When they first drew up plans for a citywide tramway network in 1894, it seemed as though the Hanoi authorities would follow Saigon’s example by opting for steam traction. Yet, by the time government approval was forthcoming in 1899, advances in technology made it possible to construct the entire system as a state-of-the-art, one-meter gauge electric tramway.

In 1900, the Compagnie des Tramways Électriques d’Hanoï et Extensions (CTEH) was to set up to build the first two tramway lines, which were jointly inaugurated in November 1901.

A CTEH Line 1 tram at the Place des Cocotiers terminus.

Setting out from the Place des Cocotiers terminus next to the Petit Lac (Hoàn Kiếm Lake), Line 1 led southward to Bạch Mai and Line 2 northeastward to Giấy village, near today’s Bưởi Market. A subsequent decision of July 20, 1905 authorized the extension of Line 1 to Chợ Mơ on the Route Circulaire (now Đại La Street).

A CTEH Line 1 tram passes the Petit Lac.

In 1904, work began on Line 3, which led east from the Petit Lac to the Pagode des Corbeaux (the Temple of Literature) and then headed southwest to Thái Hà Ấp. This line was extended to Hà Đông in 1914 and to Cầu Đơ Market in 1938.

A CTEH Line 3 tram at Hà Đông.

Construction of Line 4 got under way in 1907. Following the path of Line 3 from Place des Cocotiers to the Pagode des Corbeaux, it then branched westward to the Pont du Papier (Cầu Giấy).

In its early years, despite its apparent popularity, the Hanoi tramway network suffered continuous financial problems. Until as late as 1913, CTEH remained a deficitary operation. Thereafter, profits remained relatively modest, precluding adequate maintenance on its rolling stock, track, catenary and buildings. In 1929, the increasingly run-down network was taken over by the Compagnie des Tramways du Tonkin (CTT), which upgraded large stretches of track and catenary and ordered replacement second-generation tractor and trailer sets from France.

It was under the CTT that the final stage of network expansion was implemented. A decision of November 14, 1930 authorized the creation of Line 5, which branched off Line 3 and headed south along the Route Mandarine to Kim Liên and northward from Place Neyret to Yên Phụ on the Red River Dyke. In 1943, Line 5 was extended further south as far as the Route Circulaire, in order to serve the René Robin Hospital, the radio station and Bạch Mai airfield. With the completion of Line 5, the tramway network in Hanoi had reached approximately 30 kilometers in length.

13 CTEH Line 3 tram at Place Neyret.

In 1952, at the height of the First Indochina War, the CTT was renamed the Société des Transports en Commun de la Région d'Hanoï. However, on June 1, 1955, this company ceased operations and all track, equipment and rolling stock was transferred to the new Democratic Republic of Vietnam.

A Hanoi Line 1 tram (1927 stock) heads south along Hàng Bài towards Bạch Mai in 1960.

Unlike its Saigon counterpart, the Hanoi tramway system continued to function for nearly 30 years after independence. In fact, in 1968 the Hanoi People’s Committee even built an additional spur from the Cửa Nam junction along Cột Cờ Street (now Điện Biên Phủ) and Hùng Vương Street, rejoining Line 2 south of Trúc Bạch Lake. However by the early 1980s, track, catenary and rolling stock had deteriorated to the extent that the tramway was no longer fit for its purpose. Line 1 (Bạch Mai Phong) was closed in 1982, followed in subsequent years by Line 4 (Cầu Giấy), Line 3 (Hà Đông), Line 5 (Yên Phụ) and finally, in 1989, Line 2 (Đường Bưởi).

A Hanoi Line 2 tram (1927 stock) picture in the 1980s.

Line 4 (Cầu Giấy) was offered a brief reprieve of sorts in 1986, when the route was taken over by a small donated fleet of old trolley buses from Eastern Europe. The Hanoi-Cầu Giấy trolley bus fleet outlasted the trams, soldiering on until 1993 when it, too, fell victim to modernization.

Tim Doling is the author of the guidebooks Exploring Huế (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2018), Exploring Saigon-Chợ Lớn (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2019) and Exploring Quảng Nam (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2020) and The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam (White Lotus Press, 2012) For more information about Saigon history, visit his website, historicvietnam.com.

In the history of architecture, rarely have we seen such a challenging movement as Vietnamese modernism. Not only does it show how a culture evolves and expresses itself across historical epochs through its building practice, from the traditional to colonial and eventually modern period, but the language of Vietnamese vernacular modernism also reveals deeper understandings of human creative potential.

A typical modernist house in Saigon.

Vietnamese modernist architecture is remarkable for its inventive use of modernist elements. Louvers, planters, pergolas, and brise-soleils — initially functional micro-climatic devices — are composed in an extremely intensive way, with elements being placed not only for functional reasons, but also seem to play a role in personal artistic expression.

Started in the mid-20^th century, during the decolonization process, modernist architecture was the language through which the Vietnamese modern state projected its identity. It reflected how Vietnamese architects had mastered the expression of industrial materials like concrete, steel, and glass, using a modernist design philosophy. Functionality and rationality was the spirit of the new architecture, refusing glamorous decorations and arbitrary rules to embrace a modern and free, optimistic and future-oriented architecture.

Saigon's V.A.R building exemplifies modernist principles on a grand scale. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Joyful composition using reinforced concrete.

Buildings like the V.A.R building, Unification Palace, VOH building, Library of General Sciences, designed by the first generation of Vietnamese modernist architects like Lê Văn Lắm, Ngô Viết Thụ, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, and numerous others, had not only brought the modernist language to the public, but also rewrote it for the tropical climate. By learning from traditional architecture, rather than constraints, they harvested the movements of air, water, shade and plants to tropicalize modernism in a distinctive manner, inventing a rich glossary of louvers, overhangs, planters and brise-soleil designs.

Adoption of modernist brise-soleil in individual dwellings.

Unexpectedly, during this process, a parallel development of modernism occurred in Vietnam. For the first time, the population had acquired this new language and used it to design their houses in both urban and rural contexts, without architects. Based on generally accepted templates, the general masses crafted artworks of personal expression on the modernist façades of their houses. The micro-climatic devices mentioned above were reinvented once more.

Ordinary creative display of modernist elements by the people. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

From a widespread use of those devices, a unique language emerged. Rather than sophisticated functional calculations, architectonic elements like planters, louvers, brise-soleils are placed intuitively and spontaneously as in a poetic visual game, without losing their purposes. Ordinary people, across Vietnamese regions, using a common grammar and vocabulary built out of functional elements, crafted creative expressions of personal taste for their houses. Consequently, the language of modernist design was domesticated by the local design culture to become a completely independent creative enterprise; a parallel modernism that is popular and without authorship.

Even though Vietnamese vernacular modernism seems spontaneous, there is an underlying structure common to all designs, a kind of generative code, with its own syntax and lexicon that the population uses to create and iterate. Individual results, despite being unique pieces, are recognizable as members of a common language.

Walking through the urban landscape of Saigon today offers a spectacle of individuals who had picked and tweaked the designs of planters, louvers, brise-soleils to their whims, yet somehow always following certain common orders that automatically integrate passive shading and natural ventilation. An element, like a planter, reappears and travels within a city, or even across cities, but not one single planter is identical to the rest. These features made modernism vernacular in Vietnam, due to its intimate relation with the climatic context, as much as to its relation with the cultural characters, one inclined to the joyful play of structure, elements and their interlocking shade.

