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Los Angeles Times
08-06-2025
- Politics
- Los Angeles Times
How ‘Cali' became a slur among Vietnam's growing army of nationalists
HANOI, Vietnam — Last fall, Vietnam opened a sprawling new military museum here, and among thousands of artifacts in the four-story building and a courtyard filled with tanks and aircrafts, one exhibit quickly became the star attraction: the flag of South Vietnam. The government regards the yellow banner with three red stripes as a sign of resistance to the communist regime, violating laws about inciting dissent. With few exceptions, it is not displayed. Reactions to the rare sighting soon went viral. Young visitors at the Vietnam Military History Museum posted photos of themselves next to the flag with deep frowns, thumbs down or middle fingers raised. As the photos drew unwanted attention, the flag was unpinned from a wall and folded within a display case. Social media content featuring rude hand gestures was scrubbed from the internet. But the phenomenon persisted. Several weeks ago, schoolchildren who were on tour made it a point to check out the flag. Every few minutes, a new group crowded around the banner — also known online as the 'Cali' flag — holding up middle fingers or crossing their hands to form an 'X.' In Vietnam, Cali — sometimes written as 'kali' — has long been a reference to the Vietnamese diaspora in California, where many Vietnamese-Americans still fly the flag of the south to represent the fight against communism and the nation they lost with the war. People who live in Vietnam, however, are more likely to view it as a symbol of American imperialism, and as nationalistic sentiment here has swelled in recent years, evoking the Golden State has become a shorthand of sorts to criticize those opponents. 'They use that as a label against anyone who disagrees with state policy,' says Nguyen Khac Giang, a research fellow at Singapore's Yusof Ishak Institute, known for its political and socioeconomic research on Southeast Asia. There have been other signs of growing nationalism in the past year, often in response to perceptions of American influence. In addition to animosity toward the 'Cali' flag, a U.S.-backed university in Ho Chi Minh City was attacked over suspicions of foreign interference. And an aspiring Vietnamese pop star who'd been a contestant on 'American Idol' was savaged on social media last summer after footage of her singing at the U.S. memorial service of an anti-communist activist surfaced. Vietnamese nationalism, Giang said, is bolstered at every level by the country's one-party rule. The government controls education and public media; independent journalists and bloggers who have criticized the government have been imprisoned. In addition, the party's ability to influence social media narratives has improved over the last several years, particularly among the nation's youth. Since 2017, Vietnamese authorities have employed thousands of cyber troops to police content online, forming a military unit under the defense ministry known as Force 47. In 2018, the country passed a cybersecurity law that enabled it to demand social media platforms take down any content that it deems anti-state. The resulting one-sided discourse means that views that don't align with official propaganda often draw harassment and ostracism. At times, the government has also used that power to try and rein in nationalism when it grows too extreme — though banning posts about the South Vietnam flag did little to quell enthusiasm at the museum. Some visitors who were making hand signs said they were expressing their disapproval of a regime that, they'd been taught, oppressed Vietnamese people. One teenager unfurled and held up the national flag — red with a yellow star — for a photo. 'It's hard to say if I agree or disagree with the rude gestures,' said Dang Thi Bich Hanh, a 25-year-old coffee shop manager who was among the visitors. 'Those young people's gestures were not quite right, but I think they reflect their feelings when looking at the flag and thinking about that part of history and what previous generations had to endure.' Before she left, she took a selfie with her middle finger raised to the folded cloth. ::: Five years ago, when a student from a rural region of the Mekong Delta earned a full scholarship to an international university in Ho Chi Minh City, it seemed like a dream come true. But last August, when the school was caught up in the growing wave of nationalism, he began to worry that his association with Fulbright University Vietnam could affect his safety and his future. 