A Home: What Is It

The title is the question I had at the time I noticed her. My ongoing project is a blend between documentary photography and journaling. Because of the woman's unclear words and story, I had to write down the whole conversation.

The title is the question I had at the time I noticed her. She is a 'crazy homeless.' woman. The 'crazy homeless' is put in a quotation mark because I've had some conversations with her, which reveal her painful past through her unchronological and unclear stories.

I don't think she considers herself a homeless person because she always sits up and combs her hair every time we meet as a host welcoming her guest. I once asked her if she wanted to move somewhere better. She said no, because this was her workplace—the "Water Delta," or alternatively the "Nation of Peace"—which was, in reality, just the overhang of an abandoned building in an old residential neighborhood. Nearby fruit vendors say they have seen her here for a very long time. They call her Bà Hai. But she says her name is Nguyễn Thị Nga and her father is the sun and her mother is the moon. At first, she told me she was around 16, or perhaps 20, and studying at a teacher training college. Later, in subsequent conversations, she mentioned working for a state agency, though not as a civil servant. It wasn't until around August that she began using terms like "cô" or "bà"—forms of address an older woman uses with someone much younger—when speaking to me.

She always has self-conversation with invisible people in a little loud way. I guess that's why people think she's crazy. But beyond age-related memory decline, I suspect she also suffers from PTSD, given how often she recounts events from the war - recalling specific moments from the past, bomb craters, aircraft, and the dead.

Tragically, she also lost two sons - Minh Duc (the older one) and Binh (the younger one) - due to postpartum hemorrhage. Yet, in her mind, it seems as though Minh Duc and Binh are still right there beside her. Whenever I send her food or clothes, she shows them off to Minh Duc and Binh. She speaks of Minh Duc as being about eight years old, sometimes nearly my age, and describes how he wanders around keeping watch while she sleeps. She said that "if no one keeps watch, they’ll snatch me away," so, as a rule, sometimes the parents who stand guard while she sleeps. It is unclear who "they" were. However, she once told me that someone with malicious intent pried her teeth apart while she was asleep. It was excruciatingly painful, yet she dared not do anything and simply lay motionless.

She's a nice and generous person. Although in her situation, she always gave me food gifts every time we met. But I do not know if what she tells me is truly the 'truth. ' I know that the world she sees is vastly different from the reality (I perceive). Yet, at times, I sense a hint of fabrication—though not in a negative way. For instance, she always has snacks or food on hand; when I ask how she acquires them, she claims she goes to pray at the nearby village communal house, even though there is only a small shrine in the immediate vicinity.

My ongoing project is a blend between documentary photography and journaling by text. Because of the woman's unclear words and story, I had to write down the whole conversation as a way to remember what had happened and save information. Besides the question about the concept of Home, another question is making an effort to answer who she is, at least at some point.

Until now, although the information I had about the woman is limited, the time I spend with her has helped bond our relationship a little, and more importantly, I have had a chance to reflect on myself. Writing was not merely about preserving information; through this 'conversation log,' I witnessed my own transformation through the time I interacted with her. At first, she was simply a subject of curiosity to me. I harbored prejudices regarding her circumstances and unconsciously placed myself 'above' her. Yet, over time—through interaction, documentation, and reflection—we forged small, meaningful connections: she loved the orange jacket I gave her, she was unfailingly polite, and she even shared snacks with me despite her own scarcity. Today—September 22, 2026—when I said goodbye, seeing her small, huddled figure sitting behind the makeshift rain barrier, I felt an infinite loneliness covering the woman. It wasn't a feeling of material deprivation, but rather profound loneliness. A feeling of deep empathy because I'm just like her, a poor loneliness person in the other's eyes. Above all, I felt a surge of guilt for having deliberately woken her up to give her a pack of milk—such a selfish act. Because, as she said, "I wouldn't know if the rain was heavy or light; I sleep the whole time."

I choose portrait as a main practice throughout the project so as the image of her - a proof of reality - displayed clearly and realistically; the text occupies almost the entire photo, making the woman appear enigmatic and elusive. I see her, I know her information, but I don't actually know who she is. I don't know whether I am working on a documentary or just writing down a fictional character.

Sometimes, I had a thought that the whole process is not about the woman, but actually it's just a story of me. The boundary between the first-person perspective and the third-person perspective becomes blurred.