In the 2010s, my journey to study abroad took me to Singapore. Being a tiny person in an enormous city was a huge undertaking for a teenager, as I had to adapt to countless changes, from minute to major, at once: living in a different language, academic pressures, foreign customs and cuisines, and being away from my family. Gradually, things fell into place. The public transport worked well; the accent got more familiar; and I didn’t miss bánh mì and cơm tấm nearly as much as I thought I would; but there was one thing I never managed to entirely overcome — the bum gun-shaped void in my heart.
Singapore, like many other developed nations in the world, has a toilet paper culture. At the heights of the COVID-19 pandemic, I watched videos of American supermarkets being stampeded by the toilet paper horde in confusion. While I understand the rationale behind the phenomenon, toilet paper has always played such a trivial role in my growing up that it’s never occurred to me how important it could be elsewhere. I am an equal-opportunity hygienist, so I would never shame anyone or any culture for how they choose to service their tushy. You do you lah, Singapore.
However, I don’t need to go into too much detail about how undesirable toilet paper could be: clogging, chafing, fragile plies, abrasive surfaces, poopy finger tips, and not to mention the environmental cost of wood pulps. Bum guns rule with soft power instead of harsh deterrence. Bum guns care about the environment and your comfort. Bum guns will treat you — and your butt — right.
Back then, I would visit home once or twice a year, and, every time, that first spray after a long trip from the airport and months abroad would heal something in me. That water pressure. That laminar flow. That cooling sensation. There’s a certain comfort and privilege in spraying until you’re bored, knowing you have achieved peak cleanliness without checking.
I was not born into this accessible luxury. In the 1990s, most Vietnamese families, mine included, made do with a squat toilet, a water basin, and a big plastic mug. In the 2000s, when we managed to save enough money to renovate our childhood home, a seated toilet and accompanying bum gun became part of the picture for the first time.
The presence of bum guns became my personal hallmark to gauge Vietnam’s progress as I traveled across the country. To see if people’s lives got better, a comfortable toilet with a bum gun is usually the first sign. They started appearing at rest stops along highways to Đà Lạt and the Mekong Delta, and at public venues like malls and airports. From a luxury, the bum gun transitioned to a staple amenity at every home.
An assortment of bathrooms at Saigon coffee shops. Recognize any?
Imagine my disbelief when I landed in Changi, widely considered one of the best airports in the world, just to see nary a bum gun in sight. A total eclipse of the butt. I did an informal poll in my social circle. The US, UK, Australia, Canada, Ecuador, China, Taiwan: these are but a few nations existing sans bum guns. While you’re reading this, there are people going about their day in those countries alongside dingleberries.
France is often credited with inventing the bidet, nozzles not included. Japan, of course, has built a global reputation for multifunctional smart toilets. Yet it is unclear who invented the bum gun. It might not have been Vietnam, but we have cultivated such a rich bum gun culture that I think it’s high time we take the lead to propagandize the beauty of bum guns to the world. I want bum guns to be a basic human right, the result of a social movement that Vietnam spearheaded. You, too, deserve a squeaky clean ass, comrade.
