I wrote this over a year ago while still in Vietnam, having lived there for a couple months. I was feeling a little disillusioned in the travel and was eager to contribute meaningfully to the life around me. I didn’t realize at the time that it was going to take more years of searching, training, and developing to build something that will hopefully take me back to Asia for the work I care most about. I still have these doubts about documenting and reporting- how does my voice fit into the world? These feelings will remain with me as I develop my career, so it’s good that I’ve recognized them now.

People come here to photograph what they want to see (which, is that everywhere?) rather than what there is to see. They may choose a narrative that doesn’t fit or follow the true narrative. Not that there is only one, but that it doesn’t anywhere match reality. They may feature the structures of a place with images void of people, or in contrast highlight only individuals that fit a stereotype of a place. How can photography communicate truth, when the alternative is too easy a trap?

Vietnam is not a static place, and indeed, many who photograph it will agree with this statement. Yet why do most photos of Vietnam embody an idealistic/romantic narrative of the peasant hard at work? Yes manual labor is something very critical and very visible in Vietnam as it is in most of southeast Asia. Many industries still seem to be done without machines and work is performed right off the roads, on the sidewalks, right next to you. There are small shops of seamstresses, men crafting chairs, fishmongers, fruit vendors, construction, rice and peanut farmers, fish sauce makers. It is a fascinating study on labor. But their narratives are missing. What is the state of sustainable agriculture in Vietnam? What are farmers’ and workers’ rights here? In this complex, hodge podge, and seemingly unconnected network, who does and control what? What’s the full picture?

Since coming to Vietnam I have been paralyzed with my photography. I have been rather paralyzed for several years. I’m not sure what did this to me, but I think it’s related to maturing and engaging more in scholarly work – which, as overly critical, can paralyze individual thinking. Hoi An is probably one of the most visited and photographed places in Asia. Bloggers rave about despite the tourism, Hoi An is “so romantic,” “magical,” “like getting lost in a dream.” Despite my desire to love Hoi An, I have discovered my true nature and realized that I’m far too realistic and critical to fall into the spell.

Hoi An has been and is a town under traveller siege. The question vendors always first ask you is, “How long do you stay in Hoi An?” It’s more than just a courtesy. It’s to see if they can or should over charge you. If we tell a vendor we live here, the price is usually 10,000VND (~50cents) cheaper. May not sound like a lot outside Vietnam, but you buy a banh mi for 20,000VND. Women with conical hats and carrying fruit over their shoulders hawk to have their photo taken. They know they can profit on selling their images. They ask you to participate. This is not their fault, rather it is the circumstances.

*A crowd gathers to photograph the Japanese bridge.*

Where does photography come in? Living in Hoi An challenges all attempts to find an authentic experience. Watching hoards of tourists and bloggers snap videos and selfies below lit lanterns, try and sneak snaps of unassuming “locals”, it makes it all feel like a joke. What’s the story they’re trying to tell? What’s the experience they’re trying to find?

So much of my photography is based on feelings. In high school, when I photographed the most, it was the feeling of watching a scene unfold on stage – watching young stage actors transform and transition. It was standing under the basketball hoop anticipating and waiting for the guys to do a layup. It was waiting for the sunrise. And I was alone with all those feelings – no other photographers, just me behind my box. I feel introverted in public but basically always having been 5’10” I draw attention. Being behind that box and letting events wash over me and around me is what I like most about photography. That feeling of being a sole documentary witness.

Because I couldn’t find the feelings in Hoi An, and in general feeling uninspired in one of the most “inspiring” places, I asked for help. I signed up for a photo tour to get me to some of the “authentic” locations. Taken to a fishing village, I was immediately energized. Around 6am, fishermen return back from the surrounding bays while their wives and other women offload their catch, barter and sell to market for restaurants and vendors. There’s a great energy, and like most life in Vietnam, it’s visible, apparent, in your face. We spent the day meeting locals and having the opportunity to photograph them in their own spaces. And I really enjoyed it. I enjoyed going to the shipyard, watching these men tow in a huge boat, swimming in the water, setting the boat on a trolley all by hand!! Women sifting fish sauce, processing it for years.

But I also had qualms. Our guides pay the fishing village and those who live there to accept tours every day. Well, now I’m not sure how comfortable I am photographing individual people without much time to meet them, (can’t even talk to them because I don’t know Vietnamese!), I don’t know their context, and I don’t even really know why I’m photographing them.

Perhaps the tour is a way to get us started, a boost to help us find our own authentic places (yes, find them only in the 1-2 weeks you visit anywhere).

It’s a tricky thing with social media encouraging the same types of photos of places, again and again. This is also a problem in Mississippi – really it’s around the world. And as someone unsure how to continue their artistic practice, it’s discouraging and confusing to know what to shoot and to what end? How does it benefit the subject? How am I telling their story without really knowing it? What are these places to me if I am just passing through? Having those feelings, that requires time – years – to settle into a place, to let a place open up to you. For you to open up to that place. That’s what moving slowly means. You not standing up as an expert for a place that you actually don’t even know. Social media and particularly Instagram encourages us to act as false experts. (here I am writing about it as some kind of expert on anti-expertism!!)

