For the blind, visually impaired, or those who prefer to listen rather than read – listen to this chapter on Soundcloud. 

Just miles away from Tay Ninh sits Vietnam’s largest municipality – Ho Chi Minh City. It was renamed after the fall of South Vietnam to honour the country’s beloved leader, but the locals still insist on calling the city by its former title of Saigon. The city is divided into a dozen districts, each vastly different from the next. Tan Binh hosts the international airport. Phu Nuan is the new, hip neighborhood for a younger crowd. District Two houses the majority of the long-term expats who live in large gated mansions. But the city is best known for District One: the backpacker area and tourist hotspot. Luxury stores line the streets with brightly glowing signs reading Dior, Channel and Cartier. Local vendors line the sidewalks trying to sell t-shirts and paper fans to shoppers with heavy wallets. Located proudly on Le Duan Street, one of the city’s most traveled roads, is a high-end coffee shop. Stepping inside the café feels like taking a direct flight to North America. This is not a local gathering place. Fancy coffees and teas are advertised in bold white English lettering on the menus that hang above the barista’s heads. The beverages here are nearly 10 times the price of the average drink you’d buy at a local shop, but despite the exaggerated prices, a line of people hover around the sitting area waiting to snatch the next available table.

Bui Van Toan sits in the middle of the bustling shop with his back towards the congregation awaiting their drinks. Bui is the perfect western image of a businessman. His pale blue button-down shirt is carefully tucked into his beige pants with a belt safely securing the ensemble together. His foaming latte rests in front of him in a white paper cup with steam softly billowing and disappearing into the room. Bui is the Country Coordinator in Vietnam for the Vietnam Assistance for the Handicapped (VNAH). It’s an American organization based in Virginia that provides aid for people with disabilities throughout Vietnam. Bui says that VNAH works closely with the Vietnamese government, often acting as a liaison between the disabled community and government officials. He and his team work in rural and urban areas in Vietnam to ensure that the needs of the disabled population are being met.

He knows all the ins and outs of the Law for Persons with Disabilities. He talks about the complex piece of legislation with ease as he’s likely read and dissected it hundreds and hundreds of times. While the accessible English version of the document is a slim eight pages, the actual law, with a countless number of amendments, is far larger says Bui. “Before the law we didn’t have any legal framework,” he says. He explains that the law works much like any other; the federal government of Vietnam created the law and told each province to decide how it would be implemented in the area. “In one way it has improved awareness about the rights [of people with disabilities].” Bui says that before the law many people with disabilities in the country had no idea that they had rights. He adds that culturally there’s a large stigma towards disabilities.

He says that many people believe that the birth of a disabled child is the mark of a demon. “You have a disability because your family did something wrong in the past or in a previous life,” Bui adds, explaining the cultural history behind the negative attitudes.

Discrimination has been made very easy in Vietnam because each person is given a disability certificate, Bui explains. The health certificate has a person’s name, what type of disability they have and the level of severity: moderate, severe or extremely severe. Bui says that these certificates also have a number of benefits since they provide people with disabilities access to free health care and even a monthly allowance depending on the severity of the condition. But everyone must show their card to potential employers and schools, and they are often turned away because of it.

“The society,” says Bui, “we need to also change.”

Bui explains that the law was carefully modeled after the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. According to the convention its purpose is to “ensure the full and equal enjoyment of all human rights and fundamental freedoms by all persons with disabilities, and to promote respect for their inherent dignity.” The webpage for Vietnam’s Ministry of Labour and Invalids and Social Affairs (MOLISA) says that the country officially signed the convention in 2007 – just three years before the creation of its own law. In December 2014, Vietnam ratified the convention, meaning that the country consented to be legally bound to the contents of the document. It was one of the last countries in East Asia to ratify it. Bui says the convention, and now Vietnam’s own law, takes a liberal approach by focusing on issues like equality, discrimination and inclusion, instead of protecting and helping the community by enforcing better health care, education programs, and security benefits.

The United Nations was formed in the mid-1940’s following the end of the Second World War. In fact, according to anthropologist and development expert, Arturo Escobar, one of the initial purposes of the UN was to negotiate “the fate of the non-industrialized world,” and was created mainly by developed countries. Escobar, and many other experts in the field, have criticized the UN and its conventions for applying the ideals of developed countries to those still developing without first examining the social norms and structures of the societies they’re working to improve.

Bui agrees that the social constructs in the law, like equality and access, are important for the disabled community in Vietnam. But the discrimination that the disabled community in the country faces prevents the possibility of equality. When a portion of Vietnamese society believes that people with disabilities aren’t capable of being “regular” human beings or that they are evil, Bui says that the cultural beliefs need to be changed before there is any hope of having equal access to opportunities.

