Amid these countless assumptions, Asians living in the world often struggle to stay true to their identities.

But we are more than these labels. We have unique potential, abilities, and even shortcomings. Being Asian doesn’t mean we must be good at math, quiet, or submissive.

Our campaign aims to amplify the voices of Asians who embrace their individuality, challenge stereotypes, and redefine what it means to be Asian.

Yes, we are Asian.

Who are you? Tell us your story.

“Wanna share?”

It was a stranger, but I didn’t hesitate to step under it. We stood side by side, exchanging a few awkward words.

“This rain really came out of nowhere.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t in the forecast.”

After a short walk, we reached my stop.

“Take care.”

I handed the umbrella back and ran off.

A thought crossed my mind.

Just a moment ago, they were a stranger. But now, they’re someone I’ll remember.

But when I got older, I realized her hands built everything I know. They carried my mother across rice fields. They sewed my first dress. They held mine when I was afraid.

Now, when I look at my own hands, I see her. I see strength. I see resilience. I see love.

And I hope, one day, someone looks at my hands and sees the same.

For years, I let teachers, classmates, baristas butcher it—turning it into something shorter, easier, less “foreign.” I smiled politely when they hesitated, waiting for me to offer them a simpler version. I laughed it off when people asked, “Do you have an English name?” as if my real name was an inconvenience.

I used to feel embarrassed when someone struggled with it. I would quickly correct them and move on, trying not to make a fuss. When teachers paused during roll call, staring at the paper for too long, I knew it was me. “Just call me Anna,” I’d say before they even attempted it. It was easier that way.

But the older I got, the more I realized that my name carries weight. It carries history, my family, my ancestors, my culture. It carries me. It’s the name my parents whispered with love when I was born, the name my grandmother used in bedtime stories, the name that connects me to my roots.

So no, I won’t be giving you an easier version. I won’t shrink myself to fit your comfort. If you can learn Beethoven, Daenerys, and Tchaikovsky, you can learn my name too.

Say it correctly. Or at least try. Because my name deserves to be heard.

But I couldn’t let go of what I loved. Inspired by artists like Keshi, a Vietnamese American singer who carved his own path, I started writing lyrics that reflected my struggles, dreams, and identity. Music became my way of expressing what words alone couldn’t. I wrote about growing up caught between two cultures, about feeling invisible, about proving that I belong.

At first, I kept my music to myself, afraid of being judged. But the more I shared, the more I realized I wasn’t alone. Other Asian kids told me they felt the same way—that they were tired of being put in a box, of being told what they could or couldn’t do.

Now, I create music that speaks to others like me. I rap about what it means to be Asian in a world that tries to define us. I break the stereotypes, not just for myself, but for those who come after me.

Being Asian doesn’t mean fitting into expectations. It means finding your own voice—and I’ve found mine.

There are countless things I want to master and experiences I wish to have, yet time is limited. I cannot do everything, so I must make choices at every turn. But choices are never easy—there is no perfect decision, and moments without regret are rare.

Perhaps, the difficulty of choosing stems from a lack of true growth and certainty. Yet, I believe that through these struggles, through questioning and challenging myself, I will emerge stronger and more resolute.

At first, these completely opposite sides of me were confusing. I used to think, "This is who I am," and lived believing and saying so—but in reality, that wasn’t always true.

Does that make me a liar? Of course not.

Even I don't fully know myself because I'm constantly changing.

I genuinely want to learn about other people's experiences, cultures, and perspectives to expand my own world. So I’ve been making an effort to do just that. As I encounter new worlds, my values—my beliefs—also evolve.

I am who I am.

One thing that never changes is my desire to be a good one. I’ve always cared about justice. I constantly ask myself, "Is this really right? Is it okay? Is it fair? Does it hurt anyone?"—whether it's about someone's actions, a social phenomenon, or even my own thoughts and behaviors.

I've always sought definite answers, absolute truths, and clear periods (.) at the end of every question. But the world is full of question marks (?). With so many different people (or even things?) coexisting, how could there be just one right answer? Sentences can end with question marks too. (Though, I admit, I'm still struggling to accept that—haha.)

Still, deeply contemplating and discussing these question marks is necessary, just like my pursuit of the good one.

