Top 8 Most Inspiring Essays About Saigon

One evening, after dinner, my father announced, 'Next year, Nhân will go to boarding school.' My siblings were startled. Out of the four of us, only I knew what a boarding school was, while the others were confused. My mother turned away, her eyes filled with sorrow, but perhaps she had already anticipated this moment.

Afterwards, my father instructed me to bring out my old schoolbag to check if there was anything still usable. I moved like a robot, silently taking out the worn-out leather bag from under my desk. Inside, there were a few notebooks, textbooks, and a handful of random pens.

My younger siblings crowded around and eagerly searched through the bag. 'I hear something jingling,' one of them said. I quickly closed the bag and tried to zip it, but the zipper had been broken for a long time. My father chuckled, 'Looks like you missed something.' Reluctantly, I opened the smallest compartment, and out spilled a bunch of coins. My younger siblings scrambled to grab them. My mother smiled and said, 'Let your older brother count how much there is.' It totaled a few dozen coins—two coins made up one dong, enough to buy a delicious meat sandwich at the time. I even had five-cent pieces which were enough for a refreshing glass of red bean soup with tapioca. This money had been saved for a Pilot pen I always dreamed of owning. Suddenly, I said, 'I’ll give it to you, Mom.' 'Alright, I’ll keep it for you,' she replied. 'But when you go to the market, buy some snacks for the younger ones.'

And then, the day came quickly. At the crack of dawn, the familiar pedicab of Uncle Bảy was waiting. My father loaded it with a foldable cot tied securely at both ends. Inside the cot was a mosquito net, and under the footrest was a wooden trunk. My father and I climbed aboard, and I had to move forward to make space. The pedicab slowly rolled through the streets. Sometimes, when we hit a hill, Uncle Bảy leaned forward, gritting his teeth as he pedaled hard, tilting to one side. The pedicab moved sluggishly. 'Should I get off, Uncle Bảy?' I asked. 'It’s fine, just this hill,' he replied. (This hill was located near Hong Thap Tu Street, behind Gia Long Palace.)

After some time, we reached the Thi Nghe Bridge. By then, we were alongside the zoo. My father pointed the way, 'After crossing the Thi Nghe Bridge, take a sharp right toward the river. Go a few hundred meters, and we’ll stop in front of the Van Cam Theater.' (This theater is no longer in operation.) My father explained, 'The school director said since the school is under construction, we will temporarily study here until it’s ready, which should be in a couple of months.'

I entered with my belongings. Inside, there were many students of different ages, some peeking from the doorway. This was an all-boys boarding school, so there were no girls around. A teacher, who introduced himself as the supervisor, showed me where to place my things, and after a brief conversation with my father, my father bid me farewell and left. I tried to follow, but the supervisor grabbed my hand to stop me.

And so, a new chapter of my education began. The school only accepted middle school students. The schedule was packed with lessons in the morning and afternoon, and we even had extra self-study sessions at night. The school emphasized French, so every day we had French lessons. The first-year students studied the Mauger I book, while second and third-year students worked on Mauger II. We had discussions in French, dictation, and essays in French, among other activities.

During extracurricular activities, we learned scout skills such as using a compass for navigation, finding paths in the forest by looking at tree trunks, locating water using vines, tying knots, signaling with Morse code, semaphore, or flags, and identifying hidden messages. We even made greeting cards from cardboard and crushed eggshells, or bound loose pages from old notebooks.

In general, we learned many new things, and as a result, I began to change. I became more resourceful, learned to observe my surroundings scientifically and accurately, and understood that persistence was key to achieving my goals and striving for success.

On weekends, we were allowed to go out. We would visit the zoo or go to the Bạch Đằng Wharf to watch the ships come and go, with the loud sound of their horns. At the end of each month, the school organized camping trips, campfires, and outings, sometimes at Rừng Sác or at the fruit orchards in Lái Thiêu. During major holidays, the school arranged trips to Vũng Tàu or Mũi Né.

