I first met all nine Saigon Sisters in November 1989, when I arrived in Saigon with thirty Maxell cassettes which, over six weeks, were filled with the women’s memories which form the backbone of the book. My latest visit took place thirty-three years on.

For the first time since Covid, I traveled to Saigon in November 2022 to seek out the four Saigon Sisters still with us. Ho Chi Minh City’s population has exploded to more than 11 million. Two of the Sisters, siblings Minh and Trang, still live in the home their father built over a century ago.

The Binh communal home on Cach Manh Thang Tam, August Revolution street, looks the same as when Thanh (deceased) and Trang came back to live there in 1975. (Minh had remained at the house, a liaison with her siblings in the resistance.)

Motorbikes and cars pulse past a white wall and gate from which Minh emerges to greet us.

At 92, Minh remains smiling and vibrant. She’s happy to play the piano and throws herself into Tino Rossi tunes that reverberated off these same walls when she was growing up. Minh points to a black case in the corner and urges me to open it: she sets the heavy accordion on her lap, wraps her arms around it, and breaks into “Len Dang”—March of the Students—with nearly the vigor of students taking to the streets in the 1940s.

We ask to see Minh’s younger sister, Trang, who once bristled at Confucian norms and wanted to show male combatants she was as strong and dedicated as any man. Minh leads us up a circular outdoor stairway to the second floor and a quiet room where Trang is sleeping. She is still a fighter, holding on to life. We can’t talk, but I hope—somehow—she can hear me.

The other two Saigon Sisters, Tuyen and Xuan, followed family members to new homes. Despite contact with their children—in Vietnam and in Canada—I wasn’t sure of finding these two women in the labyrinthine alleys of a megalopolis. That challenge was met by my landlady, Tien, who treasures her friendship with the Saigon Sisters. She did not stop scouring old address books and calling mutual friends; her persistence led us to being able to meet up with Xuan and Tuyen, too.

In the care of her daughter-in-law, Xuan is bed-ridden and doesn’t express herself in words, but finds other ways. She connects over the phone with her children around the world.

On the day before departing, Tien finally tracks down Tuyen. It’s an ordeal. The last address she has is wrong, and we find ourselves standing in a tiny alley. Tien turns to a noodle shop vendor and asks about Tuyen’s family; the lady points down the lane, flinging her arm out to urge us to round the corner. Meanwhile, a last-ditch call connects Tien with Tuyen’s son and, as we round the corner, he strides toward us. He leads us to his new house where we gently hug Tuyen, who is more petite than ever while retaining her serene smile and cheerful bearing. Her son built the home with an elevator so Tuyen, 91, can get around. She uses it to go to the rooftop every morning to exercise for 45 minutes. She is surrounded by family.

In the world of what are not really coincidences, Tuyen’s son is married to one of Xuan’s legions of piano students. Uyen bubbles with excitement about a plan to assemble Xuan’s students—who teach piano in Vietnam, the U.S., Australia and elsewhere—in a virtual concert for Xuan. She’s aiming for April.

In a similar vein, it’s wonderful to meet students and friends of Oanh for updates on how they’re carrying on her legacy in social work. Seated around a table in a library that features more than 40 books by Oanh, her colleagues and friends explain they’re strengthening social work, especially in areas Oanh prioritized: bottom-up community participation; caring for the vulnerable like orphans and victims of sex abuse, STDs, and HIV; and by linking social work and psychology. Her friends have incorporated social work into curricula at over 60 universities. They provide scholarships. They started a children’s rights association. They offer training. They encourage colleagues to “write for the public,” as Oanh used to do.

Like Xuan’s piano teaching, Minh’s music and French teaching, Oanh’s social work teaching is passing down through generations.

As we left Vietnam, I found it hard to fully express my gratitude to the Sisters’ families, and Tien, for being able to pay respects to the Sisters. And to remind them that their stories aren’t forgotten.