I remember the first time I heard Keshi’s music—it was raw, emotional, and honest. It showed me that Asian artists could carve their own space in a genre that wasn’t traditionally seen as ours. That was when I started writing my own lyrics, rapping about my experiences as an outsider, about the pressure to meet expectations, about the moments when I felt invisible. I started performing at local events, blending English and Tagalog in my songs, making music that felt true to me.

Even now, people sometimes give me strange looks when I step up to the mic. They assume I’m just another Asian kid trying to imitate American culture, but hip-hop isn’t just American—it’s global. It’s a way to express pain, identity, and resistance, and no one can tell me I don’t belong in it. Every time I perform, I’m not just proving something to others—I’m proving it to myself. This is my voice, my story, and no stereotype can define me.

As a kid, I was drawn to the raw, electric energy of rock music. My friends were learning dance routines to their favorite K-pop songs, but I was teaching myself how to play guitar, spending hours trying to master Jimi Hendrix riffs. When I told my parents I wanted to join a band, they were skeptical. “Why not play something more elegant, like the violin?” they asked. “Rock music isn’t for girls.” But I didn’t care.

I fought for my passion, sneaking out to local gigs, finding people who shared my love for alternative music. Eventually, I started performing with my own band, writing songs that reflected my own experiences as a Korean girl who didn’t fit the mold. Now, when I step onto the stage, I feel free. I don’t have to be the quiet, obedient girl that society expects me to be. I don’t have to conform to K-pop culture just because I’m Korean. I am an artist, and I am here to make noise.

But my passion was never in programming. It was in storytelling.

Ever since I was a kid, I loved movies. I was fascinated by how a great film could transport you into another world, how directors like Bong Joon-ho and Wong Kar-wai could challenge perspectives and tell stories that resonated across cultures. I wanted to do the same. But every time I told someone I wanted to be a filmmaker, they looked at me like I was throwing my potential away.

Even my parents struggled to understand. “There aren’t many Asian directors in Hollywood,” they’d say. “Why don’t you do something more stable?” But I couldn’t let go of my dream. I started filming short movies with my phone, writing scripts, editing late into the night. I knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but I also knew I had something to say.

I’m not here to build the next viral app. I’m here to tell stories that challenge, inspire, and redefine what it means to be Asian in the world of cinema.

It hurts. No matter how much I try to prove myself, people assume I don’t belong. When I was younger, I would go out of my way to downplay my heritage. I stopped bringing Vietnamese food to school after kids laughed at the smell of fish sauce. I refused to speak Vietnamese in public, afraid of the stares. I wanted so badly to be accepted.

But as I grew older, I realized something why should I have to erase myself to fit in? Why should I be ashamed of the culture that raised me? Now, I proudly eat pho in public, speak Vietnamese with my parents, and educate people when they ask ignorant questions.

I am Vietnamese. I am French. And I refuse to let anyone make me feel like I am anything less than both.

I told my parents, but they just sighed. “Ignore it,” they said. “That’s just how things are.”

But how could I ignore it when it kept happening? When strangers shouted slurs at me on the bus? When I got rejected from a job and later overheard the manager say, “We don’t want too many Asians working here”?

For a long time, I tried to be what they wanted a “good” immigrant, the quiet, agreeable girl who didn’t make a fuss. But no matter what I did, it was never enough.

So I stopped trying to fit into their expectations.

Now, I use my voice. I work with organizations that fight for Asian representation, that push back against racism in schools, workplaces, and the media. People tell me I should “be grateful” that I live in the UK. But gratitude doesn’t mean accepting discrimination. It means fighting to make things better for the next generation.

I am not quiet. I am not submissive. And I will not be erased.

Although my major is Industrial Engineering, I have a strong passion for drawing, music (especially rock and indie music), English, literature, and other humanities-related subjects. Since I belong to the natural sciences campus of my university, most people around me are interested in coding, math, physics, chemistry, and similar fields. However, my interests are not limited to engineering alone.

That’s why I chose Industrial Engineering, a field that blends business, math, and coding. I figured that by selecting this major, I would have a better chance to utilize both my engineering and social sciences skills. I haven’t decided on a specific career path yet, but I want to keep exploring various fields—not just in engineering but in many other areas as well.