'I was scared,' said the recent graduate, who requested anonymity for fear of retribution. He had just started a new job in education and avoided mentioning his alma mater to coworkers and wearing shirts marked with the school name. 'You had all kinds of narratives. Especially with the disinformation spreading at the time, it had some negative impacts on my mental health.' The attacks included allegations that Fulbright, which opened in 2016 with partial funding from the U.S. government, was cultivating Western liberal and democratic values that could undermine the Vietnamese government. Nationalists criticized any possible hint of anti-communist leanings at the school, such as not prominently displaying the Vietnamese flag at commencement. Even last year's graduation slogan, 'Fearless,' sparked suspicions that students could be plotting a political movement. 'You are seeing new heights of nationalism for sure, and it's hard to measure,' said Vu Minh Hoang, a diplomatic historian and professor at the university. Hoang said the online allegations — none of which were true — led to threats of violence against the university, and there was talk that some parents withdrew their children because of them. Several students said their affiliation drew hate speech from strangers and distrustful questions from family members and employers. Academics said the Vietnamese government likely acted quickly to shut down the backlash against Fulbright in order to prevent the anti-American sentiment from harming its ties with the U.S., its largest trade partner. But some of the original accusations were propagated by state media and bots associated with the Ministry of Defense, hinting at a schism within the party. Hoang said that while nationalism is often utilized as a uniting force in Vietnam and beyond, it also has the potential to create instability if it grows beyond the government's estimation or control. 'For a long time, it has been the official policy to make peace with the overseas Vietnamese community and the United States,' Hoang said. 'So this wave of online ultranationalism is seen by the Vietnamese state as unhelpful, inaccurate and, to some extent, going against official directions.' ::: Last summer, footage of Myra Tran singing at the Westminster funeral of Ly Tong, an anti-communist activist, surfaced online. She'd achieved a degree of fame by winning a singing reality show in Vietnam and appearing on 'American Idol' in 2019, but she received harsh condemnation from online nationalists and state media when the video from several years ago went viral. Facebook and TikTok users labeled Tran, now 25, as traitorous, anti-Vietnam — and Cali. The controversy prompted a more broadly-based movement to ferret out other Vietnamese celebrities suspected of conspiring against the country. Internet sleuths scoured the web for anyone who, like Tran, had appeared alongside the flag of South Vietnam and attacked them. An entertainment writer in Ho Chi Minh City, who did not want to be identified for fear of being targeted, says that as Vietnamese youth have become more nationalistic online, musicians and other artists have felt pressure to actively demonstrate their patriotism or risk the wrath of cancel culture. He added that the scrutiny of symbols like the South Vietnam flag has given those with connections to the U.S. greater reason to worry about being attacked online or losing job opportunities. That could discourage Vietnamese who live overseas — a demographic that the government has long sought to attract back to the country — from pursuing business or careers in Vietnam. 'There used to be a time when artists were very chill and careless, even though they know there has been this rivalry and this history,' he said. 'I think everybody is getting more sensitive now. Everyone is nervous and trying to be more careful.' Tran was bullied online and cut from a music television program for her 'transgression.' She issued a public apology in which she expressed gratitude to be Vietnamese, denied any intention of harming national security and promised to learn from her mistakes. Two months later, Tran was allowed to perform again. She returned to the stage at a concert in Ho Chi Minh City, where she cried and thanked fans for forgiving her. But not everyone was willing to excuse her. From the crowd, several viewers jeered and yelled at Tran to 'go home.' Videos of the concert sparked fierce debate on Facebook among Tran's defenders and her critics. 'The patriotic youth are so chaotic now,' one Vietnamese user complained after denouncing the hate that Tran was receiving online. Another shot back: 'Then go back to Cali.'
