The ‘Lost Children’ and Forgotten Red River Residents Without an Identity

Not far from Hà Nội’s bustling streets, stories emerge from those left behind by the government’s drive to issue citizen ID cards, where police “demanded to know where [their] roots were.” [1] 

As one resident explained, “What matters now is that [citizens] have to have an origin. But if [they] can’t figure out where [they’re] from or who [they] are, how could [they] know?”

Police Minister Lương Tam Quang can speak forcefully before the National Assembly about his wish to “identify everything,” as if he wants to trace the identity of every branch and blade of grass. [2] [3] However, he may have forgotten that many people have lived without an identity for decades.

These “forgotten” people live on the “edge of the edge” of the Red River. Because the state has never recognized them, they exist on the margins of the riverbank, every development project, and public life itself. Now, as a megaproject like the Red River Scenic Boulevard Axis bears down on them, they cannot even prove they live in the project area, let alone speak up about anything else.

People Without Identities

To meet people living on the “edge of the edge” requires squeezing through narrow alleys likened to Hà Nội’s own “Kowloon Walled City.” Behind Long Biên Market in Hồng Hà ward lies a makeshift, ramshackle slum of corrugated metal.

The residents here are impoverished laborers who survive by hauling goods, collecting scrap, or street vending. However, their greatest hardship is not the grueling labor, but the fact that they have lived in limbo for decades without any identity papers.

One middle-aged couple has rented a room in this slum since 1990. They were both lost as children and possess no recorded hometowns or documents; the husband only recalls originating from Hưng Yên, while the wife is from Nghệ An. 

This couple previously survived by doing odd jobs at the market and growing vegetables on the river’s floodplain until police “chased” them off and banned the farming. Now dealing with failing health, they operate a small drinks stall for their neighbors. They noted that an older neighbor from Bắc Giang, who has lived there even longer, is similarly undocumented.

When asked about their children, the couple sadly explained that their kids lack even birth certificates. “If the parents don’t have them, how can the children?” the husband said. Consequently, their children could only attend charity schools, which they eventually dropped out of. “This lady has two kids out of school right now,” the husband added, pointing to the neighbor from Bắc Giang.

The absence of paperwork also completely blocks access to health care. The husband suffers from kidney failure and muscle wasting in his legs; unable to walk normally, he relies on his wife to carry him on her back.

Without papers, they cannot obtain health insurance and hesitate to seek hospital treatment. The only state assistance they receive is minimal. “Basically, now and then on holidays and Tết, a delegation from the Fatherland Front comes by with a little cooking oil, MSG, and fish sauce,” he said.

After decades in the capital, these questions of identity remain unresolved. Because the parents lack papers, their children’s births go unregistered, erecting lifelong barriers to education, health care, and legal identification. It is a vicious cycle: without papers, they cannot access public services, but obtaining those papers requires information they do not know where to find.

The “Edge of the Edge” of the River

Having struggled on the margins of society their entire lives, the residents on the river’s “edge of the edge” remain absent from decisions directly affecting their livelihoods, including the Red River Scenic Boulevard project, because they cannot prove who they are. [4]

When Hà Nội authorities consulted residents across 24 communes and wards for the project, they included eight peripheral areas—such as Hai Bà Trưng, Vĩnh Tuy, and Yên Sở—that lie outside the planning boundary. Yet, the interests and concerns of residents at the very center of the project in Hồng Hà ward were ignored due to their lack of identification. [5] 

This omission persists despite Point a, Clause 2, Article 37 of the Law on Urban and Rural Planning, which mandates that planners consult all involved communities, including those within the planning area and those in neighboring sectors affected by traffic and infrastructure changes. [6]

These residents know they are not involved. Asked about the project, the husband explained, “It’s mostly the landlord’s land. We’re just renters. If not here, then somewhere else. What does it matter? Whatever assistance they give will go to the landlord anyway.”

However, despite viewing themselves as renters with no stake in the project, they remain anxious, distressed, and worried about the future and the risk of having to move. 

“We don’t have a house, only this place to stay, so of course we’re anxious. If the state happens to kick us out, we don’t know where we’d go or what we’d do, right?” the husband said, noting the difficulty of finding a new location for his drinks stall. “Finding a sidewalk spot is hard now, too. Over by the flower garden and places like that, you have to pay fees before they let you sit. If you sit there dodging the fees, like I do here, how are you supposed to sell anything?”

The potential relocation of Long Biên Market compounds his fear. “If they clear out the market, I really don’t know how we’ll live. People will starve. We won’t know where to go to survive. He continued, “When they take this land, where will these 20 or so households go? If they take the land here, there’s nowhere to rent, so we’ll end up under the bridges. Wherever there’s room under a bridge, we’ll put up a tarp and live there. We have no house, no land.”

Like many others along the Red River, dozens of local households do not know when the project will begin or if they will be forced to leave. [7] “There’s been no announcement at all. People are anxious. One person says something, and another passes on the rumor that demolition is coming, that the bulldozers are almost here. Where would we go?” the couple said. The husband then joked, “But I don’t know if even you young fellows will live long enough to see this Red River project.”

While this half-joking remark elicited laughter, it masks an insecurity that has haunted them for decades. For this couple and other impoverished workers, relocation means losing their regular customers and the meager income sustaining their survival in the capital. 

Despite their deep anxieties and worries, they have never believed that they had a right to weigh in on the project. For them, consultation is a privilege that belongs only to the government and property owners. As undocumented renters, they are left with no choice but to wait.

Identifying Everything, Except the People 

Meanwhile, the police ministry has proposed expanding the scope of electronic identification in the draft Law on Electronic Identification and Authentication. [8] Under this draft, identification would not only cover people and organizations, but nearly everything else, including assets, data, transactions, and behavior. 

At a National Assembly session on the morning of Oct. 26, Lê Tấn Tới, chairman of the Committee on National Defense, Security and Foreign Affairs, supported this expansion, stating it is “in line with the trend.” [9]

This proposal makes one thing clear: the undocumented people living on the “edge of the edge” of the Red River will soon hold less value than a cheap phone or a beat-up motorbike.

Current legislation already contains a mechanism that theoretically addresses this crisis. Under Article 30 of the current Identification Law, people of Vietnamese origin with undetermined nationality can receive an identity certificate after living somewhere continuously for six months. [10] 

In 2024, Trần Duy Hiển, deputy director of the police ministry’s National Population Data Center, described the provision as deeply humane, “helping people without identity papers carry out the essential transactions of daily life.” [11]

However, qualifying for this certificate is another matter entirely for the Red River slum residents. Clause 4, Article 3 of the Identification Law requires applicants to be direct blood relatives of someone who previously held Vietnamese nationality. This creates an obstacle for people like the middle-aged couple, who were separated from their families as children and do not know their origins.

However, inability to prove their origins does not equate to lacking Vietnamese origins. It is the responsibility of the identification management agency to collect, check, and verify this information. The real issue is whether authorities actively try to trace these identities or simply demand information the residents do not possess. 

According to these undocumented locals, police refused to issue them citizen ID cards—formerly people’s ID cards—solely because they could not recall their hometowns. The authorities took no steps to verify their backgrounds and provided no guidance on alternative legal procedures.

Although the document’s name has changed from “people’s ID card” to “citizen ID card,” the burden of proof still falls heavily on the most vulnerable. As it stands, they face spending the rest of their lives trapped in a vicious cycle with no means of escape.

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Thực Sơ wrote this article in Vietnamese and published it in Luật Khoa Magazine on Nov. 11, 2026. The Vietnamese Magazine translated it into English.