Our DESTINATIONS
HoA binh's story
"ALL OUR SONS QUIT SCHOOL"
Shared by Ms Xoan, a local woman embracing parochial thoughts passed down on many generations here. Her sons all quited school, became itinerants and were forced to work all at the age of 15.
Her sons—like the sons of many families here—left school before their futures could fully take shape. At 15, they became itinerants, roaming where work could be found, forced into adulthood by circumstances beyond their control. The eldest is working in Japan, but not in the office. He is stumbling on the listless day in the factory, sealing the fruit boxes until 10p.m in the morning. The second moved to Hanoi at 12 after a fight with his mom. Lost in attachment. And the youngest, still in primary school, is forced to abandon his studying because of his dad passing away.
Miss. Xoan's story lingers with me, a reminder of how deeply ingrained societal norms can be. For her, this way of life seemed inevitable, almost natural—an inheritance from her forebears. But I can't help but question the cost. These young men, still boys in so many ways, leave behind the promise of education, the possibility of more. Do they feel that loss? Or has it been buried under the weight of daily survival?
I wonder if Ms. Xoan ever pauses to imagine a different path for her sons, one where the cycle breaks, where education opens doors instead of being seen as a luxury. Or is the familiarity of this life—this endless churn of work without question—too comforting to challenge?
As I reflect on her story, I’m struck by how easily we can become bound by the expectations we inherit. It makes me think about the power of choice. How often do we stop to consider whether the path we're on is truly ours? And how often do we simply follow, because it's what has always been done? In Ms. Xoan’s world, the future was never meant to look any different from the past. But perhaps in acknowledging that, we can start to imagine something more.
"GETTING MARRIED AT 14 - 15 IS NORMAL FOR GIRLS"
Shared by Teacher Linh, a volunteer teacher traveling 1 hour a day to her workplace. Marriage is more like a trade, obtaining workers in farmlands to the male-side family.
For the girls, their lives shift overnight from daughters to laborers. After getting a period is a nightmare: Girls start hitting puberty also means that they have to prepare for marriage and further, motherhood. Underage marriage has been passed down on countless generations, stammering the girl’s bright lives and replacing them with ultimate misery.
I think about the implications of this reality—how marriage, in its essence, is supposed to be a union of two lives, but here, it’s more a transfer of hands. The girls become workers, not for themselves, but for the benefit of someone else's prosperity. Their dreams, if they ever had time to form them, seem to fade quietly, swallowed by the soil they now till.
Teacher Linh's frustration is palpable. She sees the potential in these girls, the futures that could have been, but every day, she watches them disappear, one by one, into this ancient system. What must it feel like, to know that your worth is measured in how much work you can contribute to another’s land?
It’s a stark reminder of how deeply entrenched certain practices are in some parts of the world. While other girls elsewhere are just beginning to dream of what their lives could be at 14, these girls are facing the end of their own freedom. Their choices are not theirs; their futures are decided by traditions that stretch back generations.
As I reflect on Teacher Linh’s story, I’m reminded of how culture and societal norms can sometimes feel immovable. Change feels slow here, almost impossible at times, and I can see why. Breaking free from tradition means challenging the very fabric of life in these villages. But as Linh continues to teach, I hold onto hope that perhaps, one day, one of these girls will learn to dream beyond the boundaries set for her.
"I WILL QUIT SCHOOL"
Shared by Chai, a 17 - years old boy insisted that even though he loved school, his family couldn't afford for higher education. Working is the only way to escape from temporary financial burden, but thinking about his future, Chai had no idea what to do.
Born in 2007, but Chai has never come to the same class as his fellows. Not only is he 2 years late from school, his dad also prohibited his studying the most. His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of something deeper—an acknowledgment that the future he longed for was slipping away. Chai loves school. He loves learning, loves the promise that education seems to hold. But love doesn’t pay the bills, and in his world, education is a luxury his family can’t afford.
He spoke of the pressure he feels, the weight of his family’s financial burden pressing down on him. “Working is the only way,” he insisted, his eyes a mix of determination and uncertainty. It’s the only escape he can see for the immediate future. But when he thinks beyond that—when he tries to picture what’s next—his face clouds with confusion. “I have no clue what to do,” he admitted, and for the first time, his resolve faltered. That’s not the first time. Chai used to beg his dad to give him a chance to go to school for days, but now he is drowned. “Maybe just go with the flow. That’s how life determined my fate.”