Not only is the stigmatization of the disabled preventing progress, Bui says that a lack of resources also limits development in the country. He adds that while the UN Convention may work in countries with a booming economy, it doesn’t mean that it will have the same impact in Vietnam.

“For richer cities, like [Saigon], that may have a surplus in the budget, they may be able to allocate some money for disability,” says Bui. “But for poorer provinces, they always run a deficit in their budget and they usually don’t have money for disability services. So actually, people don’t really get anything except the social protection – that’s national.” Some poorer provinces don’t have access to clean drinking water or hospitals, making inclusion low on the list of their priorities, especially when these rural and isolated regions receive little support from the national Communist party. The government tells each province what laws and policies need to be implemented, yet provides no additional monetary support. With the majority of the country’s money coming from the business centres like Saigon and Hanoi, very little is then distributed to the poor provinces to help them develop. Bui says that while the social approach is a step forward, without money and services being allocated in each province to help improve the quality of life for the disabled, then the social protection outlined in the convention is practically ineffective. For a society that continues to foster certain stigmas, and has limited access to resources in rural areas, the law is too broad to be successful.

Change anywhere takes time, even in developed countries like Canada. In the majority of the Northern world, people with disabilities have access to countless services – from health care, to education, to skills and capacity building. Though there’s still work to be done, the life prospects are much better now than they were even a decade ago. But that hasn’t happened over night. According to the Smithsonian Institute’s web exhibition exploring the history of disabled people in America, EveryBody, the first law that introduced accessible parking spots in America was in 1955. And it wasn’t until the late 1960’s that curb cuts or ramps were mandated on public sidewalks. It was around the same time that the first international symbol for accessibility, the blue and white wheel chair image we have come to know, was introduced. The National Benefit Authority, a Canadian organization devoted to helping the country’s disabled community, says that Canada took its lead from the U.S. And it wasn’t until the 1970’s that Canada introduced the first law acknowledging the rights of people with disabilities – the Canadian Human Rights Act. Even in the developed world, the rights of people with disabilities are a relatively new issue within society. So then to what standard should the communist government be held accountable?

Bui’s eyes slowly scan the busy café as if he is carefully searching for a lost item. He hunches lower into his metal chair, bringing his face closer to the stained wooden tabletop. His voice is quiet, barely audible above the chatter.

Critiquing the government is always a risk. The Communist Party of Vietnam holds strict rule over the country. No other political parties are permitted. Protesting the word of the government is often referred to as “undermining national unity” and is an offence that could land a person in jail. Organizations like VNAH need to be careful when operating in Vietnam despite the large support they receive internationally. “In Vietnam it’s not easy to set-up a society, or organization, or a disabled people association,” says Bui. Advocacy can be impossible when the message you’re trying to share isn’t the same message as the government’s. Groups need to be “easily monitored by the government rather than organizations that they can’t control,” he explains. In fact, any non-profit working without the government’s consent is quickly shutdown. Although there are more than 60 provinces in the country, Bui says that only 20 have organizations working to support people with disabilities. That’s why Bui and VNAH strive to work closely with the government as they are the only people who have the power to truly make change. Bui adds that while things are slowly improving, there’s still a lot to be done, especially within the system itself.

People with severe or very severe disabilities in Vietnam are eligible for an allowance that comes directly from the federal government. According to Bui, determining how much each person gets and who qualifies is a difficult task. “In order to define if the person is having a severe disability or very severe they came up with a questionnaire,” he says. The severity of the disability is determined by how dependent or independent the individual is. Bui explains that if a person fully relies on others to take care of them then the disability is considered extremely severe. Those who can lead completely independent lives are deemed moderately disabled.  He says that the questionnaire is flawed and that relying on questions on a page, rather than a medical evaluation from a trained doctor, often leads to inaccurate assessments. He says that this is especially problematic because most of the people who examine the disabled have insufficient medical training and know little about their conditions and needs. Within each community the government forms a committee made up of community leaders who determine who is disabled and how much funding they’ll receive. In small villages, Bui says that a bias within the community exists because “the person may be their relative – they like that person. If they don’t like that person then they keep them out.” If a disabled person is deemed to be self-sufficient by the committee than they don’t receive any financial compensation from the government. “That’s the unfairness. That’s the challenge.”

