University of Toronto Daniels Faculty of Architecture, Landscape, and Design
Research by Kenny Vo
Supervised by Nicholas Hoban 2024/2025
acknowledgement.
I recognize with gratitude that this work takes place on the traditional territories of the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnaabe, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee, and the Wendat peoples. Their relationship with this land predates colonial borders and systems, and their presence and contributions continue today, despite ongoing injustices and systemic erasure.
As a visitor on this stolen land, this acknowledgment reflects the displacement and colonization that enabled my presence here. It also honours the histories of survival, resistance, and adaptation that continue to shape these territories.
These stories intersect with my work, reminding me that cultural memory and resilience are not merely abstractions but deeply lived experiences.
Moreover, solidarity with Indigenous communities needs concrete action. I encourage engagement with initiatives like Toronto Indigenous Harm Reduction, which supports community health and care, and Indigenous Fashion Arts, which celebrates cultural expression and innovation. Artists like Kent Monkman challenge dominant narratives, offering critical perspectives on identity, history, and land that demand attention and reflection.
Awareness is a starting point—a pretext to move beyond words toward accountability, allyship, and tangible contributions to justice and decolonization.
context: a collective condition, a personal lens. in conversation with. tracing histories. why do we remember? thesis statement and research objectives. conclusion? the reimagined dream. what is next? photos shared. guiding questions. contents.
the two things I remember most about my grandfather:
1. his love for photography.
2. his strange vietnamese stringed instruments.
both proudly adorned every inch of the wall in his home in hamilton, ontario.
fig. 1 Self portrait in the living room. Family archive of Kenny Vo, 2024.
Last summer, after my exams, I visited my parents’ home, two hours away from Toronto. Amid familiar smells of jasmine and lemongrass, I noticed a quiet change— the photo of my grandfather was, at last, properly framed on our family altar. Finally, he joined my other three grandparents in this little corner of our dining room.
Each Lunar New Year, every school year’s eve, and before every plane ride began with my parents guiding me to kneel before that altar. I recall the faint smell of burning sandalwood mingling with tropical fruits, and the steady presence of my grandmother’s image, who was once by herself, watching over us from her place of honour.
But it was only recently that I realized I had never questioned why we did this—why every Vietnamese household I’d visited seemed to share these rituals. It was simply tradition, and I followed it because it seemed to matter so deeply to my parents.
It wasn’t until I revisited my grandfather’s countless photo albums—his carefully documented legacy—that I felt the weight of my ignorance. I didn’t know the stories behind the images. I didn’t understand the threads that connected the faces in those photographs to the lives we now lived. For the first time, I asked my family questions I had never thought to ask before.
My aunts began sharing histories that fundamentally reframed my understanding of my childhood. They spoke of survival in the aftermath of war, of lives uprooted by displacement, of homes rebuilt in the shadow of colonialism. Through these conversations, I came to realize that the markings of these homes—photographs, heirlooms, makeshift altars—were the very means through which I had come to know my identity. Without words, these spaces had told me who I was, long before I had the awareness to ask.
This thesis is a tracing of that narrative. It is an inquiry into how memory is etched into the domestic spaces of the Vietnamese diaspora in Southern Ontario. It is an effort to archive the intangible—the gestures, rituals, and stories that persist across generations. And it is a reimagining of what these spaces signify, how they evolve, and what they reveal about the tension between holding on and letting go. In these homes, I see the manifestation of a community’s history, shaped by displacement and resilience, loss, and creation. This document is my attempt to honour that complexity.
And for the first time, I kept asking.
Yet, this story is not mine alone. It is a collective retelling, shaped by the voices and experiences of others in the Vietnamese diaspora. It intersects the multiplicities of diasporic experience to find the shared threads that connect individual lives to a broader cultural memory.
fig. 2 Remembering family (Personal project). Kenny Vo, 2024.
1.1 a collective condition, a personal lens
one time i crossed the china sea, full of fear, in a small boat, two typhoons, high waves, fierce winds, death was so close.
one time I flew over the pacific ocean, full of expectation, for a new life, also full of uncertainty, for the days in a new country.
Poem by Nhung Thuy Hoang
fig. 3 Population distribution of Vietnamese-Canadians in Canada by percentage of total pop. by census. Statistics Canada, 2021.
In order to contextualize what I will refer to as the ‘collective condition’ of the Vietnamese diaspora, we first briefly touch on the past.
Vietnam’s history is defined by resilience, marked by centuries of colonial struggle, war, and displacement. Each upheaval— whether under Chinese, French, or Japanese domination—has left indelible imprints on the cultural identity of its people.
Among these, the Vietnam War and its aftermath stand as the most profound. The fall of Saigon in 1975 catalyzed a mass exodus, displacing millions who sought refuge from political persecution, economic collapse, and the collective trauma of a fractured nation (Corfield, 2008).
This exodus carried not only the memories of a homeland steeped in deep cultural practices but also the profound weight of exile—of severed ties, forsaken landscapes, and unspoken losses. The journey of the Vietnamese diaspora, often perilous and uncertain, reflects a duality of hope and grief:
a longing for grounding intertwined with the ache of leaving everything familiar behind.
The Vietnamese diaspora in Canada, particularly concentrated in Southern Ontario, reflects the lasting impact of the “Boat People” exodus in the late 1970s,
during which Canada became one of the first countries to respond with large-scale resettlement initiatives.
Today, Southern Ontario remains a key hub for Vietnamese-Canadian communities, home to robust cultural, religious, and social networks that serve as both repositories of heritage and sites of adaptation to new realities. As one of the largest concentrations of Vietnamese Canadians, the region encapsulates the tensions between tradition and transformation inherent in diasporic identities (Gagnon, 2015; Walton-Roberts, 1998).