Chai separated gifts for his younger friends. His fellows have mostly traveled to Hanoi seeking jobs. He is about to. Beneath a bright smile is a dark future that he couldn’t decide.
His words echo the struggles faced by so many others like him. They want more, but survival often overshadows ambition. The need to support their families becomes all-consuming, leaving little room for dreams. Chai’s choice, though heartbreaking, feels inevitable in a world where survival takes precedence over growth.
I can’t help but wonder about the long-term consequences of this decision—not just for Chai, but for so many like him. What happens when a generation of young people give up on education not because they want to, but because they have to? The future becomes a fog, a path they can no longer see.
Chai’s situation is a reminder of how deeply interconnected poverty and education are. It’s not just about the present; it’s about breaking cycles, about creating possibilities for a better tomorrow. But for Chai, that tomorrow seems out of reach, and as much as I hope for a different outcome, I understand why he feels there’s no other choice.
"THE ONLY VALUABLE THING IS THE SPEAKER"
Constantly confronting power cuts, however, one in the blue moon, the children in Ngoc My High School, Tan Lac District can listen to their favorite songs, through the special speaker from a donor. Underneath the palm trees, the speaker is always placed in the highest place, protected from any raindrops or the scrutiny of rodents.
The speaker isn’t just a device here; it’s a symbol of escape, a brief break from the relentless reality of daily life. Carefully placed in the highest spot, away from the rain and curious rodents, it’s treated with a reverence that I rarely see for inanimate objects. For these kids, it’s not just about the music—it’s about the moments of freedom, of connection, that the music brings.
I watched as they gathered in a small circle, their faces glowing with excitement, some tapping their feet, others singing along. It struck me how something as simple as a song, something so accessible to others, could hold such immense value here. The speaker had become their window to the world outside these hills, a way to feel part of something larger, even if just for a few minutes.
The kids cherish happiness when listening to the radio, music and news from the speaker. It’s opening the whole wide world for them.
I couldn’t help but think about how much we take for granted—the ease with which we access music, entertainment, information. For these children, even a song was a treasure, something to be savored because they never knew when they’d hear it again.
In this place where resources are scarce, that speaker is more than just a gadget. It’s a source of joy, hope, and connection—a rare gift that transforms an ordinary day into something magical. Watching them, I realized how much value we place on things, and how that value shifts depending on what we have. For them, the only valuable thing truly was the speaker. And maybe, for that moment, they were right.
Social Protection Facility 4
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"THE SPF WELCOMED ALL CHILDREN, REGARDLESS"
Shared by Ms Hoa, one of the adopters from here. It was hard to adopt kids with down syndrome or other life- long illnesses, but with the ultimate love and caring, we managed to raise them together with other normal children.
Ms. Hoa spoke about how hard it was at first—adopting children with complex needs meant more attention, more care, and sometimes more heartache. But in this community, they learned that love, when shared, multiplies. The children, despite their differences, were never treated as separate or “other.” They were raised together, alongside the other children, forming a family built on acceptance and understanding.
It struck me how rare and beautiful this approach is. So often, we hear stories of exclusion, where children with disabilities are sidelined or treated differently. But here at SPF, they are not only included—they are celebrated. They are given the same opportunities, the same care, and most importantly, the same love. Ms. Hoa’s words reminded me that, in the end, it’s not about the challenges these children face—it’s about the strength and resilience that can come from being surrounded by people who believe in you.
Asking about donation and how we could contribute to the association, Ms Hoa just scoffed: “We will limit the donation of each individual to 10 million dong. More than that, we will, sincerely, give you back the money.”
That was surprising, to me, but then when hearing the stories about other facilitating centers exploiting the donor’s money for their own goods, I could comprehend that, virtuously, putting a benchmark for donation is also a way for the nuns here to contribute for the sake of the children. Raising these children isn’t easy, Ms. Hoa admitted, but it’s deeply rewarding. The bond that forms between the caregivers and the children is unbreakable, built on years of nurturing and trust. It’s not about overcoming the children’s conditions, but about helping them thrive within their own unique abilities.
I left the conversation feeling inspired by the power of unconditional love, and how it can transform lives in ways we might never expect. In a world that often divides people by their differences, SPF stands as a testament to what can happen when we choose to embrace those differences, and love fully, regardless.
"FROM 1000 TO 300 BOOKS, WHAT A CHALLENGE"
Shared by Tien, while separating books and magazines for donations. Many books were wise and sophisticated, but not all of them are suitable for children. That's why observing books is so important.
