not too many people attended the reading, but those who did walked away saying nothing like that had been said in public in Ha Noi. Damn right, you wouldn’t hear this stuff on the loudspeakers. (Watch for another post when I tell you what happened when Andrew Lam and his journalistic colleagues left my joint. Friends were questioned, people I don’t particular like showed up at my place. That’s another saga.)

And my Ha Noi friends also said, you guys overseas—you Viet Kieu—are obsessed with the Viet Nam war.

Damn right we are. I didn’t quite respond that way. But I tried to explain that it’s a situation forced upon us. While many Vietnamese artists and writers overseas don’t like to dwell on it, others are asked to do so all the time. Give us your war, give us your experience, your poor history, your personal tragedies, so we can understand what we did in the war, so we might figure out what to do with this vague guilt. Some of us overseas artists definitely feel a need to tell that story—it isn’t really told anywhere else.

I was sticking to my Irish whiskey, and noticed my friend was drinking a definitely American thing, a Kentucky bourbon. She kept going, but why won’t you move on from the war?

We tried, and we are still trying. But that’s our identity, partly, I said. It’s who we are, who we were forced to be. A displaced, uprooted people with the word war imprinted on our face, in our heart, and on the stuff we produce as filmmakers, journalists, writers, painters, etc. We remember the war.

I’ve always thought it’s the people inside that don’t remember. First it was the harsh post-war life that didn’t allow people to indulge in the past. No sense thinking about some other misery when you’re struggling inside another. Then, as the country opened up and became richer, a younger generation’s looking to the future, where there are SUVs and i-pods and foreign universities and hip-hop music.

The loudspeakers may remember that war, and their victory of 35 years ago. But some here in Viet Nam have seemed to adopt the American habit of simply thinking of historical dates as a chance for a short vacation, and some discounted shopping at the local mall.

Maybe in the countryside, things are a little bit different but here in Ha Noi, it’s no use living in the past.

And so after le thi diem thuy, another Vietnamese-American, finished her performance, and read from her book The Gangster We Are All Looking For, my local friends repaired to their Jack Daniel glasses and bar stools, and commented on our obsession.

It would have been tough for them to understand the irony in the fact that the obsession with the war also drove people like le thi diem thuy mad. America’s obsessed. And we needed to talk. Le thi diem thuy wrote a poem with the line “Vietnam is not a war,” in bold.

le thi diem thuy

I explained to my local friends that we artists in the diaspora have a dual role. We have to keep the memory alive, while speaking to another audience who doesn’t seem to get that Vietnam is a country, a nation, a culture, a people. That, boy and girlfriends, is a loud problem for us. How to make people understand we’re not all peasants in black pajamas running around trenches with AK54s, being blown up by guys named Rambo. We’re a nation, not a ready metaphor for new American experiences in places like Iraq and Afghanistan.

Now that I live here, I’m glad to have the opportunities to bring diasporic voices to audiences inside the country. We come back, and through our artistic work, some of us correct the image of Viet Kieu as enemies of the people, or as moneyed idiots. We talk to them of our defeat inside Viet Nam 35 years ago, of humility and of hardships and triumphs elsewhere in the world.

It’s a small audience. Nothing compared to the amount of people literally losing sleep because of the loudspeakers. We’re all taking about the same thing.

That war that won’t go away. Especially at the arrival of anniversaries.

But people like Ben Tran, and Andrew Lam, and le thi diem thuy, we’re talking about that past in different ways. We aren’t the loudspeakers. And the loudspeakers don’t talk like we do.

It’s not quite a war anymore between us. No more shouting match: it’s been 35 years. But we’ll be talking for another 35 or 40 or 50 years before we speak the same language. Who knows, maybe the Vietnam War will never end.

Nguyễn Quí Đức

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Asia Entertainment pays tribute to South Việt Nam in “55 Năm Nhìn Lại” (Looking Back on 55 Years) Video

Asia Entertainment, for those who might be unfamiliar with Vietnamese disaporic pop culture, is the production company that has gone head to head with Thúy Nga (of the famed Paris by Night variety show) for many years. Asia produces very similar shows as Thúy Nga and the popular criticism of these productions is that they exhibit very little creative innovation, recycling nhạc vàng (“yellow music”) through a few new voices in all their shows. But every now and then a show comes along that seems worth the $25 price tag and I found just such a show in Asia’s most recent release of their commemorative “55 Năm Nhìn Lại” (Looking Back on 55 Years) video on April 23, in time for all the commemoration events going on among Vietnamese American communities across the United States.

The photo montage on its cover represents the tried-and-true marketing strategy for both Asia and Thúy Nga, but the real hook, for me, was the “55 Năm” theme. Most commemoration videos produced by Asia and Thúy Nga often use the 1975 “Fall of SaiGòn” temporal marker, but this one goes further back to the Geneva Accords of 1954 when Vietnam was divided at the 17th parallel. For this reason alone, I brought the video home and spent half the day watching it. I can’t say the video was exceptional or innovative in its narration of South Việt Nam history, but it is definitely worth a screening as it does show interesting documentary footage from the pre-1975 era in South Việt Nam along with some classic nhạc vàng performed by beloved singers who came out of retirement (or obscurity) such as Thanh Thúy, Sơn Ca, and Giang Tử.

-Thúy Võ Đặng

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