This thesis focuses on Southern Ontario for both practical and personal reasons, offering a familiar setting to examine how these layered identities are expressed spatially within the built environment. By grounding this study in spaces I am connected to, it provides a closer exploration of how diasporic communities shape and redefine their cultural landscapes.
Again, this research begins from a deeply personal place, rooted in my experience as the child of two immigrants seeking to make sense of my family’s history. It is an attempt to understand the broader narrative of displacement through the lens of the familiar.
It began with the recognition of how little I understood about the journey that brought my parents here—the sacrifices they made, the struggles they faced, and the fragments of Vietnam they carried with them into an unfamiliar land. These fragments shaped the spaces I grew up in, spaces that felt both comforting and strange, making me feel set apart from my peers in ways I could not always explain.
This thesis takes shape from those quiet moments, not as isolated reflections but as a way to explore how memory, resilience, and cultural identity are expressed in the domestic spaces of the Vietnamese diaspora. Beginning with the personal is not an act of self-indulgence but a method of grounding this study in the particular and the lived, recognizing that diasporic experiences are layered and fragmented, resisting easy generalization.
This perspective focuses on the small and specific—the rituals, objects, and arrangements that sustain cultural memory. These elements of the everyday, I argue, are more than gestures; they are acts of
preservation that quietly hold onto identity in the face of erasure. They reflect broader forces of history—colonialism, war, and migration—while remaining rooted in the intimacy of daily life.
By foregrounding these gestures, this research does not diminish the weight of larger histories but instead brings them closer, showing how they are felt and lived in the details of home-making. It reveals how displacement is not just a condition of geography but a state expressed and contested in the spaces we inhabit and the acts we repeat.
Through these domestic spaces, this study bridges the individual and the collective, offering a textured understanding of how the Vietnamese diaspora navigates identity in a new land. It highlights how memory is not only preserved in grand narratives but also in the quiet, ordinary practices of everyday life, which become the architecture of belonging and resilience.
my grandpa’s computer corner. right next to the altar.
he would look at his own photos and also youtube videos of vietnam, vietnamese cooking, vietnamese music, et cetera.
fig. 4 Computer corner. Family archive of Kenny Vo, 2013.
1.2 guiding questions.
This thesis investigates how memory and identity are spatially enacted in the homes of the Vietnamese diaspora in Canada.
Central to this inquiry is the following question:
How do these domestic spaces preserve memories of the homeland, and what cultural elements are retained, adapted, or lost in the process of migration?
Building on this, several focused subquestions emerge to guide the research.
1. How do specific objects and spatial arrangements—such as altars, shrines, or photographs—become containers of cultural memory, and how do these spaces adapt over time in the Vietnamese diaspora?
2. How do first- and second-generation Vietnamese immigrants navigate and reimagine the tension between tradition and adaptation within their domestic spaces?
3. How do the legacies of colonialism and displacement influence the spatial practices, objects, and cultural memory within diasporic Vietnamese homes?
4. How is and how can photography be used to archive, capture, or even re-imagine lost spaces and memories in the diasporic experience, from both the perspective of 1st and 2nd generation diaspora?
5. How can personal archives—through photographs, renderings, and collected narratives— serve as a tool for understanding and visualizing the hybrid identities of diasporic Vietnamese communities?
1.3 thesis and research objective.
Grounded in these questions, this thesis states the following: Domestic spaces of the Vietnamese diaspora become vessels of memory— living repositories of cultural adaptation and resilience.
Beyond the mere preservation of heritage, first- and second-generation Vietnamese immigrants in Southern Ontario reimagine their homeland through domestic architecture, creating spaces that merge memory, tradition, and assimilation. At the heart of this inquiry lies a tension between preservation and sacrifice— manifested in prayer spaces, communal living arrangements, and cherished family artifacts. Vietnamese families, as they navigate new lives in the West, bear the legacies of colonialism, war, and displacement while forging hybrid identities in an unfamiliar land.
The home becomes a physical record of not only personal memory but also cultural history, reflecting the intersection of individual identity and larger historic forces. For first-generation immigrants, these domestic spaces anchor them in practices tied to their past, embodying ancestral worship and acting as bodies of cultural continuity amid displacement. Meanwhile, second-generation diaspora often experience these areas as sites of cultural friction, where inherited traditions clash with the pressures of Western culture.
Through photography, personal dialogues, architectural and historical analysis, and speculative renderings, this research examines not only what is maintained but also what is inevitably altered through Western adaptation. Renderings serve
as both digital archives and imaginative propositions, reinterpreting fragmented memories into spatial possibilities that explore how homes evolve as sites of negotiation and hybrid identity. This visual documentation offers a tangible representation of intergenerational experiences, revealing how homes become loci of both rootedness and transition, shaped by the trauma of exile and the necessity of rebuilding.
This thesis contrasts traditional Vietnamese domestic typology, such as the ancestral home, with the urban and suburban dwellings of Southern Ontario, exploring how multi-generational living evolves under Western norms while retaining ties to the ‘homeland.’ Photography acts as a crucial medium—capturing, curating, and subjectifying how memories are displayed and layered within domestic spaces, from altars and family heirlooms to the narratives embodied in photo albums. By combining personal and historical frames of reference, this research uncovers how the Vietnamese diaspora reconcile the tension between yesterday and today, crafting an identity that embodies both the legacy of cultural trauma and the resilience to endure.