“They recognize it,” says Bui, acknowledging that the government is working to address the cracks in the flawed system. He states that efforts have been made to develop a better system, and he’s hopeful that the new standards will be implemented within the next year so that more people with disabilities will receive the support that they need. Bui takes a long sip of his coffee, slowly draining the paper cup. He places the empty vessel back on the table before glancing at his wristwatch, checking the time. Change is slow, especially when you’re working in a communist-controlled environment. But Bui works fast. He’s only in Saigon for the day and he has a long-to do list that has yet to be entirely checked off. He heads back to VNAH’s headquarters in Hanoi tomorrow morning where we’ll meet again.

Outside the clear glass windows of the busy café sits a long line of motorbikes with a car or two thrown into the mix. Traffic in Saigon is often compared to an unwound and tangled ball of yarn. Strands of wool are splayed in all directions with large knots at the centre. There’s no start or finish but instead a relentless loop. Millions of motorbikes dance around one another, weaving in and out of traffic, only yielding when absolutely necessary. Some bikes double as taxis that drive tourists across the city. Others hold entire families, with small children gripping on to their parent’s backs like monkeys. Some drivers carry their pets on their laps, their furry faces resting on the handlebars. Navigating the narrow and bustling streets of the ancient city is a precise art – it requires considerable skill and know-how. There are no rules of the road.

The tangle of motorbikes is a pedestrian’s nightmare. Outside of tourist hotspots there are no crosswalks, and any sidewalks that can be found operate as an additional lane for drivers in a particular rush. The simple act of walking across the street is like a nimble gymnast tiptoeing across a balance beam. Those who are brave enough throw their bodies in front of the never-ending stream of traffic, arms outreached so as to block the potential blow of a moving vehicle. This daunting task is a central part of everyday life yet it’s nearly impossible for any person living with a physical disability.

Loan Luu Thi Anh sits in a classroom in the DRD headquarters in Saigon. 

Loan is an authority on the struggles that the disabled community in the area face. She has lived with a physical impairment since she was a child. “My disability is not so severe,” she says, glancing down. Loan says that polio is to blame for her crooked legs. The disease swept her home in the Mekong Delta located just South of Saigon. Without access to immediate health care, Loan says doctors were unable to return her legs to their former state, limiting her mobility for the rest of her life. Despite her disability, Loan refuses to use a cane or a wheel chair, choosing instead to work with her feet, taking each step slowly and carefully forward.

“Accessibility is a right,” says Loan – a right that she’s been fighting to improve for more than 10 years.

DRD was formed in 2005 when Loan and a group of young people with disabilities decided to band together to improve the lives of people in their community. Loan says that her work began long before DRD, volunteering as a peer councilor where she helped people like her navigate the sometimes unforgiving Vietnamese society.

“They didn’t know how they’d live with disabilities, they wanted to kill themselves,” says Loan, recalling the depression that’s common amongst the disabled community in the country.

Now DRD, with the help of international organizations like USAID and Irish Aid, has developed a number of programs and projects to improve the quality of life for people with disabilities. Loan’s small face is framed by her shiny black hair which has been shaped into a bob that grazes her chin. A few stray strands of hair are neatly tucked into a clip pinned to the side of her head. Her smile is particularly bright as she discusses the work that her and her team are doing in the city.

One of the organization’s biggest projects has been tackling the issue of accessibility. Saigon spans over 2,000 sq. km, making it difficult to travel to most places on foot. If you need to travel across the city, you have no choice but to order a motorbike taxi or take the public bus. Neither option is accessible for the physically disabled. Although the law provides the disabled community access to public transportation without paying the usual fare, Loan says that there wasn’t a single bus in the city equipped with a lift or a ramp before DRD’s campaign, so the commitment was essentially meaningless. “We organized different workshops, sent many letters to the Department of Transportation and spoke about inaccessible public buses,” says Loan. “Luckily they listened to us and changed” as Saigon now has two fully accessible public buses with lifts. In a city of 10 million people, two buses isn’t much, but for Loan and DRD it’s a huge victory.

Loan abruptly swings her legs from the front of the chair, and with the momentum from her arms, launches herself towards the floor. The chair lets out a sharp squeal as it slides backwards. She begins to walk towards the front door. One leg takes a long stride while the other slowly drags across the floor behind its partner. She pushes open the long glass door that is nearly double her size. She stands in the doorway glancing carefully at either end of the narrow paved street. DRD is nestled in a cozy alleyway. Tall thin houses surround it, all of which are a mixture of Asian and French architecture that’s common across the city.

It’s uncharacteristically quiet for Saigon. Loan makes her way to the edge of the curb and stops in front of a motorbike that is in pristine condition. The bright white paint is untarnished, a rarity for the smog filled streets of Saigon. It shines like the sun reflecting off of a fresh layer of snow.

An accessible Moto Bike Taxi is parked in front of the DRD headquarters in Saigon. 