One unforgettable memory was a camping trip at the mangosteen orchard of Mr. Joseph Hoàng’s house in Lái Thiêu. He told us not to pick the fruits, as the orchard owner would give them to us. That night, after the campfire activities, my three close friends and I sneaked out with our pocket knives and flashlights, climbed a tree, and had a delicious feast. The orchard had been around for years, with thick trunks and dense foliage. After eating, we didn’t leave any mangosteen peels on the ground, as we hung them on the branches!

Whenever we couldn’t go on scheduled trips, the school organized large games, like mock battles. We would split into two teams, each with a foula of the same color attached to our backs. The team that collected the most foula from the other team won. Some were clever enough to tie their foula to their belt loops, so when the opposing team grabbed it, they would pull off their pants.

But the funniest moments often happened in the evenings. After self-study, we would gather to set up our sleeping areas by pushing the movable walls against the walls. Each team carried their cots and arranged them in rows. The team leader and vice-leader slept at each end to keep watch. At exactly 9 PM, when the bell rang, we had to be silent and go to sleep. The two supervisors would patrol the area with whips. Anyone making noise would get a painful whipping from the cot.

Many students couldn’t sleep, so they stayed up late, and staying up late made them hungry. They would go to Uncle Năm, the cook, and beg for a bowl of porridge to eat under their mosquito nets. (The porridge was prepared for breakfast the next morning.) This porridge was made from broken rice provided by the American aid program. Along with the broken rice, there were powdered milk, flour, butter, and cheese, which were stored in large quantities.

Sometimes, when the supervisor had trouble sleeping and kept checking on us, some of us fell asleep and forgot to eat. The next morning, the porridge had thickened into a sticky mess, sticking to the blankets, pillows, and necks. It took a while to clean up. There were also some younger students who hadn’t yet outgrown bed-wetting. Early in the morning, when we set up the cots for exercises, the wet patches would be visible, creating puddles on the floor.

During dry seasons, the water in the Thi Nghe River would recede, making it difficult for boats to pass, and there would be a shortage of water for daily use. Every week, the school director would request a water truck from the Ministry of Social Welfare. We would cheer as we hooked up the hose to our water containers, enjoying a much-needed bath. The next day, we would queue up for the supervisor to distribute water. Each student was only allowed a small can of water to wash their face or two cans for a full bath. Dirty clothes were marked with ink, and at the end of the week, they were sent to the laundry factory for washing.

Written by: Trần Phụng Hiệp

I have never set foot in Saigon. I still remember the time when it felt like I could finally reach the city, back when I was studying at Quy Nhon University.

During the 30/4 holiday, a close friend invited me to visit their relative in the city. They were very enthusiastic, already bought the bus tickets, and had planned out every detail of the trip.

I agreed. Everything was ready. But then I received news that my mother in my hometown needed surgery and had to be hospitalized. I had to cancel my trip and rush back to my hometown. So, Saigon remained a place of imagination for me all these years. Imagined through the stories my friend shared.

Imagined through the films, songs, and photos I loved. Imagined through the books that captivated me since I was young. But perhaps that's what makes it fascinating, because Saigon has become like an elusive lover, always stirring my emotions...

Your journey to Saigon began when you graduated from high school. Although you were smart and good at studying, your family was struggling, so you had to put your studies on hold and move south to work and support your family.

You told me that the first time you set foot in Saigon, you saw a vast city bustling with activity, noisy during the day and glowing with a magical charm at night.

When you got off the bus and asked for directions to a hostel, it took you three attempts before the shopkeeper could understand you because the street noise drowned out the rural accent of a country boy visiting the city for the first time.

But once she understood, she guided you to an affordable place and gave you motherly advice like any caring parent would before their child set off. For you, Saigon was warm and full of human kindness from that first moment. You went on to make many friends in the city.

They, with their simple, humble, and forgiving hearts, gave you the strength to overcome many of life’s challenges. Once, you had an accident late at night, lost consciousness, and when you woke up, you found yourself in a hospital bed. Later, you learned that a passerby had rushed you to the hospital.