The home, in this context, becomes a site of layered narratives—where loss and creation coincide, mirroring the dance between a community’s historical roots and its diasporic future.
chapter 2. methodology.
This thesis employs a multi-faceted methodology to explore the lived experiences of the Vietnamese diaspora, using a combination of historical research, qualitative interviews, visual documentation, architectural analysis, and speculative rendering. These approaches work together to uncover how cultural memory is preserved, adapted, and reimagined within domestic spaces, while critically engaging with the challenges of displacement, identity, and spatial transformation. The methodology is structured as follows:
historical visualization.
Deeper historical research forms the foundation of this study, contextualizing the forces of colonialism, war, and displacement that shaped the Vietnamese diaspora. This research examines the cultural impacts of these events and the migration patterns that brought Vietnamese communities to Canada, with particular attention to Southern Ontario as a significant site of resettlement.
The historical research culminates multitudes of layered visual timelines:
Macro-scale: Charts major historical events such as French colonization, the Vietnam War and the Boat People crisis.
Micro-scale: Highlights personal narratives and moments of cultural preservation, offering insight into how these larger forces manifest in individual lives and domestic practices.
This timeline is not only a historical record but also a framework for understanding how architectural and cultural adaptations arise in the context of displacement. It serves to answer “the why” behind these transformations, anchoring personal and spatial analysis in a broader historical lens.
Survey
Initially, a survey was conducted with approximately 50 participants to gather broad insights into how members of the Asian diaspora, particularly Vietnamese respondents, connect to their cultural heritage through domestic spaces. The survey collected photographs and reflections on domestic spaces, forming a preliminary base for visual and narrative analysis.
However, the survey data remains underutilized thus far, and future iterations of the research will aim to incorporate these responses more directly, identifying patterns and outliers in how cultural memory manifests across different households.
Personal Dialogues
Recognizing the limitations of surveys, this research shifted toward in-depth oneon-one interviews, employing a snowball sampling method to recruit participants. Through direct outreach and referrals, I engaged Vietnamese-Canadian individuals in conversational dialogues about their personal stories, spatial practices, and intergenerational differences.
These interviews focus on:
Personal Narratives: Participants recount family rituals, significant objects, and formative spatial memories.
Intergenerational Dynamics: Exploring how first- and second-generation immigrants differently experience and interpret their domestic spaces.
Critical Rigour: Questions have been refined to balance conversational flow with depth, ensuring a logical progression that captures both emotional and spatial nuances.
A more structured interview framework— potentially visualized as a flowchart—will help improve the consistency and depth of future dialogues while allowing space for organic storytelling.
Alongside that, I aim to physically display these findings both visually and auditorially, to once again engage with the intimate.
Photography acts as both a documentation tool and a method of visual analysis, capturing how memory is spatially embedded within domestic environments.
The study analyzes:
Moreover, captioning for these photographs is articulated through findings within personal narratives and reflections from interviews, with the aim to emphasize the subjective and interpretive nature of memory as it manifests in domestic spaces. By anchoring these captions in lived experiences, the project explores how histories are spatially and emotionally preserved within the diasporic home. photography.
Family Photographs: Archival images provided by participants or drawn from personal collections to understand the evolution of domestic spaces over time.
Participant Submissions: Survey and interview contributors share photographs of their homes, which serve as evidence of cultural memory and continuity.
This visual documentation provides a tangible record of how elements like altars, heirlooms, and spatial arrangements serve as vessels of memory, offering key insights into the material and symbolic dimensions of diasporic homes.
This research aims to include a comparative analysis of traditional Vietnamese housing forms—such as ancestral houses, tube houses, and rural homes—and typical suburban and urban housing in Canada.
This typological study will examine:
Key Spatial Elements: Communal spaces, prayer areas, and familial hierarchies that reflect Vietnamese cultural practices.
Adaptation to Western Norms: How these elements are maintained, transformed, or abandoned in Canadian housing contexts.
The study will employ architectural drawings and diagrams to highlight spatial transformations and the negotiation of cultural memory within physical environments. Although underdeveloped in this draft, future iterations will focus on rigorous architectural analysis, including more detailed mapping of spaces and objects in participant homes. spatial study.
Renderings are the final methodological tool, expanding the research beyond documentation into creative speculation. These visualizations are informed by each respective photographic catalog, interviews, and historical research, allowing for both preservation and reimagination through exploring the subjectivity of documentation.
Renderings serve three critical purposes:
Archival Preservation: Digitally reconstructing spaces that may no longer exist, such as traditional Vietnamese homes or altars displaced by migration.
Speculative Reimagination: Visualizing hybrid spaces that integrate Vietnamese cultural practices into contemporary Canadian homes, offering speculative proposals for how diasporic spaces might evolve.
Bridge Between Tangible and Intangible:
Rendering provides a way to give form to fragmented memories, connecting personal narratives to spatial realities.
This method challenges the notion of architectural rendering as purely representational, framing it instead as a critical and creative tool for exploring how memory can be spatially reinterpreted.
chapter 3. findings.
This chapter presents the key insights gathered through interviews, photographic documentation, and digital rendering, exploring how memory, identity, and adaptation manifest in the domestic spaces of the Vietnamese diaspora. These findings highlight the layered complexity of diasporic homes, where cultural preservation intersects with contemporary influences, and where spaces become both personal archives and sites of transformation. By intersecting individual narratives and visual analysis, this chapter offers a deeper understanding of how first- and secondgeneration Vietnamese families negotiate the tension between holding onto tradition and adapting to new realities.
Understanding the historical context of Vietnam’s colonization, war, and displacement is essential to uncovering how these events continue to shape the lives and spaces of the Vietnamese diaspora.