"From 1,000 to 300 books, what a challenge!" Tiến said with a mix of pride and exhaustion, carefully sorting through a towering pile of books and magazines for donation. The task wasn’t as simple as just reducing the number—it was about selecting the right ones. Many of the books were wise, sophisticated, and filled with knowledge, but not all of them were suitable for the children they were meant to reach. And that’s where the challenge really lay.
The books are donated by the students of Hanoi Amsterdam High School for the Gifted, where most of the students, during one school year, have to read 50 books each. That’s why it is perceived to be the reservoir of books and magazines. However, some books are too intricate for the young students, as well as some of them are broken, filled with untidy notes which are visually… unacceptable.
Tiến understood that books, while valuable, can also be overwhelming or even alienating if they don’t speak to the readers’ level or experience. He took his time, observing each book, flipping through the pages, thinking not just about the information inside but about how it would resonate with the kids. As I watched Tiến work, I realized how much thought and care goes into something that might seem mundane to others. To him, this wasn’t just a task—it was an act of responsibility. Each book selected could potentially shape a young mind, open a new world, or ignite a spark of curiosity.
It made me reflect on how we often take books for granted. We live in a world where information is readily accessible, but for these children, the right book could mean everything. It could be their window to the world, their guide through new ideas, or even their companion during lonely times. The fact that Tiến was mindful of this, and took the time to carefully consider what each child would benefit from, showed how much he cared about the impact these books could have.I
n the end, it wasn’t just about reducing the number of books—it was about curating a collection that could truly make a difference.
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"FROM A NEWBORN TO A TEENAGER, ALL MY LIFE IS AT SPF!"
Shared by Linh, a 14 years old living in SPF. Being abandoned by her own mother, she doesn't know who her parents are. Barely knows her relatives are, but she is still fulfilled with happiness by the nuns willingly raise her and prepare for her life as an adult
Linh’s story is one that could have easily been filled with sadness, loss, and longing. But as she spoke about her life, it became clear that while she may not know the love of her biological family, she has found something just as powerful. The nuns at the shelter have become her family, raising her with care, guiding her through childhood, and preparing her for adulthood.
It’s hard to imagine what it must be like to grow up not knowing where you come from, to face the reality that the people who brought you into this world chose not to be a part of your life. Yet, Linh doesn't dwell on these thoughts. Instead, she finds fulfillment in the family that has chosen her—the nuns who have embraced her as their own, providing not only for her needs but for her happiness and future as well.
I find myself reflecting on the idea of family. Linh’s experience challenges the conventional notion that family is defined by blood. In her case, family is defined by love, by care, and by choice. It’s a reminder that the people who stay, who nurture, who guide us through life, are the ones who truly matter. In the SPF, Linh has many sisters and brothers. Every mate is her relative that fills her life with happiness. Being asked about future career, Linh proposed:
“I will be a nun too, returning the SPF 4, raising the impoverished youngsters and give them the best life is an incentive for me to graduate high school and attend college”
As Linh spoke, I couldn’t help but admire her strength. She isn’t bitter about her past, nor does she carry the weight of abandonment. Instead, she radiates gratitude for the life she has been given at the SPF. In her words, I see hope—not just for herself, but for the idea that family can be something we create, that love can grow in the most unexpected places.
Social Protection Facility 2
"THEY ARE NOT CRAZY"
Spoken by Ms Tam, the nurse working at SPF2, where they take care of people with mental illness, many of them got stroke from past failure, but they are not crazy, they are miserable
In a quiet corner of the city, where the walls whisper stories of pain and resilience, Ms. Tâm, a dedicated nurse at SPF2, stands as a beacon of hope. SPF2 is no ordinary facility—it’s a haven for individuals battling mental illness, many of whom are haunted by the ghosts of their past failures.
“They are not crazy,” Ms. Tâm asserts firmly, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and resolve. “They are miserable. Many of them had strokes brought on by the weight of their struggles, by dreams that crumbled or expectations that were too heavy to bear.
” SPF2 cares for people who have been pushed to the margins of society, where misunderstandings about mental health often led to stigma. Yet, beneath the surface of their illnesses lie untold stories of ambition, love, and loss. “They are not broken,” Ms. Tâm continues. “They are human, just like you and me. What they need is understanding, not judgment.”For Ms. Tâm and the staff at SPF2, every patient is a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit. Their mission goes beyond medicine—they aim to rebuild dignity and hope in those who have lost their way.
As mental health awareness grows, Ms. Tâm hopes society will shift its perspective. “We need to stop looking at them as ‘crazy’ and start seeing them as people in pain, people who deserve support, not shame.
