Last month, I told my boss that I was “returning home” to Vietnam for field research. But I knew it was less “returning home” than a visit. As an immigrant committed to a life in the West, I have become a visitor in the country of my birth. 

It’d been four years since my last trip to Hanoi. I rarely think of the city. Growing up, my top priority was escape. I yearned for a wealthier and freer country, where people were allowed to switch political parties, where there were more options. My goal was to neither live nor die in Vietnam. I was a stranger in my homeland even before I left. A painful childhood, bad experiences with local men and a thirst for the larger world had driven me away. 

Hanoi felt both familiar and strange. It was exciting, like I was going to meet an old friend. It was as vibrant, noisy, messy and polluted as it had always been, but there were changes: new roads, a new metro, a new bridge near my parents’ house, more chic cafés and plenty of new, appealing shops. I got a stylish haircut that would have cost £70–£80 in London for £5. And it was nice having dinner at home with my father and meeting a few friends whom I sometimes chatted with online but had not seen in person in years. It felt different to be physically together. 

For my research on signs of the Korean Wave (the popularisation of South Korean pop culture) in Hanoi’s urban spaces, I sometimes just roamed around the city all day. One day, I zigzagged from Ngã Tư Sở, where my parents live, to the central Hoàn Kiếm District. It rained from time to time and wasn’t too hot. Walking in Hanoi is not that relaxing. There’s not much space for pedestrians, and I was scared of all the fast-moving traffic that felt as though it could crash into me at any moment. But walking seemed like the best option, because motorbikes or taxis would have zipped through the streets too quickly for my purposes. This way, I could have a short break in a café or stop to browse a store. I visited some Korean restaurants, including one I used to frequent many years ago. I was pleased to find it still in business; unlike many others, it had weathered the challenges of Covid-19. It felt almost like old times, sitting at a low table with my legs crossed. 

One day, I passed a street hosting the collective building, a “khu tập thể”, where I lived during my childhood and adolescence. Visiting after nearly fifteen years felt surreal. The building was still there, as ugly and messy as ever. The tiny store selling doormats near the entry remained, as did the huge house across the street owned by a wealthy family I’d never met. The city had gone through so many changes, but time seemed to stand still in this place. It was an emotional experience. I’d spent an important part of my life there, in a cramped flat in that building which offered me no privacy and stifled me. I never loved it, but it has remained intact, bearing witness to my past. I was both curious and scared, visualising how those small flats would look if I entered. I passed the entryway but did not set foot on the stairs. I feared that if I climbed them, I would become trapped. I did not want to face my past as a sad and lonely kid.

I kept asking myself: do I still belong, or have I become an outsider in this city? There is no denying that I’m Vietnamese, but I’m not sure if I’m still a Hanoian. I probably know more about Hanoi than a western expat who has lived in Hanoi for the past five years, but less than most long-term inhabitants. I thought I had learned the roads by heart—at least those familiar roads I had travelled countless times before on my way to school or to work—but the city’s constant changes and my fading memory occasionally left me confused.

Leaving Hanoi after less than two weeks, I didn’t feel particularly sad. But a sense of regret for spending so little time there remains with me. I could have stayed longer. There is still so much to see, so many things that I have missed. I’d not even tried the new metro. 

I told myself that I’d never loved this city. But time may have helped heal old wounds, and during this last visit to Hanoi, I found it more endearing than I had before. 

• Tags: Free to read, Notebook, Thi Gammon, Vietnam