By visualizing a timeline, we trace the roots of cultural adaptation and resilience, providing the foundation for examining how memory is preserved, reimagined, and lived within diasporic homes today.
The following is an abridged history, focusing on the collective moments that tie into the experience of Diasporic identity.
fig. 6
Abridged visual timeline of Vietnamese history. Kenny Vo, 2024.
Dynastic Vietnam
111 BCE - 938 CE: A Millennium of Chinese Rule
Under nearly a millennium of Chinese domination, Confucian governance, Taoism, and Mahayana Buddhism shape Vietnam’s society and identity. While resisting assimilation, Vietnam absorbs Chinese administrative systems and agrarian hierarchies, which remain central even after independence.
938 CE: The Founding of Đai Viet
Ngô Quyen’s 938 victory established Đai Viet, marking Vietnam’s independence and setting the stage for southward expansion (Nam Tien). This territorial push displaces Champa and incorporates the Mekong Delta, solidifying Vietnam’s borders but fostering regional tensions and demographic shifts that persisted into modern times.
1802 CE: The Nguyen Dynasty:
In 1802, Nguyen Ánh unifies Vietnam, founding the Nguyen Dynasty and centralizing rule under Confucian principles. The dynasty’s tributary ties to China and growing engagement with European powers, coupled with internal stratification and growing inequality, set the stage for Vietnam’s colonial subjugation and the social fractures that would culminate in displacement.
French Colonial Encounters
1858: French Invasion of Vietnam Begins
France’s capture of Da Nang in 1858 marked the start of its conquest of Vietnam, driven by imperial ambitions, access to resources like rice, rubber, and minerals, and the promotion of missionary activity. This invasion set the stage for nearly a century of colonial domination.
1884 - 1885: The Treaty of Hue
Following military defeats, Vietnam was forced to sign the Treaty of Hue, ceding sovereignty to France. The country was divided into three regions: Tonkin (North), Annam (Central), and Cochinchina (South). This division disrupted Vietnam’s unity and subjected it to exploitation and cultural suppression.
1887: Formation of French Indochina
Vietnam, along with Laos and Cambodia, is incorporated into French Indochina. This colony centralizes French control over the region, facilitating resource extraction and transforming Vietnam into a supplier of raw materials for the global market, while intensifying resistance to foreign rule.
Colonialism, Revolution, and War
1905 - 1930s: Nationalist Movements Rise
Early anti-colonial leaders like Phan Boi Châu and Phan Châu Trinh spearhead movements for reform and independence, drawing inspiration from global revolutionary ideologies. In 1930, Ho Chí Minh founds the Vietnamese Communist Party, blending nationalism with Marxist principles, which becomes the cornerstone of Vietnam’s revolutionary struggle.
1940 - 1945: Japanese Occupation
During World War II, Japan occupies Vietnam but retains the French colonial administration as a puppet regime. In 1941, Ho Chí Minh established the Viet Minh (League for the Independence of Vietnam), a resistance organization aimed at ending both Japanese and French control, galvanizing grassroots support.
1945: Declaration of Independence
With Japan’s defeat in World War II, Ho Chí Minh declares Vietnam’s independence on September 2, 1945, establishing the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. This move challenges both French authority and the global powers reshaping Asia in the postwar era, setting the stage for decades of conflict.
1946 - 1954: First Indochina War
The Viet Minh fight French colonial forces in a protracted war for independence, culminating in their decisive victory at the Battle of Đion Biên Pho in 1954.
1954: Geneva Accords and Division
The Geneva Accords temporarily divide Vietnam at the 17th parallel, creating communist North Vietnam and anticommunist South Vietnam, with plans for reunification elections that never occurred.
Vietnam War
1955 - 1959: Escalation and Insurgency
Ngô Đình Diem becomes president of South Vietnam in 1955, rejecting reunification elections. By 1959, the Viet Cong, supported by North Vietnam, begin guerrilla warfare against his regime.
1964: Gulf of Tonkin & U.S. Intervention
The Gulf of Tonkin Incident leads to the U.S. escalating its military involvement, committing troops and resources to the conflict.
1968: Tet Offensive & Turning Point
The Tet Offensive, a widespread campaign by North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces, shocks U.S. forces and public opinion, shifting the tide of domestic support for the war.
1973 - 1975: Peace Accords & Fall of Saigon
The Paris Peace Accords in 1973 leads to U.S. troop withdrawal, but fighting continues. On April 30, 1975, North Vietnamese forces capture Saigon, reunifying the country under communist rule as the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.
Post-War Vietnam & the Boat People
1975 - 1979: Reunification & Aftermath
Saigon is renamed Ho Chi Minh City. The new communist regime imposes collectivization, political re-education camps, and strict economic controls, leading to widespread discontent, especially among former South Vietnamese, intellectuals, and ethnic minorities like the Hoa.
Late 1970s - 1980s: The Boat People Crisis
Between 1978 and the early 1980s, waves of refugees flee Vietnam by sea to escape persecution and economic collapse. Many perish during dangerous journeys, while others reach refugee camps in neighboring countries. This exodus, peaking in 1979, results in over a million refugees. Global humanitarian efforts resettles many in the West
1978 - 1979: Persecution & Collapse
Vietnam invades Cambodia and ousts the Khmer Rouge regime of Pol Pot. In response, Chinese troops cross Vietnam’s northern border. The crisis intensified with the regime’s persecution of ethnic Chinese (Hoa people), expropriation of their businesses, and economic mismanagement following reunification. Combined with the collapse of agriculture under collectivization, this drives many to flee.