Planter design with supporting “brackets.”

The architectural landscape became a display of creative conversations. There seems to be a subconscious forum where ideas were exchanged and circulated. Modernist designs then became a collectively lived experience, yielding an unprecedented architectural current that is more spontaneous, natural, poetic and spiritual than what conventional modernist principles would normally tolerate.

Vietnamese modernism represents a distinctive moment within global modernism. For the first time, the modernist language was extracted from an institutional practice by regular people to be reinjected into their building culture. That culture then became an autonomous, yet largely anonymous modernist current.

This phenomenon sheds light on two subconscious cultural processes. First, vernacular practice can exist in modernity, contrary to the public’s generally perceived ideas about modernist movements. Vietnamese modernist architecture makes the case that culturally and environmentally sensitive architectural responses can be achieved within industrial societies. Through a collective climatic intelligence and a particular aesthetics, these structures attach themselves to the practicality and sensuality of Vietnamese living habits.

Second, it explicates a profound aspect of human nature that spans across cultural activities. Almost identical to a natural language, Vietnamese vernacular modernism exhibits the exercise of a strong collective grammar and vocabulary, with expressions embedded with personal tastes, nuances, and inflections, similar to regional accents or individual speech styles.

There seems to exist a more profound mental language of culture, one that dictates across human expressions. As a part of this creative linguistic capacity, Vietnamese vernacular modernism sheds light on how the human spiritual self manifests through physical expressions, as an individual and as a community. In this sense, architecture, beyond being a professional discipline, is a cultural act, the product of a collective conscience.

These characteristics of Vietnamese modernism invite us to reconsider how architectural value is understood. It is not only the “scholarly” architecture practiced by a few, but rather the popular practice that best reflects the built environment’s cultural and geographical codes. Contrary to a kind of formalism theorized by a private group, Vietnamese vernacular modernism is achieved by the masses, from the bottom up, growing naturally as a language system — a living cultural substance that transforms, matures, and evolves according to the community in which it is spoken, a process that gives form to ideas, styles, and tastes, reflecting that community’s singular relationship with reality.

Vernacular modernism in Vietnam also offers a different way to look at architecture history. One has to briefly forget rigid architectural principles to look at design and build as a social and cultural phenomenon. The anonymous speakers of this architectural language were also the anonymous authors of the vast majority of the built environment. Unlike institutional modernism, it gives us a break from elitist and privileged architectural currents to look at the beauty of everyday people’s ordinary “speech.” In doing so, it advocates for the unofficial and unnoticed in architectural history. It pushes us to think not only outside the “scientistic” sphere of architecture, but also beyond the commonly known modernist centers of the world, to consider architecture as an ordinary yet fundamental activity of human expression.

Too little has been said about vernacular modernism in architecture, just as too little has been said about Vietnamese modernism in relation to the world’s. Perhaps it is time to take a leave from over-theorized aesthetics and start finding poetry in ordinary languages.

Though I’ve known about momos for quite some time, it was only recently when I first visited Om Momo — a cozy little Tibetan restaurant tucked deep inside a dark nook in Thảo Điền — that I finally tried momos. Inside, one finds a world with a life of its own: at its center stands a mysterious figure, thinly veiled by a cylindrical sheath of turquoise; hung on the walls are vibrantly colored photographs and artworks; and between them sit tables of diners who gaze and converse around salt-rock lamps that warmly illuminate the room.

For those unfamiliar with the dish, the momo is a Tibetan dumpling, distinct from other dumplings in a few key ways. Importantly, the dough is thicker and thus chewier, and its meaty filling is considerably minimalist — which Om Momo’s owner Tsering Tashi Gyalthang attributes to the lack of abundance of ingredients in the mountains of Tibet. At Om Momo, one can choose between a filling of lamb, beef, or chicken, though they also serve a delicious vegetarian spinach and cheese momo. As Tsering puts it, the taste of momos are “pure” in that they emphasize and foreground the natural flavors of its ingredients.

Tsering (left) opened Om Momo in a secluded corner of a residential compound in Thảo Điền.

From producing videos to momos

The journey that brought Tsering — a man who seemingly embodies a combination of charisma and soft gentleness — to open Om Momo is a strange and fascinating one. Ever since arriving in Vietnam as a young man in the early 2000s, Tsering has worked as a filmmaker and director, mostly on boutique commercial films and advertising, though from time to time, also on artistic and documentary films. His career as an ad director took a turn two years ago, however, when he hosted some of his Tibetan friends to work on a film in the Mekong Delta as part of State of Statelessness, an anthology film exploring the Tibetan experience of statelessness that has now screened in prestigious film festivals across the world.

Prayer flags above the al fresco area at Om Momo.

During their visit, he and his friends frequently made and shared food together, including, above all, momos — as Tsering explains, momos are a dish that is communal by nature due to the incredible amount of work that goes into each stage of making them. Such an experience was not anything new, as he was used to frequently hosting Tibetans passing by the city as Tibet’s “unofficial ambassador” to Vietnam, as he jokingly calls himself. Yet, this time, the communal experience of making and sharing momos left him craving for more. “All these years making advertisements as a director, it was never mine, no matter how beautiful I made it,” he recalled reflecting afterwards. “I was feeling at the time I wanted to do something very human. I wanted to do something by hand, something I could hold.” He decided that, whatever happens, he wanted his next project to be related to food.

Mastering how to make dumplings was the owner's personal project in 2024.

The following year in 2024, he thus embarked on a project to devote the year to learning just one thing: making the perfect dumpling. He first went back to his hometown to learn from his friends and mom, frequenting old favorite places to get inspiration. When he returned to Saigon with the new knowledge and insights he gained, he started making dumplings at home every day. With the oversupply of dumplings, he offered his cooking to his friends, who tasted all versions, beginning with what Tsering describes as “really terrible” first trials all the way to the momos that one can now find at Om Momo.

The cozy interior of the restaurant.

Though his friends frequently floated the idea of selling his dumplings, Tsering had always been resistant to it. “I was still very uncomfortable about selling,” he explained. “I've been an artist my whole life… and as artists, we always have a kind of shyness about selling our work.” Yet, by the end of his year of making momos, Tsering felt like he was not only more patient, but also braver to tackle new things than ever before.

Thus, when his neighbor who ran a cafe asked if he wanted to take over their spot, he surprisingly said yes. “If somebody had asked me this a year before, I would have said hell no. But because of a year of meditating while making momos, I thought: Why not? Let’s do it. I called up Anto, my best friend back home, to come right away to give me a hand. And that’s how we started.”

A home in Saigon for momos and other Tibetan treats

The striking grace and beauty of Om Momo’s momos are perhaps a testament to the incredible amount of time and effort that Tsering put into mastering their form and taste. Traditionally, momos are had plain, often dipped into a fermented Tibetan chili sauce. Om Momo offers three different house-made condiments at three different levels of spice, all delicious with their own unique flavor profiles, the spiciest bringing with it quite the punch and tingle.

Guess which one of these chili sauces is the spiciest.