You said that Saigon not only offered warmth in its people but also gave you many opportunities to prove yourself. You could work part-time and attend English classes at a center. Later, you were hired by an international company with a high salary.

Years later, when we reunited after two decades, you had become a successful entrepreneur, a well-known business owner in the wood export industry. Many of your friends were surprised by your success, and you smiled, saying, “It’s all thanks to the kindness and generosity of Saigon, my friends!”

It wasn't just you; I have many friends from Nghe An who came to Saigon to build their careers. Whenever we gather back in our hometown, they proudly share stories about Saigon, calling it their second home. They talk about the friendly people of Saigon and how living there feels comfortable and free...

I occasionally participate in writing groups online, and that’s how I’ve gotten to know some writers in Saigon. Although we’ve never met in person, I am deeply touched by the way they help me with such sincerity and warmth.

One such person is Uncle Doan Thach Bien, whom I met by chance on Facebook. One time, I posted a poem on my profile, and he read it, asking if he could publish it in the Áo Trắng magazine.

Since then, we’ve kept in touch, regularly sharing stories about literature. Whenever there’s a good article, he sends it to me. There’s also the young writer Tong Phuoc Bao, who, upon learning that I was helping to build a free reading room for students, immediately sent books to donate to the library.

Through Tong Phuoc Bao, I learned of an even more charming side of Saigon. He shared with me, “In Saigon, there are no strangers, only familiar faces; there’s no hatred, only love. People love one another, living for each other. They love this land, and they stay here their whole lives for it.”

He also told me the story of his grandparents choosing the warm southern land as their home. People from all over the country come together here and live harmoniously. There was once a quarrel between neighbors, but the whole neighborhood came to mediate, and what was a fight one day became a laugh the next.

And Bao shared that his grandfather used to say that the southern region belongs to the Li trigram, representing fire, a symbol of cultural refinement. Here, scholars value morality and education, people are hardworking in farming and crafts, and commerce thrives.

However, the southern region is also under the influence of the Yang Star, which brings fiery and impulsive traits but also generosity and a strong sense of justice.

This somehow resonates with the spirit of people from Nghe An. Another southern friend I met in the writing group is Nguyen Xuan Phuong. Whenever I have an article published, he always congratulates me.

He also encourages me to participate in any writing competition, saying, “Join in, who knows, you might win a prize, and we’ll finally meet in Saigon. Then we’ll enjoy the city together.”

And just like that, we became close without ever having met in person. Isn’t this the essence of the friendly, charming nature of Saigon’s people?

Saigon also left a deep impression on me with its gentle, sweet accent, which I feel no other place can replicate. The southern films always captivated me, especially the distinct voice tones of the characters. Films like “The Secret Agents of Saigon,” “The Turned Card,” and “Catching the Thieves” – apart from being engaging stories, it’s the dialogue that left a mark on me. Especially the voices of Saigon’s women, which sound as sweet as a melody.

The unique thing is that the Saigon accent is neither as elegant and melodious as the northern accent nor as deep and calm as the Huế accent. It’s something that touches the heart, perhaps because of the sweet sound of the Mekong River, with the simple and honest spirit of ancient traditions. The essence of Saigon is mesmerizing.

It reminds me of the short story “The Children in the Family” by Nguyen Thi, which I read when I was in high school. The dialogues between Viet, Chiến, and Uncle Năm fascinated me. Especially the conversation between two sisters, Chiến and Viet, just before joining the army: “Will you write to Sister Hai?… Yeah!… But did mom tell you that?… She didn’t know she was going to die to tell us that.”

And the way Chiến took care of everything, from the ancestors' altar to the house and the farm, and the emotional moment when the two sisters carried the altar and ran to Uncle Năm’s house, was truly moving.

Reading that, I have always thought that people from the south, especially those from Saigon, are pure-hearted, brave, courageous, and lovable.