The Guardian
10-04-2025
- The Guardian
Prague's Vietnamese food revolution
An older Asian woman is hunched over a gas burner serving noodles, a young couple in the distance shuffle piously into a tiny Buddhist temple, and a perpetual gaggle of families emerge from a Vietnamese supermarket armed with giant sacks of rice. It is a scene as authentically Vietnamese as I could expect to find. But I am not in Vietnam or even Asia. I am in Prague. Sapa, or Little Hanoi as it is affectionately known, is the hub of the Czech Republic capital's Vietnamese community, and is a far cry from the spires, dumplings and beer-sploshed splendour of the historical centre. Tucked inconspicuously on its outskirts, this city within a city is where the nation's Vietnamese people come to stock up on spices, eat plates of bun cha or sell inordinate amounts of large, fluffy geese. The fact that there is a Vietnamese community in Prague may come as a surprise to anyone who's visited. Unless you popped into a corner shop – potraviny – for some late-night crisps, or accidentally stumbled into one of their cheap clothing boutiques, it's unlikely your paths will have crossed. But after Ukrainians and Slovaks, the Vietnamese are the biggest minority group in the country. 'It all happened during communism,' says Khanh Ta, who – along with his brother Giang – owns four Vietnamese restaurants in Prague. 'An agreement between the Vietnamese and Czech governments meant that talented students from Vietnam were given the opportunity to study here and then later work. My parents came in the 1980s from Phu Tho, a small town 40 miles (70km) from Hanoi, and then got jobs working in the textile industry.' It wasn't just the Vietnamese who were invited through such a scheme; students from Mongolia, Laos and Cuba also came. However, after the Velvet Revolution in November 1989, which spelled the end of communism in Czechoslovakia, it was only really the Vietnamese who stayed. 'Very simply, there was a better life here,' Ta says. You'd assume that with such a long-rooted presence, Vietnamese food would have been a Czech staple for decades. But when I arrived in Prague 15 years ago, there were no notable Vietnamese restaurants to speak of, and the Vietnamese people who did own restaurants were serving Chinese food. 'The Vietnamese simply didn't think of selling their food,' says Trinh Thi Duan, owner of the hugely popular Pho U Letné restaurant in Prague 7. 'The Chinese were here before us and Vietnamese food was unknown to Czech people. It just seemed far easier to sell Chinese food because the Czechs were used to it.' This all changed just over a decade ago, when Prague's first Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Vietnam, opened in Vinohrady, with other restaurants such as Pho U Letné tentatively following suit. So what made this sudden change happen? Trinh hands me a plate of her acclaimed bun bo nam bo (€8), and says: 'As more Vietnamese people kept arriving in the Czech Republic, Czechs started travelling in turn to Vietnam. They tried our food there and told us how good it was. So the Vietnamese people decided to try to sell their own food in Prague, and it just caught on.' This is an understatement. Despite a tepid first few months in which the restaurants struggled to attract sceptical locals, there was a sudden surge around 2015. Just through word of mouth alone, Prague residents – aided by a rise in foreigners seeking non-stodgy alternatives – began flocking to the city's Vietnamese establishments in droves, prompting Trinh to move to larger premises and the Ta brothers to open other restaurants. 'Vietnamese cuisine is a simple cuisine and although there are so many flavours, it's never overpowering,' Khanh Ta says, introducing me to his latest outlet, Taro, a high-end concept restaurant in the city centre. 'Here we take food that we like from our childhood but we make it a little bit different. Not too different, though, because the feeling from the food should always be the same.' By way of demonstration, he hands me a trio of Vietnamese amuse-bouches – crab basket, cauliflower croquette and a quay puff pastry with steak tartare, all with clearly authentic Vietnamese roots but given a stylised gourmet twist. The banh cuon that follows is similarly constructed: rice pancakes made with a specially imported machine from Hanoi, but served with succulent cubes of pork knee, a meaty treat more common on a Czech menu. The entire meal – an impressive seven-course tasting menu (€105)– is delectable, and when he serves the green rice ice-cream – kem – out of a polystyrene box like the one used by bike tenders in his grandparents' home town, you can't help feeling that you have, in fact, experienced a taste of his childhood. The most authentic place of all to experience Vietnamese cuisine and culture in Prague, however, is undoubtedly Sapa. Located in Libuš (take tram 17 from the centre, or bus 197 from Smíchovské nádraží), this is the mecca of all things Vietnamese. Once through the pagoda-style entrance, you're thrown into a chaotic labyrinth of alleyways, wholesalers and market stalls selling all kinds of knick-knacks, clothes and fluffy toys. It is not designed for tourists – as the 'No photography' signs and the brusque manner of some vendors attest – but if you dive deep into Sapa's frenzied heart, you will be richly rewarded. The golf-themed Hippo Café, for example, is a good spot for coffee – their robusta beans imported from Vietnam and roasted on site by the chatty, golf-obsessed owner – and the banh mi (baguettes, around €4) served from the street stalls behind the Lotus restaurant are delicious. When all's said and done, though, Vietnamese food is almost always about the pho – and while there are lots of great options dotted around, Pho Tung is the undisputed king. The bowls are always piping hot and packed to the brim with beef and noodles, and the generous pile of free quay - sticks of tasty deep-fried dough – make for great dippers (€7). True, you might not get too much of a smile from the waiter but by the time you've finished such a satisfying meal, your smile will probably be big enough for the both of you.