But though Om Momo offers momos plain, they also serve momos on a bed of Indian-style curry sauce with an assortment of spices — each type of momo paired with a different type of sauce. As Tsering explains, momos have become quite popular in India, where it is often served along Indian-spiced sauces as street food. Following the 1959 Tibetan Uprising, tens of thousands of Tibetans, including the 14^th Dalai Lama, fled Tibet to seek refuge in India, a country which has since become home to the largest community of Tibetan exiles. Thus, for Tsering, served this way, the dish serves as an homage to India, where he too grew up as a Tibetan refugee in the country’s Northern outskirts.

It is perhaps hard to think of a bite more perfect than a beautifully folded dumpling: a culinary Trojan horse that brings with it a burst of flavor that floods the mouth. Smothered in sauce, the momos become doubly explosive. Much as one reaches for bread to soak up a good sauce, the momo’s chewy dough works wonderfully to accompany the rich gravy and savory filling. I find that there is something extremely satisfying about eating each momo in a single, albeit not so easy to fit, bite, so as to experience its gush of flavor in a single mouthful.

Beef momo

Spinach and cheese momo in green sauce

Chicken momo in yellow sauce

Aside from the specialty momos, the restaurant serves other Tibetan dishes as well. Shapta is a stir-fry dish served with tender beef or chicken with bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes — quite spicy, though its spice works well with the tingmo served on the side, a fluffy Tibetan steamed bun. Other dishes include chicken shamdey, a chicken and potato stew served with rice that Tsering describes as Tibetan comfort food, and kewa datshi, soft potatoes in a rich chili and cheese sauce.

Tibetan bread

Chicken shamdey

Beef shapta

Om Momo’s desserts are also worth trying. Interestingly, Tsering explains that Om Momo’s desserts are inspired by and dedicated to people in this world for whom he cares deeply. The pear poached in red wine and spices atop of the pulp of house-made Tibetan rice wine — the shape of which resembles a lama sitting in meditation — is named the “Drunken Lama,” dedicated to the Bhutanese lama and filmmaker Dzongsar Khyentse Riponche. The chocolate lava cake is dedicated to Tsering’s daughter, who loves chocolate, and the Tibetan rose panna cotta was made to satiate his girlfriend’s seemingly insatiable love for panna cotta.

The ethos of Om Momo is grounded in Tsering’s belief that “food is storytelling.”

After our meal, the Saigoneer team also tried Tibetan butter tea: a kind of fermented black tea mixed with a spoonful of butter. Almost every aspect of the tea comes as a surprise. Firstly, the tea is served in what is best described as a wooden bowl, huge in contrast to what one normally expects of a “cup” of tea. But perhaps what is more surprising is that the tea is salty — and as a result, the tea tastes somewhat like melted, salty hot ice cream. The mix of tea, salt, and butter, Tsering explains, offers Tibetans the boost they need to power through the day. While the butter used at Om Momo is cow butter, traditionally, the tea is made with yak butter, the taste of which Tsering describes as “rancid,” a word which admittedly piqued my curiosity. While butter tea may not be for everyone — myself included, somewhat shamefully — it is worth trying at least once for the experience alone.

The ethos of Om Momo is grounded in Tsering’s impassioned belief that “food is storytelling.” This manifests in the way that the dishes at Om Momo are carefully crafted as embodiments and expressions of certain stories from Tsering’s own life. But more broadly, Tsering views Om Momo as a storytelling project also in that, through it, he hopes to incite curiosity in his guests that might in turn set them on a journey to learn more about Tibet: its history, culture, and people, about whom many people in Saigon know nothing about. “For many people, our food is their first introduction to Tibet,” Tsering explains. “The goal is for everything — the art, the music, the food — to make people curious.”

He hopes to incite curiosity in his guests that might, in turn, set them on a journey to learn more about Tibet.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 12pm–9:30 weekdays, 11:30am–10pm weekends
• Parking: Cars and motorbikes
• Contact: 0918 699 697
• Average cost per person: $$ (around VND200,000 VND)
• Payment: All forms accepted
• Delivery App: N/A

“Tenderly, fondly, Xuân Diệu held on to my wrist, caressing it up and down. Our eyes locked in affection…Xuân Diệu loved me.”

This emotive sentence is an excerpt from writer Tô Hoài’s memoir Cát Bụi Chân Ai, published in 1992. Most well-known for the children’s book Diary of a Cricket, Hoài is one of Vietnam’s most prolific writers, with over 100 literary works in a range of genres. During the First Indochina War, Tô Hoài and Xuân Diệu were stationed in the remote border areas, where they formed a close bond that might have blossomed into something more, according to Hoài’s recollection in the memoir.

Xuân Diệu.

Across modern history, there are accounts and written records that show Tô Hoài wasn’t Xuân Diệu’s only romantic interest. He also has a relationship with poet Hoàng Cát. Through his tender stanzas, Diệu has professed his love for a number of male contemporaries, despite homosexuality being deemed a deviant illness by much of society at the time. Perhaps that’s a major factor why his poetry is drenched in longing and a hopeless sense of loneliness.

It has been almost four decades since Xuân Diệu passed away, and we can only learn of his life and relationships via poems and anecdotes. A significant portion of Xuân Diệu’s oeuvre belongs to the love poetry genre, so it’s natural that the fragments we can now glean from his life might help soothe a new generation of Vietnamese experiencing love the same way Diệu once did.

The king of love poetry

Ngô Xuân Diệu was born in 1916 in Bình Định. His literary talent flourished early. When he was 21 years old, he became the youngest member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn, or the Self-Reliant Literary Group in English, a collective of distinguished writers in the mid-20^th century. Diệu was introduced to the public by earlier member Thế Lữ as a “wunderkind” with “a radiant and ardent soul living in gentle yet sensual, passionate yet impulsive verses.”

Xuân Diệu is the only member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn who was honored with a street in Vietnam. Photos by Linh Phạm.

And what did that “radiant soul” imbue in his poetry? According to Associate Professor Trần Văn Toàn of the Modern Vietnam Literature department at the Hanoi National University of Education, there is ample evidence of same-sex romance in Xuân Diệu’s poems.

Toàn explains: “For example, in the poem ‘Với bàn tay ấy’ [lit: With that hand] dedicated to Huy Cận, the couplet ‘with your hand holding mine / the pain of my days subsides’ has the sentiments of a lover’s sweet nothings. An intimate atmosphere permeates the poem.”

He also quotes a handful of other doting lines such as “On a dark night, full of clouds / a tree seeks a flower, bending down / the flower seeks the grass, while the grass / leans on the moss, night enshrouds” — as if the entire universe is in love, folding in within itself. The passion reaches a crescendo in the last two lines: “Beneath the joyous moon, my gaze still seeking / the trace of that hand within mine.”

It is widely believed that Xuân Diệu (left) and Huy Cận (right) shared something more than friendship. Later on, Huy Cận married Ngô Xuân Như (middle), Diệu's sister.

Professor Toàn shares another example of Xuân Diệu, in the poem ‘Tương tư, chiều…’ [lit: Afternoon longing…], there are lines like:

One might easily interpret this as the love profession of a heterosexual relationship, but in Xuân Diệu’s first poetry collection Thơ thơ (Poésies), this poem is positioned right before ‘Với bàn tay ấy.’ The last line of ‘Tương tư, chiều…’ seems to have a smooth connection with the first line of ‘Với bàn tay ấy’:

Toàn believes that there could be a thematic progression that reflects a same-sex subtext quite clearly. When Thơ thơ was published in 1938, Xuân Diệu was also writing Chàng với chàng, or Man and Man. Unfortunately, this collection was never published.