” At SPF2, the walls do not just witness suffering—they also bear witness to healing. And at the heart of it all is a simple truth spoken by Ms. Tâm: “They are not crazy. They are survivors.”
"I'm STILL WAITING FOR YOU, SON"
Under the shade of an old tamarind tree in a small Vietnamese village, Ms. Hoa sits quietly, her frail hands clutching a faded photograph. At 86 years old, her voice, though quivering, carries the weight of a pain that refuses to fade. “I’m STILL WAITING FOR YOU, SON!” she cries, her words echoing like a prayer to the heavens.
Decades ago, during the harrowing Pon Pot war in Cambodia, Ms. Hoa’s two sons left their home to serve, full of youthful bravery and hope. They never returned. The war swallowed them whole, leaving behind a mother who has since lived in the liminal space between hope and heartbreak.
Despite the passing years, Ms. Hoa’s belief remains unshaken. “They promised they’d come back,” she whispers, her eyes scanning the horizon as though expecting to see their familiar figures walking toward her. Every creak of the gate, every knock on the door reignites a flicker of hope in her weary heart.
Neighbors in the SPF2 speak of her as a symbol of resilience. “She has never stopped waiting,” says a local elder. “Even when everyone else gave up, she kept their room clean, their beds made, as if they might walk in any day now.”Ms. Hoa’s story is one of countless others from a generation marked by loss—of children lost to wars, families torn apart, and lives permanently scarred. Yet, amidst the sorrow, her unwavering faith serves as a poignant reminder of a mother’s love: infinite, enduring, and undying.
“I don’t know if they’re alive,” Ms. Hoa admits, her voice breaking. “But I do know this—if they’re out there, they’ll know I never stopped waiting for them.”As she sits in the fading light of the day, her silhouette is not just that of an old woman, but of a mother who refuses to let go. And so, she waits—day after day, year after year—a testament to love that transcends time and loss.
"i want to help all of them"
Amid the quiet halls of SPF2, where every corner holds stories of struggle and survival, Hà—a university student volunteering her time—stands out as a symbol of youthful determination. Her face lights up with a smile as she interacts with the patients, many of whom have been cast aside by society due to their mental illnesses.
Amid the quiet halls of SPF2, where every corner holds stories of struggle and survival, Hà—a university student volunteering her time—stands out as a symbol of youthful determination. Her face lights up with a smile as she interacts with the patients, many of whom have been cast aside by society due to their mental illnesses.
“I want to help all of them,” Hà says, her voice unwavering despite the enormity of the task she has set for herself. For Hà, this isn’t just charity work—it’s a deeply personal mission.
“These people aren’t just patients; they are individuals with stories, pain, and a desire to feel human again,” she explains. “Every time I see their eyes light up with a little joy, it reminds me why I’m here.”
Hà’s days at SPF2 are spent organizing activities, from art therapy sessions to simple conversations that bring a sense of connection to the patients. She listens to their stories, holds their hands when they cry, and brings small moments of happiness into their often-isolated lives.
“It’s overwhelming at times,” Hà admits. “But I can’t turn my back. They deserve compassion, not judgment.”
For Hà, her work at SPF2 is more than just giving back—it’s about changing perspectives. “If we could all see them the way they really are, as people who are hurting and not ‘crazy,’ I think we’d live in a kinder world,” she says.
As she prepares for another day of volunteering, Hà’s resolve remains unshaken. “I may not be able to change everything,” she says, “but if I can make even one person feel less alone, it’s worth it.”In Hà’s words and actions, SPF2 finds a glimmer of hope—a reminder that kindness, no matter how small, can make a world of difference.
"The Hope Class in Nation Children's Hospital"
"A sunlight in darkness"
Shared by Linh, 6 years old, dealing with skin cancer. Linh lost her friend, Thắng, 2 weeks ago. Loneliness aligned in her eyes, she knew that the journey of her own will end someday, but she felt like Thắng was there, healed her intensive acute pain, as well, she missed their time together.
Thắng was my sunshine. Even on the toughest days, when my skin cancer made me feel sick and hurt, he always found a way to make me smile. He would come to my hospital room, bringing drawings and funny stories that made the pain feel a little less sharp. Losing him is like losing a part of me. Sometimes, I sit quietly, and I can almost feel him next to me, healing my intense pain with his laughter and kindness.
