A glowing smartphone screen can act as an invisible barrier that divides us, yet it also has the potential to serve as a nexus for meaningful connection. Ultimately, the outcome is determined by how we choose to engage with it.

The delicate scent of incense drifting through the year-end chill awakens long-forgotten memories from the depths of the soul. Outside, the streets have begun to shimmer with the vibrant hues of cherry and apricot blossoms, as crowded coaches hasten to carry travelers back to their ancestral homes. The Lunar New Year (Tet) is arriving. This Tet, an uninvited “guest” has claimed a seat at the heart of every household, lingering by the year-end feast, hovering over trays of candied fruits, and weaving itself into the fabric of family reunions. That guest is the glowing smartphone screen—both an invisible barrier that isolates and a potential nexus for connection. Its role in our lives depends entirely on how we choose to wield it. The invisible chasm For years, the term “digital divide” has been a standard sociological concept, primarily describing the inequality in access, usage, and benefits of technology across individuals, households, organizations, regions, and even entire nations. However, this divide also possesses a behavioral dimension: when used indiscriminately, technology can paradoxically forge a chasm in human interaction and interpersonal communication. Data from the “We Are Social” report indicates that the average Vietnamese person spends upwards of six hours daily using the Internet. Yet, this statistic raises a critical question: of those six hours, how much time is truly dedicated to fostering genuine human connection? In this digital age, many people return home with a physical presence in the living room, yet their minds wander through the realms of Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok—or perhaps engage in debates with chatbots regarding next year’s economic trends. The ubiquitous “ping” of digital notifications has evolved into a constant background hum, often drowning out the warmth of shared laughter and the rhythmic snapping of melon seeds. In living rooms during Tet, a familiar scene unfolds: families sit huddled together while the annual “Tao Quan” show plays on the television, yet every gaze is fixed downward on a personal device. A father scrolls through news feeds, a mother watches sales livestreams, and the children remain immersed in gaming worlds or TikTok. We label this “network connectivity,” but in truth, it represents a profound fracture in human connection. A striking paradox defines the digital era: individuals find it effortless to confide in strangers online, lose themselves in virtual worlds, or spend hours discussing career anxieties and romantic dilemmas with ChatGPT, yet they become hesitant and awkward when their parents pose a simple question: “How is your life?” We can transmit New Year’s greetings across the globe in a second, yet we struggle to find a single day to truly listen to the person sitting right beside us. In the age of Artificial Intelligence (AI), the “frequency gap” between generations—particularly between children and their parents—seems to be widening. For many young people, AI is non-judgmental, infinitely patient, and provides instantaneous responses tailored precisely to what they want to hear. In stark contrast, older generations are often perceived as overanxious, prone to “outdated” inquiries, and relentless in their nagging about marriage prospects or job earnings. Connecting with grandparents and parents—the “analog” generations—requires a level of patience and empathy that the dizzying pace of digital life often erodes. To many, a “like,” a heart icon, or a comment is merely a fleeting notification. Yet, for older generations, these digital gestures represent a vital lifeline, a signal of their longing for a response. Thus, those born when a black-and-white television was a family’s most prized possession now find themselves struggling to “log in” to the lives of their own children and grandchildren. Conversely, the behavior of older generations can inadvertently widen the physical and emotional gap between themselves and their offspring. Grandparents and parents often struggle to comprehend the fulfillment that younger people find in digital environments, leading to frustration or dismissive questions such as: “What could possibly be so interesting that they spend all their time online?” This tendency to criticize or reprimand can become a primary reason why the younger generation hesitates to open up to their elders. While conducting a survey, the author of this article had the opportunity to speak with a first-year student who had fallen victim to a significant online gaming scam. This young boy, once an academic high-achiever and an active participant in community activities, had spiraled into stress, neglecting his studies and withdrawing into isolation. This was because he was new to the university, his relationships with teachers and peers were not yet deep enough to provide a safety net. He kept his parents in the dark—partly to spare them pain, but largely because, as he explained, “My mother often scolds and reproaches me; she rarely listens until I’ve finished speaking.” It was only when his homeroom teacher sensed something was amiss and offered gentle encouragement that the story began to surface. “I feel a weight has been lifted just by telling you,” he remarked. This highlights a poignant reality: the immense relief found in speaking out is often suppressed by a lack of trust, forcing many to carry their burdens in silence. In the digital realm, much can be “undone,” and data is easily backed up to the cloud. Real life, however, lacks an “undo” button and offers no backup files. A depleted phone battery can be recharged, and a dropped connection can be restored; yet, no technology can “recover” a mother’s fading eyesight or the slowing gait of a father. Similarly, the voids we create—the losses we