Late 1970s - 1980s: Dangerous Journeys
Refugees often use overcrowded, makeshift boats to escape, risking death from storms, starvation, dehydration, and pirate attacks in the South China Sea. The United Nations estimates that half a million people died during these perilous journeys.
1979: International Refugee Camps
Neighboring countries, overwhelmed by the influx of refugees, set up camps with limited resources. The crisis leads to the 1979 Geneva Conference on Indochinese Refugees, where the international community pledges to resettle asylum seekers. Key nations, including the United States, Canada, Australia, and France, accept large numbers of refugees under coordinated resettlement programs.
1980s: Secondary Waves
After the peak in 1979, smaller waves continue throughout the 1980s, including “Orderly Departure Programs” negotiated between Vietnam and host nations. These programs allow refugees to leave safely and legally, reducing the number of risky sea journeys.
1986 - Present: Continued Migration
In 1986, Vietnam introduces Đoi Moi (Renovation), transitioning to a marketoriented economy. Though living conditions improve for many, emigration persists due to lingering economic disparities and a desire for reunification with family abroad.
fig. 19 Full annotated timeline. Kenny Vo, 2024.
3.2 in conversation with.
This section brings forward the voices and journeys of Vietnamese-Canadian families through excerpts from one-on-one interviews, paired with visual maps tracing their migration paths to Canada.
Windows into the personal experiences of displacement, adaptation, and memory reveal how individuals and families navigate the tension between honouring their heritage and building new lives. By connecting their words with their journeys, this section captures the physical and emotional distances traveled, grounding their reflections in the layered realities of the diasporic condition.
what do you remember?
fig. 20 Kevin T’s journey. Kenny Vo, 2024.
excerpts with kevin t.
Do you know how your family came to Canada and what circumstances led to their decision to leave?
Like many Vietnamese families in Canada, my parents had to flee because of the war. After the fall of Saigon, both of them managed to escape. My mom was fortunate to be on one of the last airlifts out of the city, but my dad, unfortunately, was captured as a POW for a time.
The driving force for their migration was to seek asylum and stability after the war. My dad found work as a mechanic, which was enough to provide for a family.
When your family came to Toronto, did they tell you about any specific challenges they faced settling into the community or creating a home here?
Moving to a new country, with a new language and culture, while not knowing anyone—it’s incredibly daunting. They were essentially dropped off in Canada with no resources, no understanding of how things worked, and no one to turn to.
When they arrived in Montreal in December, they had no idea how brutal Canadian winters could be... My dad had to rely on the charity of the church, where generous Canadians donated jackets and clothes.
How did your family maintain a connection to Vietnam and mediate their sense of separation in their day-to-day lives?
The most significant way was through ancestor worship. In Vietnamese culture, this practice transcends religion—whether you’re Buddhist or Catholic, the idea of honouring your ancestors is universal.
Caring for the altar—replacing the fruit weekly, lighting incense, and taking a moment to pray—helped my parents feel less isolated. It gave them a sense of connection to their roots and the belief that their ancestors were watching over them.
Where is this altar space in your home?
It’s always been in a central location—up against the wall in the living room. It’s not something tucked away or left untouched. It’s meant to be part of the home, part of the family’s daily life.
Do you remember participating in these practices as a child?
No five-year-old wants to stand around praying to pictures of people they never knew. But now, I recognize how important it is. It’s a thread that still ties me to my Vietnamese identity and heritage.
The altar would always have fresh fruit, and we’d reflect on the year and thank our ancestors while asking for blessings for the next. It’s the biggest holiday in Vietnamese culture, so it was always treated with great care and reverence.
Do you think you’ll continue this tradition of having an altar in your home?
As a second-generation immigrant, I exist in this in-between space—one foot in the old world, one foot in the new. I think I would have a smaller version dedicated to my parents, at the very least, as a way to honour them and keep them in my heart.
How would you want your kids or grandkids to maintain a connection to their Vietnamese heritage?
I wouldn’t push them, but I would hope they know their roots. I want them to understand where we came from, the sacrifices that were made, and the history of the war and the hardships our family endured.
Living in Canada, it’s already difficult to maintain that connection, so I wouldn’t expect my kids to carry that weight. If they choose to embrace it, that’s wonderful. If not, that’s okay too.
fig. 21 Vanessa V’s journey. Kenny Vo, 2024.
excerpts with vanessa v.
Do you know how your mom’s side got here, their journey here?
My step-uncle—who was the oldest son—came first. He came by boat, and during his journey, he got caught around Thailand. He was put into what was essentially a concentration camp, like a refugee camp. I wasn’t told much about what happened there, but I know that’s where he converted from Buddhism to Christianity.
Eventually, when he was rescued, he made his way to Canada. After living here for a few years, he got the rest of my mom’s family over, and they all came together.
I feel like the areas in our home where I can really sense our culture are the living room, kitchen, and dining area. Vietnamese culture places so much importance on sharing meals— it’s a way of showing love. My parents worked opposite schedules—one worked days and the other nights—but we always made it a point to eat together at least once a week.
There are paintings—cultural ones, like Buddha or landscapes of Vietnam—and we also have a prayer area in the living room. We don’t pray often, but at least once a year, we hold death anniversary prayers for our ancestors. It’s interesting, though, because our house is a mix. We had it renovated, so it’s very modern and sleek, but then you’ll see random Buddhist statues or bamboo plants.
How much of your own heritage do you think you practice or hold within your everyday life?
Honestly, I feel like I don’t practice as much of my heritage as I would like to. I want to be more connected, whether that’s by becoming more fluent in Vietnamese or cooking more Vietnamese food. When I moved away from home, it became even harder.
