TINA HA GIANG
Note:
As I publish this series reflecting on my journey into journalism — beginning with Radio Free Asia (RFA) and later Nguoi Viet Daily News—we face a sobering reality. The Trump administration has announced its intent to shut down both RFA and Voice of America (VOA), two institutions built on the idea that press freedom is a human right, who have a vital role in presenting differing viewpoints that would be censored or severely restricted by state-controlled media in the more press-restrictive Southeast Asian countries and China.
I share this story now not only as a personal memoir, but as a witness to what these institutions made possible — for me, and for countless others whose voices would otherwise go unheard.
The calling that changed everything
“Are you crazy?”
That’s the first thing my friend said when he found out I’d left corporate America to write for a Vietnamese newspaper.
It was 2009. I have just accepted a full-time job with Nguoi Viet Daily News — and the phone rang almost immediately. An old friend from the East Coast, someone I respected, called me in disbelief.
“You have an MBA, you have experience in business management and IT. Why throw it all away to work in the Vietnamese media? You’ve spent your whole career in American companies — how are you going to survive in our community?”
I laughed awkwardly, caught off guard by his tone. “Because I love writing,” I told him. “I’ve always loved it. This is my first chance to really try.”
“But Vietnamese journalism isn’t respected,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“I didn’t,” I said honestly. “But why not?”
“Who knows? Maybe because we don’t have many professionals. Or because people think ‘làm báo nói láo ăn tiền’ — journalists lie for a living. Or maybe because they’re poor. Either way, why would you choose this path?”
I felt my chest tighten, but I kept my voice steady.
“It’s not about choosing poverty or prestige. It’s about answering something I’ve carried for a long time.”
“You’re being too idealistic,” he warned, a sigh audible over the phone. “If you really want to be a journalist, get proper training, apply to American outlets. Working with the Vietnamese community? Too messy. Too political. You won’t be able to handle it.” His concern was genuine, but it felt rooted in a world I was trying to step away from.
“It’s not just about writing,” I tried to explain, reaching for words to convey the deeper connection I felt. “There’s something else — something about Vietnam, about the language that still echoes in my mind, about memories that feel unfinished, stories that need to be told. Something I need to make peace with.”
He didn’t understand. Not completely. But the warmth of his concern still mattered.
The whisper of the forest
The title of this series — The call of the deep forest — comes from a novel by Lan Khai, but also from something I began to feel long before I became a journalist. A pull, a whisper, a hunger that grew stronger the more I tried to ignore it.
I had “succeeded” in the traditional sense: stable income, respected job titles, a place in the American mainstream. I wore the right outfits and spoke the right English. But inside, I often felt like I was translating myself, never quite fully arriving, always a little bit on the outside looking in.
Something fundamental was missing – a sense of belonging. Psychologist Abraham Maslow placed it high on his hierarchy of needs, after safety and before purpose. For me, that sense of belonging had always hovered somewhere between countries, between identities, between the comfort of English and the deep resonance of Vietnamese. And somehow, I felt, journalism – especially Vietnamese-language journalism – might finally bring me closer to it.
A new kind of risk
Accepting a job at Nguoi Viet meant earning only slightly more than a third of what I made in tech, a significant financial step down. But the deeper risk wasn’t monetary, it was emotional. I was stepping out of the familiar and into a world where the rules were different, the tensions sharper, and the weight of history palpable.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was also stepping into a war of narratives — one that still subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, divides our community, even in exile.
Still, Nguoi Viet Daily News wasn’t my first step into journalism. That had come the year before, during a chance lunch in 2008 that introduced me to a man named Mặc Lâm and to the world of Radio Free Asia.
A lunch that changed my life
“Tina, are you free for lunch?”
“There’s a guest from out of town I want you to meet.”
That call came from journalist Kiều Mỹ Duyên. It felt like more than coincidence; it felt like a nudge from fate. I had taken off early from work that afternoon, a rare moment of celebration after our team released a new software version. I readily agreed.
The guest was Mặc Lâm, a radio editor from RFA. Over rice, sauteed morning glory, and steamed fish, we talked about the urgent events of Vietnam: protests met with violence, students punished for speaking their minds, police intrusions on religious spaces, and farmers desperately fighting for their land. Each story resonated with a deep ache within me.
At some point, he turned to me, his gaze direct. “Do you write?”
I said I did. I write personal essays and blog posts, mostly for myself, in stolen moments, as a way to process the world around me.
Then I mentioned something I’d just written, a piece born out of raw emotion: “Why am I beaten for loving my country?” It was about a young Vietnamese student whose face was brutally bruised after protesting China’s actions. The image had haunted me.
He nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then he said, “You have a voice for radio. RFA is looking for a correspondent working from California. Do you want to try?”
I froze, a wave of self-doubt washing over me. “I’ve never done radio,” I stammered. “And I’m not a professional. I just write what I feel.”
But his question, and the unexpected possibility it offered, lingered long after lunch ended.
A voice, a file, a first step
That night, a sense of restless curiosity drove me to download a free audio editor called Audacity. Just to experiment, I recorded myself reading a few of my pieces, my voice feeling strange and unfamiliar in my own ears. I sent the files to Mặc Lâm at his request, a hesitant first step into the unknown.
By morning, his reply was waiting.
“You’re a natural,” he wrote, his enthusiasm palpable. “I already sent your recordings to my boss.”
Within days, I was on a plane to Washington, D.C., a whirlwind of disbelief and burgeoning hope.
In the RFA headquarters, I met Nguyễn Minh Diễm, the head of the Vietnamese service. His kind smile put me somewhat at ease. Then he asked me one crucial question, his eyes holding a serious intensity:
“Do you oppose the Communist government?”
I paused, the weight of the question settling upon me. Then, speaking from a place of deep conviction, I said: “If telling the truth — truth that people need but aren’t allowed to know — means opposing, then… yes.”
He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that eased the tension in the room. “Then I guess I have to hire you.”
That was how I became a journalist. Not through formal training or internships, but through an unexpected calling I couldn’t ignore — and a fundamental belief that the truth, however inconvenient, deserves to be spoken. Especially then.
Coming next in Part 2:
The mission of “surrogate journalism,” the underground bloggers who risked everything, and what it really means to give someone back their voice.
From the same author: https://www.toiyeutiengnuoctoi.com/category/tac-gia/a-to-h/ha-giang/