When Thơ thơ was published in 1938, Xuân Diệu was also writing Chàng với chàng, or Man and Man. Unfortunately, this collection was never published.

However, these traces of same-sex affection were not mentioned when Xuân Diệu was alive. They were only recognized later on after stories of the poet’s private relationships were publicized. According to Professor Toàn, this obfuscation could be explained by the societal context of the time, as for an extended period of time the mindset of Vietnamese readers was entrenched in the depths of heteronormative culture.

A view from education

Each reader can form their own interpretation when faced with literary texts, but in the context of Vietnam’s public institutions, a “standardized” viewpoint is often imposed on students. That perspective can alienate some students who might not belong to the norm.

Trần Nhật Quang, an officer in charge of the LGBTI rights program at the Institute for Studies of Society, Economics and Environment (iSEE), says of his own experience learning about Xuân Diệu in school: “When we were taught his poetry, I heard talk that Xuân Diệu might not be straight. So when my teacher went through the lesson and mentioned how Xuân Diệu was into some lady, I felt a little annoyed inside. Because I thought that it was an incorrect literary interpretation, especially rendered through the teacher’s lens of male-female heterosexuality. Everyone was taught that love is just something between a man and a woman, but to me, love is so much more than that.”

In 2018, Quang collaborated with Hà Nội Queer, a group of young people passionate about changing the public perception of the LGBTQ community in Vietnam. Quang created scripts for the project’s informative videos on Vietnam’s queer history. He explains that after he could hear more stories about his community through history including that of Xuân Diệu, that childhood frustration turns into contentment.

Xuân Diệu (right) and Huy Cận (left).

“I was very happy to learn about such episodes of history, knowing that in actuality, there are many figures in the literature syllabus or elsewhere that were not as heterosexual as the teachers were saying,” Quang recalls. “I could somehow see myself in those lessons in class because they have always referred to heterosexual love when teaching about love, so I never felt myself in those lectures, I didn’t feel that I belonged to whatever was being taught.”

Regarding the vague discussion of Xuân Diệu’s orientation in a pedagogical setting, Professor Toàn says that he could understand the teachers’ reservation in alluding to same-sex love because it still generates polarizing views in the community. But personally, Toàn actively encourages his students to research and discuss this aspect of Xuân Diệu’s life when teaching his poetry.

“When I teach, I myself do mention it [Xuân Diệu’s same-sex relationships],” he shares. “Because I think it’s a factor that will help us gain a deeper understanding into the realm of emotions encapsulated in Xuân Diệu’s poetry.”

“Moreover, this discussion will also help students learn how to behave in an environment with diversity. How we treat people who are different from us defines our culture.”

From forbidden to accepted

During Xuân Diệu’s era, homosexual relationships were marginalized, even demonized. Phạm Khánh Bình, Hà Nội Queer’s co-founder, explains: “Before, the word ‘same sex’ didn’t exist, they [homosexual people] were referred to as ái nam, ái nữ [lit: hermaphrodite]. And it’s in my understanding that people view it as something unscrupulous, deviant, debauched, or even perverted. So there’s no doubt that LGBT people back then would feel suffocated, especially when your own identity is seen as something sick, something sinful.”

In the memoir Cát Bụi Chân Ai, Tô Hoài writes that, for two nights in a row, Xuân Diệu was disciplined for fraternization. He was heavily chastised, and not a single soul, not even his friends or alleged lovers, stood up for him. Xuân Diệu didn’t deny the charges, just “said through his tears 'that’s my man love… my man love…!' At once, he couldn’t speak anymore, tears filled his eyes, but he resolutely did not make any promise to stop.”

The villa at 24 Cột Cờ (now Điện Biên Phủ street) in Hanoi where Xuân Diệu and Huy Cận used to stay.

Perhaps, living through those hardships, to Xuân Diệu, “to love, is to die a little bit inside.” But even then, he continued to love, and to spread that love in his poetry. Such self-honesty turns his story into priceless materials for people like Quang and Bình to share with their community. 

“When I learned that there are queer, non-conforming people in our books, in our history, I felt represented, and I realized that Vietnam is actually very diverse,” Quang says. “And when members of our community know that somewhere in our history, there are people who were like them, those who differed from the labels out there, people will feel that they belong — it’s a time-transcending connection.”

This article was originally published in 2023.

The alarm goes off at 3am. By 3:30am, scooters laden with empty crates and baskets are already moving through the dark lanes and sandy passages towards Hội An's coast. Long before the old town wakes, the beaches along the shore are coming alive with engines, head torches, waves, and fishermen preparing to return to land. Thankfully, coffee is readily available almost anywhere.

A woman walks the shoreline before sunrise as fishing boats wait offshore near Hội An.

This is a different side of Hội An and its surrounding region, away from the lanterns and Instagram cafés, from the topless tourists and coconut boat rides. Here, the coastline wakes early. Boats return through rough surf, while buyers wait eagerly in the water, ready to pull the morning catch onto the sand.

Local fishermen arriving on shore and are pretty pleased about it.

Fishermen haul a coracle through heavy surf at sunrise on the coast.

The sea controls everything here. Timing is everything. Boats wait beyond the breakwaters before committing smaller coracles to the shore. Crews and buyers alike jump into the surf to steady them, rushing the catch in baskets and sacks to the shoreline.

Women await the arrival of the fishing boats from deeper waters offshore.

For photographers, that unpredictability and almost constant action is what makes mornings like these so rewarding. No two mornings are the same, and the conditions change minute by minute as the light slowly illuminates the sky before it reaches the shoreline.

Buyers rush into the water as boats arrive with the morning catch.

A woman carries the squid she has purchased to sell at market.

As daylight reaches the beach, the shoreline becomes a temporary seafood market. People crowd round and jostle for position as impromptu auctions take place. Fish are sorted directly beside the water while traders move quickly between boats, baskets, and waiting scooters. There is no performance to it. People are working against time, tide, and heat before the sun fully rises.

Local vendors crowd around the morning catch as simultaneous auctions hurriedly take place.

Crates arrive at market.

Unloading the fresh catch at the market.

One of the things I enjoy most about photographing these mornings is how connected everything feels to the people around you and the sea itself. The surf shapes the pace of the market, the movement of the boats, and the rhythm of everyone working along the shoreline. Just be ready to get into the waves. It helps. I promise.

Sardines brought ashore.

Keeping the books correct as the market begins to slow.

Further along the coast and river mouths, the morning continues as catches are unloaded and sorted before heading inland towards local markets and restaurants across the region.

Negotiations tend to ramp up in intensity as the morning gets lighter.

Ongoing negotiations over the fresh catch.

Preparing squid for transport to market.

Freshly caught sardines.

For visitors wanting to experience a more local side of Hội An, these fishing beaches offer something entirely different from the old town. The mornings are raw, fast-moving, and shaped entirely by offshore conditions.

Fishermen return to shore after a night at sea.

Pete Walls is a Hội An-based photographer. To learn more about his photography practice and tours, visit his website here.