It doesn’t come naturally to me the way it does for my parents.
The other day, I noticed that when I think about what to cook, Vietnamese food isn’t the first thing that comes to mind—even though it’s what I grew up eating. That realization made me feel a little strange, like I was more disconnected than I thought.
What’s a memory from your childhood that connects you to your heritage and makes you happy?
This sounds a bit silly, but we had this tiny, kid-sized table in the living room, very close to the floor. The chairs were like little stools. After school, my grandma would pick up my brother and me, and we’d eat there every single day. But it wasn’t just us—my parents, my aunt, and my uncle would also gather around that tiny table.
As I got older, I realized those tables are common in Vietnam, especially at restaurants where people sit close to the ground to eat. For my parents and grandma, I think it reminded them of home. When I made that connection, it made me really happy. Most of my childhood meals were spent at that table, and even though I’ve never been to Vietnam, it’s a memory that ties me back to it.
Do you think these traditions—like sharing meals or holding onto your heritage—will continue when you’re older?
I want to make a conscious effort to carry these traditions forward. I want to learn as much as I can from my parents and grandparents so I can preserve their memory and teach others what was so important to them.
It’s definitely a challenge, though, especially when you’re balancing being Canadian and trying to hold onto your heritage. It’s not easy, but I think it’s worth the effort to keep those connections alive.
It made me feel ashamed that I was kind of shying away from it because I was a little bit embarrassed from it being at school. But then it also just made me want to be more like them and want to fully embrace my own culture, which has led me to where I am now, I think.
fig. 22 Minh H’s journey. Kenny Vo, 2024.
excerpts with minh h.
Could you tell me about your decision to move to Canada and what motivated you or your family to make that move?
I moved here because my parents wanted me to attend university in Canada. It’s easier to apply to a Canadian university if you complete high school here rather than in Vietnam. Applying as an international student is harder and more expensive.
So, I moved at 14 to start high school here, then went on to university.
What were your first impressions when you arrived, and how did those feelings evolve over time?
I experienced culture shock. Language wasn’t a big barrier since I spoke English from attending an international school. However, living in Montreal, the French was challenging as my proficiency was limited.
The biggest differences were spatial. In Vietnam, businesses and homes often share space, like a dental office on the first floor of a villa. In Canada, zoning separates residential and commercial areas.
The density difference was striking. Vietnam’s population is three times that of Canada but in a much smaller area. Cities there feel crowded, while Canada seems incredibly spacious.
Can you talk more about the design of these homes and how they influence family life, particularly multi-generational living?
In Vietnam, multi-generational living is normal. Adults stay with their families, taking care of elders as they were cared for as children. Homes often have grandparents, parents, and kids living together.
Shop houses blur the line between business and family. When the first floor is a business, and the upper floors are living space, neighbors and customers feel like part of the home, reinforcing a sense of community.
Does this connect to ancestor worship or how elders are respected in your experience?
Respect for elders is deeply ingrained and stems from genuine care. Ancestor worship ties into this—it’s about honouring your lineage, from grandparents to great-grandparents, not just deities [...] There’s a belief that ancestors watch over you and that everything traces back to where you came from.
How have these traditions or rituals manifested in your family home in Montreal or here in Toronto? What has been preserved?
Our suburban home in Montreal reflects Vietnam through traditions. We have a room for ancestor worship with a Bàn Tho. My relatives’ homes are even more traditional [...] Smaller details, like hanging clothes to dry on the balcony instead of using a dryer, show our roots.
Our kitchen always has staples like a rice cooker and utensils for Vietnamese cooking.
How do you see your role in preserving or adapting Vietnamese traditions? Are there practices you’ve chosen to keep or let go?
When I was younger, I wasn’t proud of being Vietnamese. Moving to Canada made me appreciate how rich Vietnamese culture is [...] I maintain small habits, like using a rice cooker, not wearing shoes indoors, and speaking Vietnamese at home with my roommate. Social media [also] helps me stay connected to Vietnam’s youth culture.
How do you think this will evolve for you, your home, or even your [future] kids?
As a university student, I’ve already seen traditions fade compared to my parents’ house, but I’ll do my best to stay connected to my roots.
If I have kids, I want them to experience Vietnamese culture. It’s not something you teach; it’s lived. I plan to expose them to values like respect and family care, which are central to Vietnamese culture.
Whenever I visit Vietnam, I’m reminded of those values. Maintaining that connection is essential—it’s part of who I am.
3.3 photos shared.
This section presents a visual catalog of photographs that serve as reflections of memory, adding personal archives with contributions from interviewees. The images, accompanied by figurative captions, do not aim to capture objective truths but instead explore the subjective nature of memory— how it lingers, transforms, and finds form in the spaces we inhabit.
what feelings do you remember?
fig. 22 Full timelined archive. Kenny Vo, 2024.
although i don’t easily remember my grandmother’s face, i remember the feeling of unquestioning selflessness,
as if she’s cared for me a dozen times before.
when i look at her photo above my dining room, i hold on to her easy presence and steady hands,
bearing pieces of herself for those she loved.
fig. 23-40 Personal photos. Family archive of Kenny Vo, n.d.
nhau: to eat and drink for no particular reason at all. to sit, to laugh, to sing with brothers, friends, and enemies. to embrace everything and nothing.
heineken, dried squid, and peanuts.
my grandpa once offered me a beer at 5, for no reason at all, as if joy needed no excuse.
when my grandpa died, my aunt cleared all his guitars and all the strange, beautiful strings he had hung on the walls. what remained in place were photos of him holding them, quiet and still in every house, in every home.