More than twenty years have passed since I first saw “The Secret Agents of Saigon” and dreamed of one day walking down every street in the city. But up until now, I still haven’t had the chance to turn that dream into reality. Saigon, for me, remains a dream, hovering between reality and imagination.

One Saigon from the past, depicted in black-and-white films. One Saigon, full of generosity and kindness, like the stories my friend told me. One Saigon of imagination, but I believe it’s very real because of one simple truth: “The Saigon I envision is built from very real stories.”

Nguyễn Đình Ánh

I left my hometown at an age where I was no longer young enough to easily forget, yet not old enough to devote all my time to loss and pain. I moved to a new place where life swept me away like a whirlwind on unfamiliar roads that never seemed to stop. I was disoriented, but I still knew who I was and where I was from, and so when I had to stop to catch my breath, it was as if the soul of my homeland stirred inside me.

Every time I think of my homeland, I first think of Saigon. Saigon is no longer just a land for the Southern people, but for those from the North who fled to the South in 1954, or the Chinese refugees from the 1968 chaos, Saigon is the most cherished part of the homeland.

I grew up, lived through my youth in Saigon. I went to school, studied, dreamed, worked, cried, laughed, and then had to say goodbye to Saigon.

The migration of 1954 helped the people of the North and South understand each other better. Those from the North who grew up in Saigon in our generation learned the simplicity and sincerity of the Southern people, and in turn, my Southern friends learned the decorum and rituals (sometimes to the point of being meticulous) from the Northern people.

Saigon in the early 1960s still had horse-drawn carts taking mothers to the market. The streets were not yet feared in the early morning mist. The sound of hooves on the cobblestone streets would stir the dawn. My neighborhood was right across from a place known as the “Horse Bathing Pier,” and every time we passed by, it smelled awful. After a few decades, horse-drawn carts were no longer in Saigon, only in the rural areas.

Saigon, with its rickshaws, motorized rickshaws, taxis, Vespas, Lambrettas, Velo-Solexes, and Mobylettes, evokes a flood of memories. The nostalgic, dreamy era of youth, the scent of flowers, and the tears of love. Saigon, with its sudden downpours in June, the sound of rain echoing on tin roofs, soaking old tamarind trees, and dampening the paths leading to someone’s house. Saigon, with its summer blooms of red flamboyant flowers, stains of flowers on the school uniforms, and the fragrant sunlight falling on the conical hats of mothers, remains a sweet memory in our hearts.

Each year of my life passes like golden sunbeams scattered along the roadside tamarind trees, like the first raindrops falling on bougainvillea. The familiar street names, each neighborhood reminds me of a memory with loved ones, friends, or even strangers. Just the name of a street brings an image to mind, a face, a sound, or a familiar story, no matter how many times it’s been told. Even a misstep on the street reminds me of a hand once extended to hold me back.

The sounds of daily life—the church bells in the morning, the rickshaw’s engine, the cries of street vendors, the jingling of an ice cream cart, the calls of people in the alleys, the bustling sounds in the marketplace, the serene charm of a quiet street after a rain—created a Saigon full of warmth in my memory.

Over time, Saigon has slowly transformed. We grew up, passed through elementary school, and when we entered high school, the war began to creep into our lives. Tears fell on the school yard. Then came the protests, curfews, barbed wire, rockets shooting up in the night sky, extinguishing quickly like the future of an entire generation raised in war.

Saigon is like a first love, no matter how old we are, no matter where we go, when we remember it, it always appears as a bright red lipstick stain. Saigon is like a fragrance still lingering, like an unhealed scar, waiting for a gentle kiss to heal it.

The image of Saigon in my youth is no longer the same, like a painting whose colors have faded, and I can no longer make out the original, true image.

Now, when I return to Saigon, I find myself a tourist in a land that is completely unfamiliar. I miss Saigon and I miss myself, having lost a place to call home. Though I know life is full of changes, my heart still bears a heavy longing for what’s gone!

