Articles by Xaigon My

I am sitting before my uncle. His eyes rove over documents typed on an archaic machine with a wild menagerie of Vietnamese punctuation-- squiggles, dots, and tiny circles-scrawled in by hand with black ink. The thin onionskin paper of the documents crinkles audibly with the rise and fall of his breath. We are in a single-story, door-less box that serves as the local police station in Vietnam's Central Highlands, tucked into lushly green coffee plantations of the foothills that surround for miles.