i kneel before my grandparents photos, as they once did with theirs asking for a good today, hoping for a good tomorrow.
kneel before fruit and burnt incense in the living room, i thanked them for a good yesterday.
hearing the echoes of war my uncle, third in line, left by boat. alone at fifteen, letting everything go carrying only the joy of family.
my uncle, third in line, mailed photos of himself back home, praying they would make it. on the back, a few words— a quiet promise
my uncle, third in line, grew to like bruce lee
the first to work three wages and the first to learn english
the first to hold and the first to let go
my family moved often, so i never grew too attached to a single place.
but in the walls of these homes— in overfilled albums, in scattered drawers, i found one home they have always carried.
in the same stack of photos, i found memorials—well-tended, for people i never knew.
my aunts explain, they are what came before you.
beyond the faces you dont know, con, these photos keep the essence of rituals that no longer live in location, but linger—in gesture passed down. and sometimes lost
more than half a decade later, my uncle delivered on his promise to my family. they would be finally reunited.
once again, leaving everything behind.
my grandpa chose to carry his guitars. as many as the plane would allow, as if music could carry the weight of everything else he could not bring.
everything you will ever know—tomorrow, all at once.
everything you have ever known—yesterday, say farewell.
carry these photos in your suitcase and pockets, let them crease and fade, but please, don’t forget.
tell them about us.
holding this photo was the first time i ever saw my great-grandmother.
her memory stayed home.
and at the airport, each family member lined up to give one last bow, not knowing if they might return.
photography is what i remember most about my grandpa. everything captured, documented, snapped, saved. absolutely everything. by recording it, he could make it last.
my family gathers to eat, to drink, in good company.
it’s nothing like my family still in vietnam, but distance, and the quiet labor of suburban life, makes the moments we do celebrate all the more precious.
they celebrate with reason now, and sometimes without— reclaiming a joy they never used to know.
` and there’s still heineken, dried squid, peanuts.
once, in our one-bedroom apartment, there was no space for a proper altar.
so my dad mounted a small one— L-brackets holding it steady, just above our cramped dining table.
every night, my mom knelt in that corner, missing her family so deeply her prayers rising past the glow of a fake candle bulb, its red light flickering against the popcorn ceiling. and clutching international calling cards like a lifeline.
i took this photo when i was 8, on my nintendo 3ds.
my brother was soon to be born my mother shows off her gardened wintermelon.
a new home, its walls still barely marked, waiting to hold our lives.
a low sitting table, a high sitting altar.
wait for the incense, and let the smoke rise before you eat. wait for your parents too, waiting itself— a sacred ritual.
i spent my youth here, marking these walls alongside my parents. as their backs ached, i stood behind the front desk, watching time bend into labour.
often, i dreamt of leaving sooner but the photos of me on the wall, faded and smiling, reminded me of something larger.
this shop was almost a home, a life carved in calloused hands. even here, the smell of incense burns strong.
vanessa v.
fig. 41-46 Personal photos. Family archive of Vanessa V., n.d.
kevin t.
fig. 47-51 Personal photos. Family archive of Kevin T., n.d.
3.4. the reimagined dream
The following presents a speculative exploration of memory and space through digital rendering, where fragmented recollections are reimagined in domestic interiors. These renderings, starting with my own scene, are not literal recreations but rather interpretations shaped by the textures, objects, and atmospheres that evoke a sense of home.
They draw inspiration from personal memory, archival photographs, and collected narratives, blending the tangible with the figurative to explore how diasporic spaces hold layers of memory, tradition, and adaptation. As the project evolves, additional renderings will expand this
dialogue, visualizing the interplay of cultural preservation and transformation across varied contexts within the Vietnamese diaspora. Through these images, the act of rendering offers a creative lens to examine how homes serve as both vessels of memory and sites of redefinition.
fig. 52 Reimagined render. Kenny Vo. 2024.
chapter 4. discussion.
This chapter reflects on the deeper implications of the research, tying together the themes of memory, identity, and spatial transformation explored throughout the study. By examining “the why”—the cultural, historical, and emotional forces behind the preservation and adaptation of memory in diasporic homes—the discussion contextualizes these findings within the broader narrative of the Vietnamese diaspora. It also considers the future of this work, which speculates on how these narratives and methods might inspire new architectural inquiries and creative explorations.
fig. 53 Photo of my family taking photos. Kenny Vo. 2024.
4.1 why do we remember?
The act of remembering, particularly for diasporic communities like the Vietnamese, is survival. Remembering is both deeply lived and inherently political. It resists the forces of erasure that stem from colonial histories, war, and the trauma of displacement.
For the Vietnamese diaspora, memory is not just a bridge to the past—it is a reclamation of narratives often overshadowed or misrepresented in dominant historical discourses. The process of archiving and documentation becomes a means of asserting agency, of saying, “This is who we are, and this is how we carry our history forward.”
Yet, the necessity of this work lies in its limitations. Memory, mediated through artifacts, photographs, and domestic spaces, is always incomplete—a fragment of what once was. But it is within these fragments that we find power: the ability to reshape, reinterpret, and pass on histories in ways that resonate with contemporary lives. For second-generation individuals in particular, this research is vital—it not only creates a connection to cultural roots but also challenges the notion that cultural adaptation requires the abandonment of heritage.
Critically, this research engages with the intergenerational dynamics of memory. Firstgeneration immigrants often see the home as a site of continuity, where rituals, objects, and spaces embody cultural practices that anchor them amid displacement.
