Hanh
Hanh, one of the many old Vietnamese women who collect garbage for money.
Every day she would go out to search for empty bottles, cans, and cardboard. Anything that could be sold carried a small weight of value. A full sack might reach ten kilos, worth no more than three or four euros.
Hanh, one of the many old Vietnamese women who collect garbage for money.
Every day she would go out to search for empty bottles and cans. Anything that could be sold carried a small weight of value. A full sack might reach ten kilos, worth no more than three or four euros.
Every day she would go out to search for empty bottles and cans. Anything that could be sold carried a small weight of value. A full sack might reach ten kilos, worth no more than three or four euros.
She lived in a single room. A bed stood against one wall; the rest of the space was filled with large sacks of collected empties. A few years earlier her husband had died, and his bed had quietly been replaced by more sacks.
She lived in a single room. A bed stood against one wall; the rest of the space was filled with large sacks of collected empties. A few years earlier her husband had died, and his bed had quietly been replaced by more sacks.
She lived in a single room. A bed stood against one wall; the rest of the space was filled with large sacks of collected empties. A few years earlier her husband had died, and his bed had quietly been replaced by more sacks.
Today she collected a lot
Today she collected a lot
Today she collected a lot
I would see her from time to time, in heat or rain, her eyes fixed on the pavement, scanning for something useful.
I would see her from time to time, in heat or rain, her eyes fixed on the pavement, scanning for something useful.
I would see her from time to time, in heat or rain, her eyes fixed on the pavement, scanning for something useful.
On my photo tours in Hoi An, our meetings followed a familiar ritual. She would approach, extend her hand, and almost aggressively ask for money. I would give her something, and only then would she allow the photographs. Once the money changed hands, she became relaxed, her face softened, and she often laughed out loud.
On my photo tours in Hoi An, our meetings followed a familiar ritual. She would approach, extend her hand, and almost aggressively ask for money. I would give her something, and only then would she allow the photographs. Once the money changed hands, she became relaxed, her face softened, and she often laughed out loud.
On my photo tours in Hoi An, our meetings followed a familiar ritual. She would approach, extend her hand, and almost aggressively ask for money. I would give her something, and only then would she allow the photographs. Once the money changed hands, she became relaxed, her face softened, and she often laughed out loud.
In September 2021, I went to visit her, bringing a large bag of empty bottles. I was told she had died two days earlier, at the age of eighty-nine.
The room had been cleared. Where the bed once stood, there was now a large altar, quietly marking her absence.
In September 2021, I went to visit her, bringing a large bag of empty bottles. I was told she had died two days earlier, at the age of eighty-nine.
The room had been cleared. Where the bed once stood, there was now a large altar, quietly marking her absence.
In September 2021, I went to visit her, bringing a large bag of empty bottles. I was told she had died two days earlier, at the age of eighty-nine.
The room had been cleared. Where the bed once stood, there was now a large altar, quietly marking her absence.
Gone, but not forgotten.
Gone, but not forgotten.
Gone, but not forgotten.