“Cooped up in my apartment-cage in Tân Định, I created, with scissors and glue, dummy after dummy of a cosmopolitan rag positively pumping with scandals and half-truths. I was having a lot of fun dreaming of a magazine that I would never be able to do. And buried somewhere in that detritus on the floor—advertising cutouts and newspaper clippings—was Yellow … Once I knew I had the name, the magazine more or less made itself, as though the name determined the rest, ie, form and content,” writes Minh Bui of the birth of Yellow, his “what-do-I-do-after-Mekong Review magazine.”

Mekong Review holds a special place in the hearts of many Saigoneers. Filled with insightful reportage, book reviews, photography, and a smattering of fiction and poetry, the full size newwprint magazine focused on the Mekong Region. Since its founding in 2015, it provided a platform to writers and topics that are otherwise overlooked, particularly in a large, delightfully tactical format. For a variety of reasons, it has been much harder to find new issues of the Mekong Review in Vietnam during the past few years, and Minh sold it in 2022, leaving avid supporters to wonder what he would do next. Yellow is the answer.

Minh Bui Jones opens the Mekong Review a month before the idea for Yellow. Photo by Vi Nguyen via Yellow's Substack.

Modelled on Granta and Freeman's, Yellow, which will be published twice a year, made its debut in early May. Each issue will feature fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors and emerging writers from Southeast Asia and beyond, centered around a theme as announced by each title. The first issue is “Parents.” 

In the first issue’s Letter from the editor, Minh shares a heartwarming experience of finding comfort on an impromptu visit to his mom’s favorite city, and concludes: “That’s one of my ‘parent stories.’ We all have one, or more. Not all of them are happy, as some of the stories in this collection attest. But, for better or worse, as Anjan Sundaram writes, they make us who we are. Welcome to Yellow. I hope the magazine speaks for itself. And I hope it speaks to you, dear reader.”

“Parents” contains 11 stories and one photo essay with a diversity of styles, voices, and topics, as is characteristic of the literary magazine format. Best absorbed slowly, piece by piece, some stories might not connect with you while others strike a deep chord; that hodgepodge nature is one of the particular joys of the genre. Inherent in that diversity is the sense that each entry on the table of contents shimmers with the unknown, and nothing in one piece will clue you in as to what follows. In this way, reading a literary magazine is a bit like opening packages. 

Saigoneer won’t spoil the experience by offering any greater detail about what awaits in stories about Indonesia’s last dugong hunters, a son who connects with his mother via old recordings of Vietnamese theatre plays, and one of the architects of Malaysia’s modern history education. Or, as Minh offered in typically self-deprecating fashion, on the journal’s Substack as “Sweet, sad and poignant stories about parents. Like I said, boring, predictable lit mag.”

More information about Yellow, including how to subscribe and find copies, is available on the journal’s website.

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School offers an approach to education where Vietnamese students can step into the wider world with an international academic foundation, flexible language capabilities, and confidence in their roots.

An “international” education has long been understood as a doorway to the world that differs from local education because of greater English fluency, a more global curriculum, and a wider range of opportunities. Many Vietnamese families today are confident about being able to enter the broader world, and now wonder what they will carry with them when they do.

An education for the future should not require Vietnamese children to choose between global integration and personal identity. Children do not need to become “less Vietnamese” in order to become global. On the contrary, the Vietnamese language, Vietnamese culture, and the values nurtured within their family can become the very foundation that helps them move forward with greater confidence in a wider world. This is the spirit that Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School pursues through an educational model that places Vietnamese children at the centre of an international learning journey.

Located in central Saigon, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is an IB World School officially authorised for the International Baccalaureate Primary Years Programme. The school is designed around a continuous learning pathway, where students develop academic capabilities, international-mindedness, and an understanding of themselves from the earliest years of learning. What makes this model distinctive is how the presence of an international curriculum benefits from its placement within the context of Vietnam today.

Through the Dual Language Approach, with Vietnamese and English represented with equal standing, students learn to ask questions, explain ideas, tell their own stories, and view the world through both languages. More than mere school subjects, Vietnamese and English are languages of thinking, inquiry, expression, and cultural connection.

This bilingual emphasis is especially important in an age where “global integration” is sometimes misunderstood as a move away from what constitutes one’s own identity. For children, their mother tongue is not only a tool for communication. It is also how they name their emotions, build relationships with family, receive culture, and form a sense of belonging.

From this foundation, the spirit of “It’s Cool to be Vietnamese” at Viet Nam Tinh Hoa is a way of looking at education: pride in identity does not stand in opposition to global thinking.

A child can love the Vietnamese language, understand Vietnamese culture, and appreciate the values of humanity, etiquette, righteousness, wisdom and integrity, while also learning in English, engaging with international ideas, approaching advanced learning methods, and preparing for an open future.

This vision is further extended through the school’s international academic connections. Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School has long-term strategic partnerships with ReGenerating Education and Harvard Project Zero, along with academic collaborations with Stanford d.school and MIT Media Lab. 

More important than the names of these organizations, they reveal how new educational thinking is brought closer to Vietnamese students in Hồ Chí Minh City.

Through approaches to visible thinking and deep learning, students are encouraged to think beyond correct answers and focus on how they think, listen to multiple perspectives, and articulate their own thinking process. Through design thinking, students learn to observe problems, understand people, test ideas, and improve solutions. Through the spirit of creativity, making, and learning by doing, students engage in experiences that are closely connected to real life, technology, and a changing world. In the classroom, these approaches may begin with very specific moments, including a question raised by a student, a model created as a group, a product tested and refined, or a discussion where each child learns to express their viewpoint while still listening to others. Learning, therefore, is a communal journey of exploration, collaboration, reflection, and gradually creating value.

This approach is also why Viet Nam Tinh Hoa does not speak about “academics” in a narrow sense. The school views each child’s development as a holistic journey, where thinking, emotion, movement, creativity, language, identity, and relationships all play an important role.

Through an educational ecosystem connected with the arts, sports, mental well-being, and personalised experiences, students are seen as learners and individuals growing with their own potential, pace of development, and voice. As education in Vietnam continues to evolve, this model opens a larger question for the parent community: what does it truly mean for a child to be ready for the future?

Perhaps it is not only a child who speaks English fluently, performs well in assessments, or adapts quickly to new technology, but rather one who can think deeply, collaborate, empathise, create, ask questions in the face of uncertainty, and, just as importantly, feel confident in where they come from.

As Vietnam becomes more deeply connected with the world, schools need to help children understand where they begin, the language they use to name the world, and the values they carry with them as they enter new environments. Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is interested in examining how international education helps children stay connected to their identity, and in doing so, understand themselves more deeply as they step into the world with greater confidence. In a future that is always changing, one of the most important forms of preparation for Vietnamese children will likely be establishing the confidence to know where they are from. 

To give parents the opportunity to learn more about this learning model in person, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is organising Open Day 2026 for families seeking a suitable educational pathway for their child in the 2026–2027 academic year.

At the event, parents will have the opportunity to tour the campus, meet the school team, learn more about the International Baccalaureate Primary Years Programme, the Dual Language Approach, the academic development pathway, and the experiences that support students’ holistic development at Viet Nam Tinh Hoa.

Open Day 2026
Time: 09:00 – 11:00, June 11, 2026
Location: Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School, 214 Pasteur, Xuân Hòa Ward Hồ Chí Minh City 70000
To register to attend open day fill out this form

It all started with a sparkle on the horizon, a beam of solar brilliance bouncing off a garish metallic surface.