endure and the missed opportunities to converse, share joy, or offer comfort—cannot be reversed. Bridging the digital divide However, to be fair, we cannot simply reject technology. It provides immense utility; technology itself is not at fault—the flaw lies in how we choose to wield it. We see many octogenarians and nonagenarians who are proficient in Facebook and Zalo, joyfully posting status updates, reacting with “likes” and hearts, and engaging in daily messenger conversations with friends and family. We need to recall the Covid-19 pandemic, when physical isolation was a necessity. Digital applications immediately stepped into the breach. People gathered online for meetings, casual chats, and even birthday celebrations. In an era where physical proximity was impossible, platforms like Zoom, MS Teams, and Google Meet served as vital conduits, connecting individuals and households across digital space. While we cannot “undo,” we can always “refresh”—to start anew and revitalize our bonds. This Tet, rather than allowing our screens to erect an invisible wall of separation, why not transform them into portals that bridge one space to another, much like in cinema, yet manifesting in our daily lives? During the holiday feast, instead of everyone being engrossed in their individual devices, the family could gather to ask an AI about their horoscopes for the coming year or the most auspicious hour for their first spring departure. Use your phone to initiate a video call with a distant relative, helping your parents bridge the gap of longing. Harness AI to help them edit a beautiful family portrait rather than taking a solitary selfie. Why not host a Zoom session where relatives from different regions can livestream, exchange New Year’s greetings, and welcome the stroke of midnight together? Spread a mat in the living room, prepare some popcorn and soda, and lounge together to enjoy a family movie. In those moments, the phone, the computer, and the television suddenly become the centerpiece of shared joy—a single screen that finally brings everyone together. This Tet, let us strive to truly listen to the stories our parents have to tell, just as parents should seek to hear the narratives of their children. In an era of constant distraction, the act of listening has become the most luxurious and precious gift we can bestow upon one another. Touches that reach the heart AI offers us the incredible: it can compose poetry, render art, write code, and even engage in “conversation.” However, this is a dialogue born of calculation, fueled by connections to billions of data parameters—not a genuine connection forged in emotion. AI cannot fathom the bittersweet stirrings of the soul when smelling the pungent kitchen smoke on the afternoon of the eve of Tet. It cannot feel the warmth of an elderly mother’s wrinkled hands as she reaches for her child’s. AI cannot “struggle” through the vibrant chaos of a Tet market, painstakingly choosing the perfect peach branch, apricot tree, or bundle of coriander. AI “lives” on data, yet it possesses no memories, no nostalgia, and most crucially: no heart. The core of human connection remains the emotions that emanate from the heart. It is found in the touch of a hand, the meeting of eyes, and the gift of complete presence. I would like to conclude this piece with a few stories from my own family. One year, on Christmas morning, we awoke to find beautifully wrapped gifts nestled in the corner of the living room, accompanied by a note that read: “To my dear family members!” It turned out they were from my eldest daughter, who was in the seventh grade at the time. She had stayed up until one in the morning, quietly and meticulously preparing them so that everyone would have a surprise waiting for them at dawn. On another occasion, my son decided to “treat” the entire family to steak; it was tender, aromatic, and seasoned to perfection. However, his mother could not enjoy it at the time, as she arrived home late having already eaten at a seminar. The boy paced back and forth, visibly troubled, wanting to save a piece for her for the next day. She told him, “There’s no need; I have to leave for work by 6:00 a.m., so I won’t have time for breakfast.” He said nothing. Yet the next morning, he rose at 5:30 a.m., prepared the steak for her, and then went back to sleep. When she took it for lunch later that day, she sent him a message: “This is the best steak in the world.” In the depths of a freezing winter, my seven-year-old daughter and I still make our way to an indoor pool. After completing a thirty-meter lap, she says, “Dad, hold me!” When I ask why, she replies, “I need ‘Oxygen’.” As I pull her close, I can feel her heart thumping rapidly against mine. After a few moments, her rhythm steadies. The “Oxygen” has been successfully replenished. We swim again, and again we embrace for more Oxygen. Before leaving, we never miss our usual water games. In those moments, I am also filled with her Oxygen—the Oxygen of love. That is all it takes. Through small gestures—the quiet, late-night rustling of a daughter cutting and wrapping Christmas gifts; the focused effort of a son meticulously seasoning a tender, aromatic steak; or the embrace of the youngest daughter seeking “Oxygen”—our children have truly touched the hearts of their parents and everyone around them. Each individual, carrying such fresh and warm energy, allows that light to radiate outward, gently spreading from one soul to another. In the era of zeros and ones, of algorithms and datasets, the tap of a finger on a screen has become second nature. Yet, this Tet, let us strive to rediscover our most primal connections: the embraces, the shared glances, the small gestures, and the words of affection. Let technology perform its function, while we fulfill ours as human beings. Let us return home—not merely by boarding a coach or a flight, but by “touching” each other’s hearts with the fullness of love’s “Oxygen.” That is the moment when Tet truly begins.