Ph Ng

When the Văn Cầm cinema on Pham Viet Chanh street in Thi Nghe was converted into a school (the owner of Văn Cầm had three cinemas with the same name, with two located in other areas in central Saigon), and with the nearby Thanh My Tay elementary school, this area became unexpectedly livelier.

One day, a young man around 25 years old came to apply for a janitor position at the school. He was assigned tasks like fixing tables and chairs and sweeping around the grounds. In the afternoons, after finishing his work, he would sit outside the school gate and play his accordion. At first, we gathered to watch him perform. His fingers moved swiftly across the keys and buttons of the accordion. His arms would stretch out and then pull back, combining with his head shaking, creating a graceful performance.

After a while, we asked him to play some new songs, but he just nodded and couldn't play them. The teachers said he could only play his favorite songs, as he hadn't had formal training. So, we slowly stopped gathering to watch him, and life at the school went on quietly.

Then one morning, around 5 a.m., while we were exercising, we saw a crowd of people gathered, talking. Across from the school gate, a pawn shop was brightly lit.

People were whispering that the pawn shop owner's daughter had stolen some items. The whole family went searching and called the police. At the same time, the janitor, Minh, also disappeared. Whether this was a coincidence or not, the police came, and the story ended with Minh, the janitor, taking the pawn shop owner's daughter away to start a life together, in a place only God knows.

Later, the school moved to a new location. From Saigon, the final destination was across the Go Dua Bridge, turning into a dirt road on the left, and going about one kilometer. This area, known as Tam Ha in Thu Duc, was vast and sparsely populated by migrants who had come to settle and develop the land. The houses were scattered, surrounded by fields of water spinach and fish ponds, with small gardens of coconut, jackfruit, and mango trees. There was an abandoned social welfare house near the fields, which might have once been a shelter for migrants before they were assigned land. It was a long building, with a row of bathrooms at one end and a rainwater tank at the other. Inside, it was completely empty, with windows on both sides of the building and a distant exit door.

Locals said that this place was haunted, with strange occurrences, because the military used to store the bodies of fallen soldiers here after a battle. However, we cleaned the place up, organized areas for eating, resting, and studying, and carried on with our daily activities. In the beginning, after school, we explored the area. Walking along the dirt paths, we passed fields of water spinach and fish ponds. In the distance, we could see small fruit gardens. Occasionally, we heard storks and herons calling and flying off, adding to the eerie quiet of the area.

In the distance, there were a few thatched houses that appeared abandoned, with their doors closed. The closest garden to our school was Mrs. Nam's, where she grew many coconut and jackfruit trees. She had a young daughter who spent her time collecting leaves, chopping wood, and feeding the fish in the ponds.

The only road in and out of the area was a narrow dirt path, just wide enough for the school's 12-seat Ford car to transport goods. Locals used this road to bring produce to Tam Ha and Thu Duc markets. At a bend in the road, there was a small stall selling snacks and shaved ice. Every afternoon, we would gather to buy treats, chat, and race back to school for the afternoon lessons.

With nothing to do after school, we became restless. The old saying 'Idle hands are the devil’s workshop' proved true for us, as we had many different interests. Some of us would chop bamboo to make blowguns or break off ripe guava fruits to use as ammunition, chasing each other and making loud popping noises. Others would bring empty cans of milk powder from home, along with flour, milk, sugar, and oil, and together, we'd knead and shape them into small 'logs' we called 'firewood bread.' We'd heat the cans over a small fire and fry the bread, which tasted better than any gourmet meal. Some of us were bolder, sneaking into gardens to steal coconuts or jackfruits. We'd crack open young coconuts and sip the juice or steal small jackfruits, boil them, and dip them in chili salt.