Scanning the skyline from my Biên Hòa home, I notice a golden spire glimmering in the midday sun. Could my vision be deceiving me, I wonder, forcing my eyes to focus on the distant object, or am I, in fact, looking at something completely ordinary — perhaps a feature of the industrial landscape which surrounds the city?

It can only be one thing, I conclude, after brief deliberation: a stupa, and one of ambitious proportions. The enormous bell shaped tower dominates the vista. But you don't get these in Vietnam, I recall. Thailand, Cambodia, or Myanmar, yes, but surely not here. It turns out there is one here, and I had just found it, a mere 40-minute drive from downtown Saigon.

Bửu Long Pagoda is an idiosyncratic hodgepodge of pan-Southeast Asian architecture, and the bold vision of one man — Lê Văn Giảng — a doctor, civil servant and first abbot of the sanctuary. Established in 1942, the temple complex incorporates sacral forms seldom found in Vietnam.

It is most likely Giảng's extended stay in Phnom Penh that inspired the structure's unique design. The Cambodian doctor, as he is known by the monks, is also widely believed to be responsible for the most recent reintroduction into Vietnam of Theravada Buddhism — the most ancient doctrine of the philosophy, also referred to as Southern Buddhism due to its popularity in Sri Lanka, Thailand, Laos, Burma and Myanmar.

Located in District 9 on the banks of the Đồng Nai River, the temple complex offers a tranquil getaway from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Surrounded by a thick, shady grove, the site is a perfect place to escape the chaos of Saigon, unwind, meditate, and explore the many meandering paths and contained temples.

A monastery found on the site houses ten monks and 30 nuns. They spend their days meditating, chanting and maintaining the 10-hectare property. Typically, those involved in the Buddhist monastic order will renounce meat, intoxicants and earthly possessions, in addition to vowing to remain chaste for the duration of their service.

Devotees come to the pagoda to participate in meditation sessions and chanting led by the monks. These visits are particularly important, as those living in the monastery rely on the daily food donations made by the congregation.

Tuệ Quang, a senior monk at the temple, said the pagoda is open to anyone, regardless of their background or spiritual beliefs. “Pagodas are made to be visited,” he said. “Lê Văn Giảng would not have it any other way.”

Planted in 1959, the enormous tree found behind the main temple was brought to the complex as a sapling by a Sri Lankan monk named Nanda. The tree is thought to be a direct descendant of the Bodhi Tree that once grew at the Mahabodhi Temple in India, believed to be the site of Guatama Buddha's spiritual enlightenment.

Chameleon-shaped dragon heads are among the many foreign elements incorporated into the temple's design. Others include intricately patterned metal features, ubiquitous dharma wheels and, of course, the characteristic gilded towers.

I was told the peaceful atmosphere found at Bửu Long Pagoda is the result of two main factors: the temple's cool, shaded location, and the energy produced by its resident monks during chanting and meditation.

The lush greenery which surrounds the temple complex is particularly striking during the wet season, when daily precipitation fuels plant growth and floral blooms, attracting a multitude of colorful butterflies to the area.

A visit to the area would not be complete without taking a short ferry trip to the nearby Phước Long Temple, located on an island on the Đồng Nai River.

The short ferry ride provides spectacular views of the stupa, framed by the rapidly industrializing banks of the Đồng Nai River.

The gaudy, traditionally Vietnamese Phước Long temple complex, filled with Chinese influences and various deities derived from local folklore, offers a stark contrast to the relatively austere interiors of the buildings found at Bửu Long, where only the Buddha is venerated.

Packed with stalls selling a multitude of offerings, the island is a popular pilgrimage destination for the region's devotees.

The island's vendors sell souvenirs, jewelry and talismans, which can be injected with additional powers through a monk's blessing.

A fortuneteller offers her powers of foresight. Unfortunately, even genuine clairvoyance isn't able to bypass the language barrier, and my fate remains a mystery.

Before leaving the island I'm talked into buying a cage filled with house sparrows — the act of expressing mercy by releasing captive animals is a common practice throughout Asia. Mere minutes later, walking back to the ferry, I slip in a puddle of primordial slime, bruising my tailbone and scraping my ankle — blood and parasitic sludge mixing before my eyes. I'm not sure I buy the whole karma thing.

This article was originally published in 2018.

Having always been a little brother, I had to learn to be a big one when I was 10 years old. In the midst of the confusion of this new role, I found myself pressing my nose to this newborn’s head and inhaling as hard as I could. This “sniff kiss” was not an action I invented. Rather, it was an instinct forged through mimicry: I started noticing from this point that my father and grandmother both did the same thing to me.

As a kid from the diaspora, I lost myself in thoughts over one poem I could relate to within my deepest senses. It's written by renowned Vietnamese-American poet Ocean Vuong, titled ‘Kissing in Vietnamese.’ I felt for the first time that there might be something bigger than me behind this peculiar habit that I thought was idiosyncratic. Vuong shares his experience with those sniff kisses, which he contrasts with western ones and their flashier display of affection. But this modesty makes the intimacy not less intense, as described in this part of the poem:

In researching my heritage to get to root of this habit, I have found that those kisses seem to be typical of Vietnamese people, anchored in the culture. Another aspect of the kiss that is shown here is that it’s usually done by family elders. There are similar customs in many Southeast Asia, according to a study that uses lexical semantic typology through “smell/kiss colexification” to demonstrate that the practice is unique to this region. It actually was a culture shock for European colonizers when they came to Southeast Asia, and many mentioned the quirk in their writings.

The entry for “hôn” (kissing) in the Annamite-French dictionary by Jean Bonet (1899). The description reads: “The olfactory kiss (by inhaling strongly through the nostrils as the Annamites do).”

For me it was never really about my cultural background; rather, it was a vital tool to feel and express affection in my own way. My feelings for it were straightforward: I liked the purity of inhaling the scent of my loved ones, as a way to sense them over and over. At the same time, as Vuong captures in his poem, the kiss could be fierce, born from an endless worry for those dearest to me that can only be soothed by this reassurance of life.

The sniff kiss had become so visceral for me that its cultural implication wasn't clear to me for a long time. It turned into a blurry concept in my mind, midway between an expression of love and a physical scent. The eccentricity of the quirk convinced me it was something my family and I made up, regardless of any country’s traditions. Even now, each time I tilt my head towards my grandmother, so she can sniff my forehead, I am reminded that in all of us there are dormant customs whose existence is beyond us.

Lê Phổ, ‘La Maternité,’ circa 1940s. 

It is up to us to uncover these hidden parts of our heritage by noticing that, be it over time or from a significant event, it is actually an inherited behavior. It might be hard, or even futile, but I find it beautiful that through an autoethnographic process, we can dig out an ancestral link from within each of us about how we love.

Tattoo Therapist, dr.99hz, cd.cadao, goc.viet, Solarist and Baby Nepotism: listing the artists that call Th.ink Room home feels like shouting out the members of a rap clique. Indeed, tattoo artists, more than any other visual artists, are akin to rappers in their use of pseudonyms, so to employ a common hip-hop refrain, Saigoneer became interested in Th.ink Room because “game recognize game.”

Like Saigoneer, the studio, or “art hub for art lovers from all over the world” as they describe it, is dedicated to gathering inspiration from Vietnamese architecture, design motifs, flora, fauna, and history; preserving traditional artwork; telling stories about and through niche passions and forefronting creative expression, united by, as Phi (@tattoo.therapist) puts it, “the ethos of an ever-curious observer, and an ever-diligent maker.”

