Mother’s Day in Old Hanoi

 Early in May this year, just before Mother’s Day, I flew to Vietnam for the first time. It was a planned escape. I wanted to avoid being ambushed by media images of motherhood - the breakfasts in bed, the bunches of flowers, the adoring children. In Vietnam, mothers are celebrated in August, not May, so my first day in Hanoi would be an ordinary Sunday. No danger of being reminded of my involuntary childlessness. Or so I thought.

 Every weekend, I discovered, the streets in the Old Quarter of Hanoi are closed to cars, and families come out to play. From the front door of my hotel, I could see parents buying their kids ice creams and fairy-floss. Kids and parents kicking soccer balls. Parents and kids on rollerblades, or driving dodgem cars, or spraying each other with bubble-guns. Short of staying inside all day, there was no way of avoiding these joyful scenes.

Don’t get me wrong – I love hanging out with children. That’s why I spent seven years of my life trying to create one. I love seeing the world through their eyes, showing them the world through mine. Two decades ago, after multiple miscarriages and unsuccessful IVF treatment, I had to give up trying to become a mother. Although my life now is full of rich connections, that grief still runs deep. It’s hard to see others enjoying pleasures that are out of my reach.

So there I was, hovering at the hotel door, wondering whether to go back to my room or head out into the gridlock of dodgem cars, all being driven by other people’s children. Directly opposite the hotel there’s a small lake called Hoàn Kiếm. The concierge told me it was about a two-kilometre round walk. I could stride away from the happy families and explore the shores of this tree-lined lagoon.

I’d only been walking for a few minutes when the first group of Vietnamese children approached me. They would have been around ten years old, all dressed in their Sunday best, and accompanied by a couple of young teachers.

‘Excuse me,’ one of the children said, ‘do you mind if we practice speaking English with you?’

‘Sure,’ I smiled at her. ‘I’d love that!’

For the next ten minutes I answered a barrage of questions – what was my name, where did I come from, what was my favourite colour, did I have a dog? The teachers told me that children began learning English early in primary school. Wealthier Vietnamese parents sent their kids to conversation classes on the weekends, and talking to tourists was a great way for them to practice. I showed them a photo of my crazy cavoodle rolling in stinky seaweed, then they all took turns telling me about their crazy pets.

Eventually we said goodbye and I continued walking, sticking to the shade on this humid afternoon. Five minutes later another child approached me, a boy this time, with his mother hovering behind him. He did most of the talking, telling me all about the stone tower in the middle of Lake Hoàn Kiếm. Turtle Tower was named after a legend involving an emperor, a golden turtle and a magical sword. The boy’s mother intervened every now and then, trying to keep him on track, but there was no need. He was a charming and confident storyteller.

And so it went on for the next hour; quiet kids and bold ones, solo and in groups, all wanting to talk to me. One diffident lad told me that Vietnam and Thailand were his favourite football teams, and that the rest of his family had gone off shopping, leaving him alone here beside the lake. When he’d first tried to approach English speakers, he’d felt horribly shy, but now that he’d pushed through his shyness it wasn’t so bad. I knew how he felt.

The next boy was also alone, but far from shy. He told me he was studying French, English, German, piano, guitar and singing. His father worked for a government film office, assessing foreign movies and sometimes banning them. The last one he’d had to ban was called Uncharted, something to do with a scene involving an ‘inaccurate’ map of the South China Sea. I tried not to seem too curious about - or critical of - cultural censorship, but of course I was all ears.

The grandmother of the next girl asked if she could film us on her phone. How could I refuse? Her granddaughter told me all about the poems written by former North Vietnamese President Ho Chi Minh in his prison cell. I told her about how South African President Nelson Mandela read poetry in prison, and then I remembered that Timor Leste’s President Xanana Gusmao had written poems in his jail cell. She’d heard of Mandela but had to look up Timor Leste on her phone. We both wondered how poetic we’d be feeling if we were stuck in jail.  

Another girl told me about a giant spiderweb she’d just seen, and I told her about dangerous Australian spiders. Then she offered me a lollipop that looked like an eyeball. And so my half hour walk around Lake Hoàn Kiếm stretched to two hours.

When I finally found myself back amongst the throng of families outside the hotel, I didn’t go back to my room. Instead, I sat on a bench, watching the lucky parents watching their children. Their pleasures no longer felt out of my reach.   

This essay was first published in The Saturday Paper, September 2023.