The leader of the garden raiders was a boy named Sang. One day, after a theft, the garden owner, Mrs. Nam, set up an ambush. When Sang and four others reached the jackfruit tree, Mrs. Nam let loose two barking dogs and grabbed a stick to chase them away. Her daughter screamed, and the group scattered. But Sang, in his panic, ran into a ditch and got caught in a net. Mrs. Nam grabbed him by the hair and beat him before he escaped. He returned to school soaked in mud, looking like a drowned rat, with his head and neck covered in slime and dirt. Mrs. Nam, standing by the fence, spat out a mouthful of betel juice and yelled, 'You unruly kids! Is this how your teachers taught you? Next time I catch you, I’ll tie you up and let the dogs bite you! What kind of school is this?'

Mr. Paul Chon, hearing the commotion, stepped out. Mrs. Nam yelled a few more insults and left. Mr. Chon, furious, ordered us all to line up, gave each of us two slaps, and made us go apologize to Mrs. Nam.

Despite being in this remote area, the school still kept its weekend program, allowing us some free time. We were told not to go too far, just to the Thu Duc market. We agreed, but after visiting Tam Ha market, we detoured to Thu Duc, and then decided to catch a train to Saigon to relieve our homesickness.

Arriving at Saigon, we split up. Dung (the rich kid) went to buy a gray mobylette with a gas tank near the handlebars. After riding around for a while, he exchanged it for a better one with a gas tank under the seat, a stronger engine, and returned to Thu Duc. The rest of us wandered around, buying odds and ends, then went to Bạch Đằng Pier to watch the boats. As for me, I always ended up at Khai Tri bookstore. We made sure to check the time at each shop, so we could catch the train back to Thu Duc.

Then the rainy season came, and it was gloomy. The wind howled, and the sky turned black, with heavy rain pouring down. At night, frogs croaked in a dismal chorus. During such times, strange events occurred. Some of us, when walking into the bathroom or restroom at dusk, claimed to see someone dressed in white from head to toe, with a dirty face like a rotting log, standing still against the wall, motionless. We ran out, screaming, but no one dared to check. The teachers advised us to bring flashlights when using the restrooms. We could tell they were uneasy, but they tried to stay calm.

This wasn't just an isolated incident. Several of us had seen the same thing. It got so bad that before going to bed, we would all use the restroom by the fence instead of going inside. I asked my friends about the figure in white—how tall it was, what it looked like, and we thought maybe it was a thief who snuck in and waited for the right moment. The teachers agreed that it was a plausible explanation. Dung’s green mobylette was locked up more securely.

Then one afternoon, just after 5 p.m., the sky darkened, lightning flashed across the sky, and rain poured down in torrents. Some of us, who enjoyed bathing in the rain, ran out in shorts, playing under the leaking roof. Afterward, we all went to the restroom to change, and just then, a loud explosion shook the ground, like a bomb going off. The whole restroom was filled with smoke, and chunks of cement and debris flew everywhere. Some of us hadn't even had a chance to change and ran out in panic, shouting, 'It’s lightning!' 'A bolt the size of a plate!' 'We couldn’t see anything because of the smoke!' The teachers rushed over to check, but we couldn’t explain ourselves properly because the loud explosion had made us deaf for a while.

The whole school was in shock. Those of us who were afraid of ghosts whispered, 'It’s the wrath of the heavens, chasing away the spirits.'

TRAN PHUNG HIEP

Everyone who passes through my life, no matter how briefly, leaves behind a journey, an experience that I will try to complete.

Saigon, with its afternoon showers and the air that eases the suffocation, I stepped out of class feeling drained, rushing to get my bike and head home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I spotted a familiar figure passing by. I sped up, trying to catch up, but it seemed fate had already decided, and I lost sight of them, just like a year ago.

I found a small café at a familiar corner and ordered a black coffee with little milk. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, and I’m unsure whether I’m happy or sad. I put on my headphones and played a song.

"The road home today feels longer,

Lost in the empty streets, all alone,

Thoughts pull me back to the days when you were with me."