For such a permanent end result, tattooing too frequently involves an impulsive or careless process and experience. Phi founded Th.ink Room in 2023 to actively work against both, emphasizing, “we care about the whole experience, starting from your connection to the tattoo you are getting and its origins to your artist to how you feel after you leave.”  

Phi (tattoo.therapist) and their designs.

I experienced the studio’s thoughtful approach first-hand last year after seeking out Phi’s detailed black line work. Having grown up in Russia, they were heavily influenced by Europe's golden age of illustration (circa 1880s–1930s). With that inspiration in mind, they developed their signature style while studying art in the UK, but upon graduation, they encountered a market that had little interest in it; clients had moved from print books to websites and wanted color and full images without backgrounds and/or animation. Fortuitously timed requests from friends for tattoo designs introduced the possibility of becoming a tattoo artist. 

Golden age of illustration examples: ‘Then There Came a Wind So Strong that it Blew Off Curdken's Hat’ by Jennie Harbour (left) and ‘Reigning Death’ by Robert Montenegro (right).

During that visit, Phi explained the carefully curated design of the District 1 space. Situated in a classic, low-slung residential block partially repurposed for commercial use, the lobby’s raw clay color calls to mind pottery and the shaping of inspiration into tactile ideas. Clients then proceed to the stark red interior room, where those ideas are metaphorically fired and become permanent. The back garden — where artists and clients hang out before, during, and after sessions — meanwhile, embodies the calm and welcoming vibe that transcends the space. Tattoo artists, with their impressive talent in an art form that, despite increasing mainstream acceptance, continues to carry a hint of rebellion or danger, can be intimidating, but everyone at Th.ink Room is a sweetheart, which contributes to an effortlessly relaxed vibe.

The Th.ink Room lobby and studio space.

So much work; that's Vietnam

A man catching a dragonfly in a tree, a physician checking for a pulse, a hand-pulled wedding procession, a rural notice-board demanding “commit no nuisance,” and 15 types of shoes: these are amongst the thousands of woodblock images produced by 19^th-century French ethnographer Henri Oger and his local team. Saigoneer had written about the work several years ago and recently noticed selected images appearing on Th.ink Room’s Instagram page as available tattoos. 

Original Henri Oger images (top) and Vũ's (@goc.viet) tattoo designs (bottom).

“This is what started it all. I really liked it and was like, who did this?” Phi noted while showing some Oger illustrations that they had come across in an artwork anthology. Inspired to find more, they sought out a tattered copy of his work at a local book shop. “Actually, I nerd it out so hard on this,” Phi said while flipping through illustrations. “Look at that guy, he's wonderful!” they continued while pointing to one of the images and explaining how the single slim volume contained hundreds of illustrations and thus inspiration “So much work; this is just Vietnam,” they concluded. 

Some of the books kept at Th.ink Room.

While online resources help the Th.ink Room team explore their interests and sources of inspiration that range far beyond Vietnam, when it comes to local topics, antique shops have been a part of their process since the beginning. “We used to drive Trần Nhân Tôn Street, which is an antique street, and they have books there as well. We'd look through things that we thought would make good tattoos, and it sort of became a tradition,” Phi explained of early field trips with Trung (@dr.99hz).

Designs and final work by Trung (@dr.99hz).

Those books now get handed over to Vũ (@goc.viet), a young artist whom Phi had mentored at the studio. “I have materials available from books, and I take designs out of them to make tattoos. I research the contexts: which time period they belong to and how the characters are drawn,” Vũ explained of the works he makes and shares on the Instagram account goc.viet, a name that he explained as “here ‘goc’ means both ‘perspective/corner’ and ‘roots/origin,’ so that people will know who we are — we are people born here and we are Vietnamese. And most of the designs I explore are from within Vietnam, even just a certain corner of Vietnam is fine.”

Vũ at work.

Works by Oger and his team, those collected by Nguyễn Thị Thu Hòa, various unfortunately uncredited drawings, such as ones in the margins of revolutionary South Vietnam: the Struggle newspapers from the 1960s and 1970s, or classic Đông Hồ prints — all require alterations to become suitable tattoo designs. Because of their age and printing methods, details are often lost, so Vũ needs to research the image’s purpose, background, and the conventions of the time it was produced to fill in details such as facial expressions and hand positions while making adjustments for line widths to suit the tattoo medium. Within the laborious examination of what to adjust and how, there is also room to include some personal touches. For example, I had requested a portion of the classic Thầy Đồ Cóc (toad teacher) đông hồ and Vũ adjusted its skin texture while Phi advocated for it to have a bigger butt and more impressive steam coming off the tea kettle. Comparing the original and the finished tattoo makes the final product feel like both a matter of preservation and a conversation between artists across time. 

Example of full Thầy Đồ Cóc đông hồ and Vũ's completed tattoo.

More than simply creating works that he hopes will attract customers, Vũ’s recycling of past artists is a matter of pride. “I am Vietnamese, so when I see those images, they remind me of the things my grandparents or parents told me — things I had only heard about before. But today, seeing them in these books, I find them very interesting, yet no one had [made tattoos from them] before. This style of imagery has also been around for a very long time, but no one has developed it further; people just let it be forgotten. Over time, I want to convey it and let everyone know more about the activities of Vietnamese people in the past; these are things that will remain and continue to exist.”

Vũ's designs based on collected đông hồ illustrations.

In addition to his goc.viet account, Vũ operates the vznary account where he posts original artwork that shares some resemblance to his archival pieces but also allows him to explore other impulses. Th.ink Room considers it important to differentiate between tattoo artists (nghệ sĩ xăm) who design original pieces and tattoo technicians (thợ xăm) who execute already existent designs, while emphasizing that one is not better or more valuable than the other, and they both require mastery of different, difficult skills. 

Sample issue of South Vietnam in Struggle newspaper (left) and Vũ's tattoo designs based on the periodical (right).

When using outside images, technicians must be extremely careful, though. Phi has noticed that many in Vietnam and abroad are eager to follow trends and fads and will thus steal ideas and exact designs from living artists who are still around and able to make a living from creations that are incontestably theirs. Not only is such behavior unethical, it's also unneeded. “Here lies an enormous, beautiful graveyard of past illustrators and printmakers whose work is brilliant but lost. Many of these can be reworked into tattoos as a humble nod to our past masters, giving them a second life in a world that is getting further and further away from print,” they conclude. In such instances, the Th.ink Room team makes every effort to provide citations, including source, date, and artist when possible, that they include on their Instagram and share with the clients along with assurance they will never repeat the design on anyone else. Of course, this material cannot be included in the tattoo itself, and thus it’s up to each individual to share the story behind their ink.

Finding inspiration for styles vast yet distinct 

Ngọc feeds goats, the team hangs out in the zoo, Vũ holds a flower, and Trang imitates a statue in Tao Đàn Park.

Fostering warm, memorable experiences, a core mission of Th.ink Room, requires members of the team to genuinely like and appreciate one another, a truth attested to by how frequently they gather outside of the studio. “We spend days together,” Phi said of their routine field trips. “We sit in the same space, but are drawn to different things in those spaces and the different textures.”

Examples of photos the team sends one another.

