Modern Colonization

Since arriving in northern Vietnam, I’ve sensed a quiet resistance, not directed at me personally, but at what I represent: a tourist. From colonization up until now, many locals seem to view visitors as extractors rather than appreciators. As a long-term traveler, I’ve come to see tourism for what it often becomes: a softer kind of colonization. One that wraps itself in curiosity and comfort while still asking the land to serve it. People come here for the landscapes, the low prices, the idea of freedom without the cost. Some even try to move here and build businesses, believing in the allure of cheap prices and the potential to cater to foreigners who can pay more. This often creates competition that is hard for locals to match, considering the disparity in resources. It’s unfortunate to see locals feeling compelled to westernize to earn a better living but simultaneously holding resentment for what they see as forced adaptation.

That discomfort is palpable, from interactions that feel purely transactional, in eyes that no longer hold welcome but weariness. One day, I approached a woman selling tofu and coconut shreds. I greeted her in Vietnamese and asked for the price, with my very poor intonations. She didn’t understand. I pointed to the food, then to myself, miming the act of eating. She didn’t look at me. She waved me away and shouted. I smiled, not in defiance but in the quiet hope that she might feel I meant no harm. That I came not to impose, but to learn. But I was reminded that personal intentions, no matter how well-meaning, does not automatically translate into positivity as we still hold perspectives.  Engaging in environments where historical, social, and cultural dynamics influence interactions.

A few days later, I reached Sapa. There, I passed a group of children. They flipped me off. I smiled again, because I had nothing else to give but gentleness, hoping that these little gestures could eventually allow them to see I do not want to be their enemy. I wasn’t offended. I could feel the tension wasn’t new. It had been passed down, a learned mistrust. A justified one. We are unfortunately not seen as part of the same world, we are seen as the world that takes from them and leave before facing the consequences we have caused.

At a corner shop, I stood in line for the cash. When my turn came, a woman behind me pushed forward to go ahead. I gently bowed, signaling that I had been waiting. She rolled her eyes and stepped back. I could see she was tired of how oblivious tourists can be. I could feel from her a desire for us to disappear.

I cannot pretend I stand apart from this. The prices I accept without question help justify the rising cost of daily life. The desire I carry for something “real” turns lived culture into something to be packaged, performed, and sold.

This awareness doesn’t diminish my reverence for Vietnam. It deepens it. I carry a quiet gratitude for every moment I am allowed to witness, every moment locals show compassion and care towards me. And in return, I carry a responsibility, one to move with humility, to support without distortion, to leave as lightly as I can. Because respect is not in what I say, but in what I choose not to demand.

Presence by Necessity

I learned presence through survival.

Through free climbing, cold air, hunger, exhaustion, health issues.

I forced myself into the moment because the moment was the only place I could stay alive.

It wasn’t flow.

It was necessity.

If my environment doesn’t demand presence, for myself I don’t always choose it.

Not because I don’t want to,

but because I’ve wired myself to believe that choosing stillness, choosing softness, is selfish.

That ease is indulgence.

That rest must be earned.

That awareness is only valid if it comes at the edge of collapse.

And I want to change that.

Not by rejecting pressure,

but by letting softness feel like enough.

We are allowed to be here without “earning” it.

The Time of a Sentence

We meet people.

At times for the length of a sentence. Others cross our path for longer.

Although the metric of time is not the factor of impact.

A singular smile can initiate a foundation for a significant construction in our lives.

In Hong Kong, I shared a beautiful moment in my hostel.

In a dormitory of four, I had to my left a profound snorer.

The sound kept all other three of us awake.

We laughed, and decided to chat instead.

The day before, I couldn’t tell you their names.

But here we were, in the late hours of night,

laughing, talking about our lives,

and building a familiar space for ourselves.

I felt like I was with a new pair of siblings.

One night, the guy on the top bunk of our bed and I started chatting.

Topics ranged from families to narratives we are trying to change for ourselves.

Mine is redefining my relationship with the sense of touch.

One I’ve built to associate with an undertone of pain.

I have a misconception that people couldn’t truly see me and hold me with love.

But rather that their actions would be dictated by lust.

This has built a fear and a barrier on my end,

causing me to be avoidant of physical affection,

even in very minimal ways, such as holding hands.

I am meditating, and feeling this avoidant coping mechanism.

Allowing my body to truly see that it does not serve me.

I am reclaiming my right to set my own boundaries with my body,

without guilt of external deception.

I am ready to rediscover simple physical touch,

instead of living in the illusion that removing it from my life protects me.

The belief that I do not need a hug

has only kept me distant from something deeply human.

Knowing that this is something I am changing

feels heartwarming.

It feels incredible.

There is so much power in holding space

for change,

for growth,

for softness to return.