The lyrics hit me hard, and a tear gently fell down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away, not wanting anyone to see my fragile state. I tried to comfort myself, saying, "It’s okay! Don’t cry, everything is over." But deep down, I knew that was just a lie, one I was telling myself to avoid facing the truth. I had hidden every memory of him, a part of me that I’d never done before. But I had done it—locked it away in the deepest part of my heart, where no one could find it. Yet, all my efforts over the past year seemed to be in vain, just because a shadow of a person, a stranger passing by, has brought all of it back to me.

Memories of him flooded back as I remembered the first time we met. I smiled lightly. It happened so randomly, meeting him during a casual outing. In today’s world, who would dare approach someone like that, handing over a small piece of paper with the phone number "097xxxxxxx" written on it? At the time, I was just as naive, taking it and slipping it into my pocket. A few days later, I found the paper while doing laundry and texted him. Soon, I got a reply: "I’m so happy that you texted!"

From then on, our chats became frequent, and the first time we met was approaching. I recall the nervous excitement and a bit of shyness. We sat across from each other, exchanged a few awkward words, then fell silent.

It’s true what they say: you can talk endlessly on the phone, but when you meet, you don’t know what to say. Our first date was filled with the innocence and clumsiness of a first love. I was so nervous that even looking directly into his eyes felt awkward, let alone holding hands like couples do. Those moments of going out, having coffee, watching movies, or just sitting in the park chatting—those are the memories that will never fade.

"It’s raining," said someone at the table next to me. I startled, realizing that my mind had wandered elsewhere. It’s raining again. "Hey," I sighed. Every time it rained, I felt a deep sadness. The day I decided to let him go, to part with the one I loved, it also rained. The rain hid my tears and washed away the love we once had. The rain was my excuse, a way for me to believe that the heavens had decided our love would "fade into the rain."

It took a while for me to settle and reflect on everything. "Why did we end things when love was still there?" Because I was too immature, too rash, and now I’ve "lost" him, "lost" my love. In the middle of Saigon, I lost the one I loved.

Back to the present, I tell myself, "Keep the memories of him, but hide them somewhere no one can find, just like how I’ve "lost" him." I stood up, left the café, and thought, "I’ll just let the rain soak me."

Everyone who enters my life, no matter how briefly, leaves a mark, a lesson, and I will strive to complete this journey.

Collected

Today in Saigon is just like any other day, but your heart is caught in a storm. Every day, you send me texts sharing your ups and downs, yet today’s message stands out with those words: “My heart hurts again.”

Saigon may seem perfect to others, but for you, it’s a place that brings pain. Instead of replying to your message, I chose silence. Silence to let you feel your sadness, to endure the overwhelming pain on your own. If needed, you'll share it with me later. Then you sent me a picture of two hands tightly holding each other on an old motorcycle. You said that hand-holding meant more than anything, because it gave you warmth and a sense of protection, making you feel the happiness of caring for someone you love.

You are a sensitive person, I can tell. That’s why you put all your love into her, not just with that hand-holding but in every little thing.

You love the moments when you two ride through Saigon's streets at night, the lights glowing. You cherish bringing her lunch at work and picking her up after her shift. You want to be by her side, combing her messy hair, making sure she’s happy, and protecting her for a lifetime.

Loving her brings you true happiness. But the pain you’ve endured until now runs deep. I’ve never heard you complain about her. And I don’t have the right to say that your feelings are wrong because... I’m neither you nor her. But when you asked me: “If you saw the one you love kiss another girl, what would you do?” I felt a sharp pain. I felt for you, and imagined the heartbreak I would feel if I saw that too. Maybe in that moment, you felt like your world was falling apart.

You once said that you’ll never love anyone as deeply as you loved her. I believe you, because everyone eventually finds a new place to rest, a place to return to when the world gets overwhelming. But deep inside, in some dark corner of your heart, there will always be a space reserved for someone who, even after time, you can never forget.

“Is Saigon still as small as you thought? Just like in a song, a city so small it’s hard to find. Whether it’s small or big, it’s still just one city. And we’re lost in our own loneliness. Come ride with me, and I’ll take you home. This might be the last time we meet…”

Saigon is just a small city in the hearts of its people, yet when we drift apart, it’s impossible to find each other again no matter how hard we try.