For their children, these same spaces might feel like sites of negotiation or tension, where inherited traditions must be reconciled with the cultural frameworks of their adopted land. Exploring these dynamics reveals how memory is not static—it is actively contested, reshaped, and reimagined across generations.
Additionally, the Vietnamese diasporic experience underscores the broader question of who gets to remember and how. In a world shaped by migration and displacement, the act of archiving becomes a radical assertion of visibility. It is a counternarrative to the homogenization of identity, challenging the erasure of marginalized communities in mainstream cultural and historical records.
By grounding memory in the physical and domestic, this research elevates spaces that are often overlooked in architectural discourse—homes as sites of political and cultural resistance.
Finally, this work reveals the duality of memory as both an anchor and a creative force. It roots individuals in their past while
enabling them to imagine futures that honour their histories. For the Vietnamese diaspora, homes are not just spaces to dwell but living, breathing archives—sites where resilience is embodied and where the future is dreamed.
In this way, memory serves not only as a survival mechanism but as a foundation for adaptation and renewal, ensuring that the sacrifices of the past inform the possibilities of tomorrow.
4.2 conclusion?
This research began as a personal inquiry—a search to understand the spaces that carried my family’s memories and the invisible threads that tether the Vietnamese diaspora to both their past and their present.
But as the work unfolded, it revealed something much larger: the profound resilience and adaptability embedded in the domestic spaces of diasporic life. These homes, layered with memory, ritual, and adaptation, are not static monuments to what was lost. Instead, they are dynamic sites of survival and transformation, shaped by the tension between holding on and letting go.
For the Vietnamese diaspora, the act of remembering is not merely an exercise in nostalgia—it is an act of resistance. Through altars adorned with offerings, photographs preserved in frames, and rituals practiced within intimate spaces, memory becomes a form of cultural survival, resisting the forces of erasure that accompany exile, assimilation, and colonial legacies.
These acts of remembrance are deeply personal yet undeniably collective, bridging the individual and the communal, the past and the future.
Yet, this process of memory-making is not without its complexities. For secondgeneration Vietnamese-Canadians, like myself, these spaces often embody a negotiation—a delicate balancing act between inherited traditions and the pressures of Western assimilation. They are sites where cultural friction and adaptation unfold, challenging the very definitions of identity and belonging. But within this tension lies the possibility for something new: a hybrid identity that honours the sacrifices of those who came before while reimagining the future.
This research has sought to give form to the ephemeral, using interviews, photography, and speculative renderings to document the ways memory is carried, reimagined, and transformed in the spaces we call home. While these methods cannot replicate lived experience, they serve as vital tools for archiving the stories, objects, and rituals that might otherwise be forgotten. They offer a way to understand the emotional and spatial landscapes of the diasporic condition, bridging personal narrative with critical inquiry.
Once again, this project is about more than just preservation—it is about creation. It is about claiming space, both physical and metaphorical, for the voices and stories that often go unheard. It is a declaration:
In doing so, it invites us to reflect on the enduring power of memory to shape not just who we are but who we might become. The homes of the Vietnamese diaspora are not only vessels of memory but sites of resilience, mourning, and hope—spaces where the past is honoured, the present is lived, and the future is imagined.
“We were here. We are here.”
4.3 what’s next?
fig. 54 Gantt chart. Kenny Vo. 2024.
This research lays a foundation for understanding how domestic spaces embody and adapt to the complexities of diasporic memory. However, there is still much to uncover and refine. Moving to the next semester of research, I plan to deepen my interviews and photographic cataloging, employing a more rigorous framework for data analysis and interpretation. This will include conducting a more structured architectural analysis, focusing on typological comparisons between traditional Vietnamese housing forms and Canadian suburban homes to critically examine spatial transformations and adaptations.
The speculative rendering produced so far highlight the potential of reimagining domestic spaces as dynamic sites of memory and cultural negotiation. Expanding this visual exploration will involve integrating more nuanced narratives and layering cultural artifacts into these spaces to reflect generational shifts and diasporic hybridity. These renderings will serve as both an archival tool and a speculative proposal for future architectural strategies that honour tradition while adapting to contemporary needs.
To ensure the research is critically grounded, I will undertake further background literature reviews, particularly on methodologies for interviewing and analyzing qualitative data. This will enhance the academic rigor of the project while
aligning it with broader architectural and cultural studies. Additionally, I aim to further conceptualize how to display this work in-person both artfully and to authentically communicate these findings. This will involve curating the visual, spatial, and narrative elements to create an immersive experience that invites reflection on themes of resilience, adaptation, and belonging.
Through a balance of critical analysis, creative exploration, and refined methodology, this work will continue to evolve, offering deeper insights into how diasporic homes navigate the interplay of preservation, adaptation, and reimagination.
This next phase not only seeks to document but also to provoke dialogue about how architecture can meaningfully engage with the diasporic condition.
acknowledgements.
I would like to take a moment to extend my deepest gratitude to everyone who supported me throughout this research journey.
To my peers, thank you for your encouragement and thoughtful feedback, which shaped and refined this project at every step.
To Nicholas, I am deeply grateful for your patience and for entrusting me with the opportunity to pursue this story with care and intention.
To everyone who participated in my surveys, and especially Kevin, Minh, and Vanessa— thank you for sharing your stories and experiences with honesty and trust. Your voices were at the heart of this work.
To the professors and faculty who generously offered their guidance and critical insights during office hours, thank you for challenging me to think more deeply and critically.
Finally, my deepest thanks go to my family, whose quiet resilience, unyeilding memories, and sacrifices gave me the inspiration to embark on this project. This work is as much yours as it is mine.
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