Now, when I look in the mirror, I see loneliness in my eyes. It’s hard to explain, but it feels like a shadow that follows me everywhere. I know my journey might end someday, and the thought of that makes my heart ache. I wish I could turn back time and play with Thắng one more time. I miss our adventures in the playground and the way we shared secrets.
I keep a special box filled with the things Thắng gave me—his drawings, little toys, and even a note he wrote that says, "You are brave, Linh!" Whenever I feel scared or alone, I open that box and remember our happy times. It helps me feel like he’s still with me, cheering me on as I fight this sickness.
I may be small, but I know I have to be strong. Thắng would want me to keep fighting. Even though my days can be hard, I remember his bright smile and the way he made everything feel okay. I want to be brave for him and make sure his memory lives on in my heart.
"I used to have long hair"
Shared by Minh, a 14-year-old who has spent six months fighting against cancer. Minh once cherished her school life and lessons, with a particular love for literature and the character Tam—a beautiful queen with long hair, just like hers. Now, undergoing radiation therapy, she has lost her hair and, in many ways, her childhood.
Before my diagnosis, I was just like any other teenager. I loved going to school, studying literature, and dreaming about my future. My favorite character was Tam, a beautiful queen with long, flowing hair. I always thought I was like her, with my own long hair that danced in the wind. Those days were filled with laughter, friends, and endless possibilities.
Everything changed when I received the news: I had cancer. It felt like the ground had been pulled from under me. I was scared and confused, not knowing what this meant for my future. The thought of treatments, hospitals, and uncertainty loomed over me. I felt my childhood slipping away, and the world became a darker place.
Now, I’m going through radiation therapy. It’s tough—really tough. I remember the first time I looked in the mirror after starting treatment. I barely recognized myself without my long hair. It was heartbreaking. But I’ve learned to remind myself that this is just part of my journey. I’m still me, even without my hair.
One of the most surprising things about this experience has been the support I’ve received. My family is my rock, especially my mom, who constantly reminds me that I’m brave and capable. I’ve also met other kids like me at the hospital. We’ve formed a bond that helps us navigate this difficult time together. It’s comforting to share our stories and support each other, knowing we’re not alone.
Despite everything, I still hold onto hope. I dream of the day I can return to school, finish my studies, and grow my hair back. I want to tell my story through writing, just like the characters I admire in my books. My experiences have taught me that even in the darkest times, there’s always a glimmer of light.
Thank you for reading my story. I hope it resonates with you in some way. Remember, even when life throws challenges our way, we can find strength, support, and hope. I may have lost my hair, but I haven’t lost my spirit. Here’s to new beginnings and brighter days ahead!
"A Journey of Gratitude and Meaning"
Ms. Hien lost her son to both lung cancer and COVID-19. In his memory, she volunteers at the hospital, expressing her gratitude to the doctors and nurses who cared for him. Over the two years of her son’s battle with cancer, Hien came to understand a profound truth: each day, we welcome newborns while also saying goodbye to countless departed souls.
Though the human lifespan may be short, Hien believes it should be meaningful. Even the briefest moments can hold immense value and significance, reminding us to cherish every heartbeat and connection we make.
Four years ago, my world turned upside down when my son was diagnosed with cancer. The news was devastating, and I felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under me. As we navigated through treatments, endless hospital visits, and the uncertainties of illness, my son showed remarkable courage. He fought with every ounce of strength he had, bringing light to even the darkest days.
However, two years later, I had to say goodbye to him. Losing a child is a pain that words cannot describe. The grief was overwhelming, but amidst the sorrow, I found a spark of hope.
In memory of my son, I decided to volunteer at the hospital where he received treatment. I wanted to give back to the doctors and nurses who cared for him with such compassion and dedication. They were not just medical staff; they became our family during that challenging time. Their kindness helped us navigate through the darkest moments of our lives.
Every day at the hospital, I witness the beauty of life—newborns welcomed into the world, alongside the heartbreaking farewells of those we lose. It’s a constant reminder that life is fragile and precious.
Through my experiences, I have learned that while our time on this earth may be short, it is crucial that we make it meaningful. Even in the briefest moments, we can find joy, love, and purpose. I often reflect on my son’s laughter, his dreams, and the warmth he brought into my life. Those memories inspire me to cherish every heartbeat and every connection.
To anyone who may be going through a similar journey, I want to say that you are not alone. It’s okay to grieve, to feel lost, and to question the purpose of it all. But remember, even in our pain, we can find meaning. We can turn our grief into gratitude and allow it to guide us toward helping others.
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