Saigon is lively and joyful at dawn, but at night, it forces you to face your inner wounds. Meanwhile, I am left alone with my own solitude.

Saigon is cruel. It creates beautiful memories of love, only for them to become difficult to forget when we want to move on.

Source: Chang

Perhaps everyone has their own dreams. I’m no exception. For a poor country kid like me, the idea of 'going to Saigon' held an irresistible charm. In my mind, Saigon was a promised land, a glamorous place, glowing with lights as described by those who had just returned from there.

And so, I carried my dream of Saigon as I grew up.

At eighteen, I made my move, hoping for a better life through university. The city greeted me with a maze of streets and constant honking horns that left me bewildered. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily lose my way or fall off my bike!

Living in this bustling city, I slowly understood the meaning of the phrase 'glamorous': it’s glamorous for the rich and tearful for the poor. But the tears of the poor aren’t just sadness; they hold moments of joy and happiness too.

I remember the rainy days back in my village when my parents couldn’t send money. The odd jobs I took could only cover tuition fees. Every night, I lay awake, troubled by a hundred questions swirling in my mind: How would I pay for rent? My last pack of noodles had gone with today’s dinner. What would I eat tomorrow? How would I survive tomorrow?... and then I’d cry, feeling lonely and helpless.

Why did Saigon’s dream feel so unreal?

But, one year, two years, five years, and then more than ten years have passed, and I’m still here. It’s not because I have some extraordinary power, but because in my tears, I found comfort in the compassion of the city’s people.

It was the landlord who kept letting me delay paying my rent. She always said that once I graduated, I’d pay her back everything with interest.

It was the lady selling food at the corner shop, who, seeing me hesitate over buying some vegetables, slipped me half a kilo of meat and told me to pay her when I could. She saw how pale I looked and wondered how I could study like that.

It was the man who sold me meals on credit for a whole month and then added another month’s worth of food.

It was the motorbike driver who always “happened to be on the way” to give me a lift to my extra lessons whenever my bicycle broke down.

It was countless faces, each with a kind smile, giving me directions, guiding me through the alleys and streets of Saigon.

School taught me skills, but life taught me humanity. The longer I stayed here, the more I understood the deep sense of connection to this land and its people. That connection flows like an underground stream, silently watering the dry earth of many struggling lives, reviving dreams that seemed to have withered away.

And my dream of Saigon has awakened, turning into reality, day by day, thanks to this gentle, nurturing water.

I'm not sure whether I came to Saigon because I loved it or loved it more once I arrived. Perhaps it’s both. I came because I loved this promised land, and now, I love it even more because of its people.

Every night, hearing the loud noise of airplanes flying overhead, I no longer feel irritated by the disruption to my sleep. If I loved the sounds of frogs, crickets, and other night creatures from my hometown, the roar of airplanes now feels just as familiar.

Habits are strange; they sneak up on you, making you fond of something without realizing it! That’s why, on some nights back home, I found it hard to sleep, even losing sleep, because I missed the familiar noise of the airplanes overhead.

Saigon has not only sheltered me but also given me a beautiful destiny.

In life, some things are “late but just in time,” like my husband. If he hadn’t stayed back to help his younger sibling finish university, he would have continued his studies after graduation. In that case, we’d have never met. Maybe we’d still be complete strangers.

We found it easy to connect because we shared the same background. We both grew up poor, carrying the same dream of Saigon. Perhaps that’s why we could easily share our feelings, understand each other, and eventually decide to walk hand in hand through the challenges ahead.

From a transient visitor in the city, I’ve gradually become a resident. Not because I’ve got official papers, but because I now have a happy and peaceful family here.

The city grows more crowded each day, yet it still opens its arms to people from all corners of the world, allowing those “poor kids” like me to come closer to their dream and make it a reality.

This is the Saigon I know!

- Collected -