Unlike most motorbikes, this one has three wheels instead of two, like a motorized tricycle. But this is no toy. Fastened to the back of the bike is what looks like a baby’s highchair, complete with a back and two arms for support. Instead of a feeding tray, a number of thick black straps are secured to the side of the chair. The words “Moto Bike Taxi,” plaster the white paint. Loan explains that this is another project that DRD has established in the city. She says that these special taxis will pick up any person with a physical disability anywhere across Saigon and deliver them safely to their desired destination. Adding that every driver has been properly trained to meet the needs of their passengers and assist them in any way necessary.

The only problem is that this bike is parked in front of DRD instead of looping through the relentless traffic with a passenger secured on its back. Loan says that the bikes were part of a five-year project funded by USAID, but now that the project has come to an end, so has the funding. With so many different issues to tackle, she says it’s difficult to keep each project running. There’s now just one bike that darts in and out of the traffic maze of Saigon. The others remain parked, waiting to rust. “Accessibility is a right,” says Loan as she glances at the stationary Moto Taxi. “But education is also a right.” Education is the current issue that the DRD is trying to tackle. Loan explains that because of the stigma that still exists, the Vietnamese widely believe that taking time to educate the disabled is a waste of resources. “In urban areas we have many special schools for persons with disabilities,” says Loan. But outside of Saigon’s city walls, learning opportunities are scarce. “It is difficult for the teachers,” she adds, explaining that they are not properly trained to educate people with different forms of disabilities and school buildings are rarely accessible for those with physical disabilities.

The law outlines the need to expand education for the disabled population. It frames an education system in which disabled students are accepted within the standard schooling system as well as schools that cater exclusively to people with disabilities. Across Saigon you can find a number of both inclusive and exclusive schools, allowing disabled students within the urban area to easily access education. With a bigger budget, and more money devoted to improving life for the disabled community, there are more opportunities. But Loan says that many rural provinces only have one accessible school for the entire area while others have none at all. That’s why DRD has implemented a new project devoted to providing scholarships to disabled students living in rural communities and low-income households. Loan says that this project is designed to help people with disabilities expand their skillsets in order to find meaningful work and become more independent. Lien Thi Le is a proud recipient of one of these scholarships.

Lien Thi Le sits in her wheelchair in the DRD headquarters in Saigon. She’s a student at a local university. 

“I really love it. I’m at my dream university,” says Lien. Lien gently glides through the glass doors of DRD’s headquarters. Her face is emphasized by her big brown owl-like eyes, such a deep brown that the pupils can barely be seen. They glitter and shine brightly with recognition as she passes her friends sitting at the front desk. Her deep black hair is cut into a blunt bob that rests upon her shoulders. Her tiny frame appears even smaller as it’s nestled between two large tires. Lien was born with a physical disability and has never been able to walk. She sits in a bulky wheelchair.

Lien is from the Northern province of Tuyen Quanh. She explains that her home is very far away from her new life in Saigon – a two-hour plane ride separates the city and her rural town. With DRD’s help, Lien was able to make the journey south and enroll in Vietnam’s University of Social Sciences and Humanities. Lien says she has always dreamed of studying English and hopes to become a translator, helping foreigners navigate the difficult Vietnamese language. Without the scholarship project, Lien says that her family couldn’t afford tuition or the travel expenses and her dream would have never become a reality.

It was never her grades that held Lien back; she says that despite working hard in school, many people just couldn’t see past her wheelchair. “People will look at me like I’m an alien,” she says, slowly letting her dark eyes wander towards the big tires on either side of her. “People think that people like me aren’t supposed to be in public or something.” Despite the negative attitudes, Lien works hard every day, edging ever closer to achieving her goals. She refuses to give-up but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Even though she has been in Saigon for a number of years, Lien says she isn’t always comfortable leaving her home.

“I’m really scared of going outside because it is difficult for me,” she says.

Her bulky wheelchair is the main culprit of her fear she explains. Not only are the streets treacherous, but many of the old French buildings don’t have elevators or even doors wide enough for her chair to fit through. Lien says that her mother moved with her to Saigon but she is working towards complete independence. While Lien acknowledges the obstacles that surround her, she isn’t going to lose hope. “I am at my dream university so I think I can overcome anything.”

Lien Thi Le sits in the DRD headquarters in Saigon. 

Sitting still in her steel chair, Lien has a quiet confidence. She has had to fight her entire life to be accepted in her homeland and the years of work and dedication have only made her stronger. Lien carefully lifts her hands from their place in her lap and places them firmly around the wheels of her chair. Always a dedicated student, she moves swiftly, making her way back through the door, anxious to return to her books.