The walls of the nail studio shimmer soft pink. Soft pink like the nail polish chosen by a customer. From several hundred colors on plastic nails. A difficult decision. On the other hand, she doesn’t seem to care who applies the paint. Interaction only occurs when it is the other hand’s turn.
Director Âni Võ also visited a nail salon like the one in the opening scene of the short film “Stinky Fruit” when she wanted to “treat herself” after completing a project. The 28-year-old Viet-German noticed that the staff spoke Vietnamese and struck up a chat. That’s why she noticed that the staff changed often in the years that followed. Why? The answers to their questions remained vague. Perhaps, Âni thought, some of the women had simply found new jobs.
An article she later read offered a different scenario: 39 Vietnamese were found dead in a truck east of London in 2019. Smuggled to Europe illegally in hopes of a better life. Human traffickers demand up to 20,000 euros for this. Once here, they force their victims, including children and young people, to work under the most adverse conditions in order to pay off their debts – at different locations, including nail salons. The human traffickers decide when the bill is settled.
Markus Pfau, former crime-fighting chief at the Federal Police in Halle, speaks of “modern slavery” in the RBB documentary “Handelsware Kind – Die Mafia der Menschenhändler”, for which Adrian Bartocha and Jan Wiese received second prize in the journalists’ prize “Der Lange breath” were awarded. You have succeeded in revealing the Europe-wide structures of the mafia network. However, little is known about the people and their motives for becoming dependent on these structures.
This is exactly where the short film “Stink Frucht” comes in, as Âni, who is studying feature film directing at the Munich University of Television and Film, reports in a Zoom interview. Her voice is calm but determined. She has a clear stance on the subject. Black hair frames her young, friendly face in front of a white hotel wall. Âni is currently in Paris, where her work has been screened at a film festival, as previously in the US and soon in Italy.
“I’m German,” she used to yell at her parents
The film tells the story of Mai, a 15-year-old girl who was illegally smuggled to Germany to earn money for her family in Vietnam, but is exploited and resold by her smugglers. She flees and asks the twelve-year-old Viet-German Linh for help, whose mother is part of the system herself. Mai is not an anonymous victim, but a young woman with hopes and dreams: She is a fan of the South Korean band BTS and would like to go to Lake Tegernsee one day.
Mai and Linh’s friendship develops when Linh gets her period for the first time at her mother’s nail salon. Mai, who works there, reminds the girl of her little sister and tells her how to insert a pad. An experience that connects the two. They differ in other things: Mai understands German, but only speaks Vietnamese. Linh understands Vietnamese, but always answers her friend in German. She communicates with her mother in a mixture of both languages.
A situation that Âni knows well: “In my generation, who were born here but have Vietnamese roots, most of them speak a little bit of Vietnamese. We were taught that by our parents, but we speak German in kindergarten and at school. German is our mother tongue. I only speak Vietnamese with my parents and if I can’t think of certain words, I speak a mix.”
Growing up in Stuttgart, as a child she initially had little interest in her parents’ origins: “I knew that I looked different, but I still called myself German and slammed it in my parents’ bib when they talked about any Vietnamese , cultural peculiarities came.” But the older she gets, the more she thinks about her roots, says Âni – also because others talk about her, whether at work or when looking for an apartment. After graduating from high school, she went to Ho Chi Minh City for a few months to work and learn about the Vietnamese culture and language.
She looked for Vietnamese actors in Asian markets and restaurants
Âni perceives this perspective as underrepresented in the German film landscape, even if a change is currently taking place. The casting was difficult because there are only a few actors with Vietnamese roots in Germany. Âni not only looked for them on social networks, but also in Asian markets and restaurants. Her short film, which was co-produced with Bayerischer Rundfunk, also aims to bring the viewers closer to the realities of life in Vietnam. But so far it has been rejected by all film festivals in Germany.
A recurring symbol in it: the durian, also known as a stinky fruit because of its intense smell – a delicacy in Vietnam. Linh’s family uses them to fill the moon cakes they bake for the autumn Mid-Autumn Festival. Both Mai and Linh have a taste that reminds them of home. A comforting taste for the one searching for a safe place to stay, as well as for the other who suddenly has to question that safety.
“A stinky fruit is very prickly, it looks dangerous on the outside and it really hurts to touch it. But if you dare to open it and eat it, you get a really creamy, sweet taste,” explains Âni. One gets the impression that she is used to having to explain herself in Germany when it comes to Vietnam, because her counterpart has hardly or not at all dealt with this country.
It’s the same with cultures as it is with durian, she says: “Outwardly you have a certain image of them and you don’t really dare to do it, but if you’re open to it, if you’re brave and you not be put off, you can discover something really great, something that tastes very good.”
She slept poorly because she was afraid of casting a negative light on all Vietnamese
Âni chooses her words carefully. In the film, too, she left nothing to chance. Small details add great complexity to the figures. It may seem unscrupulous as human trafficker Bao Mai drives to a rest area where young Vietnamese women are being herded onto the back of a truck. But even he fights for the survival of his family only as a small screw in the system. A little girl’s photo hangs on his rearview mirror. You can tell how closely Âni has scrutinized the structures.
Not an easy task, because the number of unreported cases is high and reports are rare. Victims rarely turn to the police because they are afraid of mafia violence, but also because they do not want to be sent back to Vietnam empty-handed. Âni and her co-author Katharina Kiesl combed countless forums and articles on human trafficking in Germany. Âni listened to conversations at the Dong Xuan Center in Berlin and talked to people who knew those affected. And yet she says: “I would have liked to have done even more extensive research.” Also because she feels great responsibility towards her characters and the people they represent.
She had many sleepless nights, says Âni, out of concern that her film would cast the Vietnamese community in a negative, criminal light. So far, however, the feedback has been exclusively positive. At film festivals that celebrate Vietnamese stories, the response has been overwhelming. “Thank you for inspiring Vietnamese youth to dream big and honor their roots,” a teacher wrote to her after a film screening for schoolchildren. “That such a small film with representation can make so much difference,” says Âni, which she wasn’t aware of while shooting.
She is currently thinking a lot about which films she would like to make in the future. How it can motivate people to be interested in other cultures. Maybe they’ll surprise you. Like biting into a stinky fruit for the first time.