Over the years, I have come across interviews, documentaries, photographs, and pieces of journalism that helped me better understand the histories surrounding my family's journey from Việt Nam. Some capture the war directly. Others reflect its aftermath: displacement, silence, survival, memory, and return. These are not definitive histories. They are simply fragments that stayed with me. I first watched Rory Kennedy's 2014 documentary, Last Days in Vietnam and later recommend

I took this photograph during my first trip back to Việt Nam in 1998. Long before curated travel guides and luxury resorts reshaped how much of the world now sees the country, these streets were what stayed with me: the haze of motorbikes, tangled electrical wires overhead, storefronts weathered by heat and time, and the constant movement of everyday life. To me, this was never simply traffic or noise. It was the feeling of returning to a place that had lived in stories, memo

It was sometime after midnight on April 30, 1975 and long before dawn in Sài Gòn. I was four and a half years old. My brother was three and a half. My sister, only six months old. My mom, still only 25 and already the strongest person I know, would turn 26 the next day. I remember dinner that night: rice with scallions and oil. I remember playing on a hammock before being awakened in the middle of the night. I remember trying to carry my father’s military uniform out of the

Once upon a time, a young Vietnamese-French girl grew up in a Việt Nam divided by the Geneva Accords of 1954. Beyond the 17th parallel lay places like Hà Long Bay, places she knew only through stories, photographs, and always dreamed of seeing for herself. Year later, during the war, in the imperial capital of Huế, thousands became victims of the Red Massare, leaving behind grief, silence, and countless young lives suddenly orphaned by violence. During this time, she travele