*Beautiful cockles. I also witnessed two ladies stomp an eel to death.*

*We had been invited into an elderly couple’s home yet I learned nothing about them. Look at that light, so “inspiring”.*

*Making fish sauce, this woman kept her back to us the entire time, knowing she was being photographed.*

But now I’m wondering if there’s a way for me to couple my photography with research and real social inquiry. How and what that actually looks like, I’m not totally sure. After all, I’m not a full time photojournalist. I want to be a researcher. But I think images can complement this work. Images should challenge the common narrative. They should reveal contrast, dynamism, and change. They should not mystify.

*Vietnam is full of opportunities to witness manual labor.*

*A lot of Hoi An acutally looks like this, but is it “magic”?*

Earlier this year I only spent a week in Myanmar, by flying in to Mandalay and going to Bagan. The travel timeline was short but I wanted to be sure I could go to Myanmar and at least see it. I didn’t know anything about Myanmar except the Rohingya genocide, but I knew that I wouldn’t be going to Rakhine state, that I wouldn’t be learning much more about current politics. This was a short-term tourist gig. I wasn’t expecting to be drawn to the music.

A bus journey was necessary to get from Mandalay to Bagan - a 6 hour bus journey covering only about 120 miles! But it was on the bus when I heard this melodic, hauntingly beautiful pop music. This song still haunts me because I never learned the title of the song, and I can’t pinpoint it through youtube. So I will have to wait for the day when I’m listening through all this music and stumble upon it. Or, when I go back to Myanmar and ask everyone, desperately, for the title of this song.

Since the 1930s Burmese artists were recording music that resembled the Western style from British rule. But over time the pop music scene that had thrived was banned by the nationalist government in the 1960s and 1970s that sought to eliminate all foreign threats to Burmese “traditions.” Burmese artists were sometimes recruited to write propaganda for the totalitarian Burma Socialist Program Party, which ruled the country from 1962 until the 8888 uprising in 1988. Artists had to submit their songs for government review and censorship, and were unable to write commentary about poverty, human rights, and democracy.

But with new technology, artists subverted the main channels, producing their own tapes that came to be known as “stereo” (because the government-sponsored music was recorded in mono). Sai Htee Saing became a household name along with his band “The Wild Ones,” paving the way for ethnic Shan artists.

This song by Khine Htoo even sounds a bit like “Sweet Home Alabama.” A song by Min Min Latt is another example of stereo. I especially appreciate the ebb and flow of in-tune, out of tune; and the similarity it bears to Korean rock.

Admittedly a lot of the music I’ve listened to sounds like it would be great for karaoke night (pink flashing subtitles can be found at the bottom of the videos) but I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing. There are sweet melodies, songs that to my ear, sound like they’re about romance and longing, and they tend to hover around the same tempo - slow and easy. For example, songs by May Sweet and Khine Htoo. But so much of Myanmar’s popular music scene sounds the same - often using the same few notes - so I understand why critics say there should be more innovation and diversity.

“After decades of military rule, Burmese music continues to struggle with forces that seem to conspire to prevent its development, both artistically and as a form of social expression.”

It’s difficult to see how Myanmar’s music can really grow and develop, like much of the country, if the government does not want its people to flourish. At least until 2004, words including “‘mother’, ‘dark’, ‘truth’, ‘blood’ and ‘rose’ are prohibited” from songs. And, “officials have banned any songs about courageous women” (Zaw, p51). But I can’t really know about all of this unless I gain the necessary language skills.

Currently, as around the world, hip-hop, rap, and punk are popular among young people and are pathways to dream about a brighter future. But this is still only among mainstream, likely more educated and wealthy Myanmarese communities; which, probably face the same strict censorship as in the years before. “‘Young people are now seeking an outlet for their frustrations. They need to be persuaded to channel their potential for betterment. We as singers have a responsibility,’ says Zaw Win Htut.” (Zaw, p60) More about Myanmar’s singers in exile here.

Myanmar’s got my attention mainly because of its diverse, complicated history, and continuing struggles. I’m not exactly sure why it’s more special to me than any other place, but there’s something about being there and being really confused about the social and political dynamics, and now coming home trying to learn more about it, and still being baffled by the disconnect between widespread, longstanding atrocities side by side an idealized version of traveling there (don’t have to look too far on youtube or instagram to find this narrative). Something about that absolute ignorance, and my own ignorance, of the language, music, history, and culture really humbles and inspires me.

Sources used and additional reading:

Aung Zaw. 2004. Ch. 6, “Burma: Music Under Seige.” In Shoot the Singer!: Music Censorship Today.

Levin, Dan. 2014. “Searching for Burmese Jade, and Finding Misery.” New York Times.

Mahtani, Shibani. 2014. “Meet the New Rich In… Myanmar.” The Wall Street Journal.

Rieffel, Lex. 2018. “Myanmar Economy Grows Despite Refugee Crisis.” Brookings Institute.

Zin, Min. 2002. “Burmese Pop Music: Identity in Transition.” The Irrawaddy.

On Images in Vietnam

Myanmar Music

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