In addition to these trips to the park, the zoo, interesting buildings, and corners of the city with particular energies, they are frequently sending photos and links to one another, serving as “each other's eyes.” Animals, ducks, and dogs get sent to Trung; prints and illustrations on vases or ceramics go to Vũ; and Vietnamese architectural elements, patterns, and motifs go to Trang (@cd.cadao).

Trang at work.

“At first, [my style] stemmed from the fact that I just liked ethnic patterns because I spent some time going to the highlands and saw the people there embroidering very beautiful patterns on their clothing. Later on, as I worked and learned about the meaning of these patterns and about the different ethnic groups, I found it very interesting, and I could learn a lot more about the culture, and about the specific techniques,” explained Trang of her handpoke designs. Her method of engaging with past artwork is less one of ethnographic preservation and more a matter of finding inspiration. Ethnic minority embroideries and motifs mingle with organic elements, typography and architecture to become wholly original works. “I draw inspiration from everything — I could listen to a song, read a poem, or read a newspaper… Then it comes along with my memories, my emotions, my own thoughts, and inadvertently, it becomes relatable to everyone.” 

Able to offer explanations and academic sources for many of her influences, Trang creates work that is, according to Phi, “very well researched; she can speak about it in a lot of detail.” Of course, no one needs to know the context, details and story behind an image to appreciate it, let alone permanently put it on one’s body, but Th.ink Room believes there is intrinsic value in knowing more. It’s a matter of curiosity about the world. “I don't think there's anything wrong with not being curious, but I think it just makes things better; you just end up learning more,” Phi explained. 

Trang's (@cd.cadao) flash designs surrounded by finished pieces.

One of Saigoneer’s illustrators can surely speak on the story behind the tattoo she got from Trang, having selected one based on our logo, which was meticulously scouted before being selected several years ago. And while currently Saigoneer only boasts three tattoos from Th.ink Room artists, there is a trend amongst clients for more. As Vy (@babynepotism) explained, some regular guests have gotten work from each Th.ink Room artist and many that come for guest residencies. Members of the team have also begun experimenting with collaboration on single works. The first piece Vy had done, for example, involves Trang’s patterns and vegetation alongside Trung’s butterflies and bees. Meanwhile, Vũ and Ngọc have begun collaborating on ideas that combine his archival pieces with her coloring. 

Vy's collaborative tattoo from Trang and Trung (left) and a collaborative design from Vu and Ngọc (right).

This collaborative ethos extends to Th.ink Room’s lobby, where, alongside the collection of archival texts and various books and zines, are products from local creators for sale. Dyed fabrics, buttons, prints, and photos, as well as random items that members of Th.ink Room make, are available, as well as pro-Palestine fundraiser pieces. The eclectic shop space reflects Th.ink Room’s desire not to be seen as only a tattoo studio, which is underscored by its name. While it includes “ink” it doesn’t explicitly say “tattoo,” and the large Thinker statue at the entrance suggests a different way to interpret it. Such versatility coincides with the space hosting art, music, and community events. 

The Th.ink Room team.

Th.ink Room’s perspective on art, originality, and creativity seems particularly relevant today when AI is upending not just how artists make money, but society’s relationship with creativity in general. It seems to me that too many people are eager to outsource their creativity to computers that gobble up sources for commodification while individuals abandon the curiosity that compelled them to make or appreciate art in the first place. While Phi may have concerns about AI, they are not worried about creativity. “Our collective culture is unimaginably rich. I do not personally believe that creativity is dead or ever will be; you can see how vast yet distinct it has always been, by looking back.”

Completed in 1973, the V.A.R building at 9 Nguyễn Công Trứ Street in Nguyễn Thái Binh Ward, District 1, is a prominent example of Vietnamese mid-20^th-century modernist architecture designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm. It not only represents the Vietnamese architectural identity in post-colonial eras, but also exemplifies its cultural autonomy.

Following colonization, Vietnam gradually developed a unique architecture style reflective of its culture: a version of modernism that contained specifically Vietnamese traits emerging to take over traditional architecture styles. Lê Văn Lắm was one of the architects that set up the foundations for the movement. He played an important role in tropicalizing modernist architecture to fit the hot and humid climate of Vietnam.

Along with other giants like Trần Văn Tải, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Huỳnh Kim Mãng, and Ngô Viết Thụ, Lê Văn Lắm specialized in the double-skin techniques found in Vietnamese modernist architecture. His buildings — including the headquarters of the Voice of HCMC broadcast station on Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm Street and the Library of General Science on Lý Tự Trọng Street, on which he worked as an adviser — all show substantial and excellent use of double-skin techniques. Yet the most interesting and the most intricate of Lắm's portfolio is still the "moving" double-skin of the V.A.R building at the junction between Hồ Tùng Mậu and Nguyễn Công Trứ Street.

This building deserves acknowledgement alongside the former Indochina Bank, the Independence Palace, Notre-Dame Cathedral and Bến Thành Market as Saigon’s most iconic structures. Even though the double-skin front demanded a lot of space on the modest-sized plot, Lê Văn Lắm chose to use it for its microclimate function. The building thus serves as a great example of tropical modernist architecture despite being in a crowded urban setting.

The building’s double skin, created for its function, has become its defining feature. The entire surface of the facade is covered by a reinforced concrete curtain made of an assemblage of layered parts.

An approximately one-meter-wide buffer zone consists of curved edge-beams suspended over overhanging beams. They are vertically braced together all across the floors via a row of thin concrete bars spread across the facade. The surface between this assemblage of horizontal beams and vertical braces is where the incredible happens.

While some other examples of double-skin exteriors consist of a brise-soleil wall multiplied over the facade, the double skin of the V.A.R building was entirely made of reinforced concrete. The texture of this doubled skin was created by a "fabric" of very thin horizontal and vertical concrete bars weaved into one another in a rhythmic pattern. The result is an illusion of rigid elements being able to move.

This makes the V.A.R building an excellent experiment in both structure and sculpture. It reveals how Lê Văn Lắm investigated the ways rhymes, contrast, and depth come together to create a three-dimensional object. With light, structure, and shadow, he crafted a building that subconsciously responds to sensory dialogues.

V.A.R's poeticism is also seen in the typical palette of finishing materials, including đá rửa (washed rock), slated stones, and mosaic tiles. The ingenious ensemble evokes a harmonious intensity via the contrasts and slight shifts in colors, textures, or the graininess of the materials. These materials, however, were not applied spontaneously. They were chosen and applied depending on aesthetic characteristics and structural roles in response to climactic situations. Yet, they still come together harmoniously to form a consistent architectural personality.

The palette of finishing materials, including đá rửa (washed rock), slated stones, and mosaic tiles is a harmonious combination.

The V.A.R building was built towards the end of the mid-20^th-century modernist architecture movement in Vietnam, and thus retained style elements developed in the previous two decades. It includes abstractization while remaining excellent both technically and artistically. The V.A.R building, therefore, is an shining example of technology meeting art.

In Vietnamese architectural history, modernist architecture is the direct descendant of local traditional architecture. Traditional architecture was handed over to the modernists who retained links between humans and their territory through time. These links result in a special sense of roughness, a sense of suspension, a rhythmic intensity, and a unique equilibrium that dictated how shades are poured and how layers of building parts are tastefully intertwined for human activities. It is a testament to the cultural lifeblood that keeps flowing even in the face of historical turbulence.

The double skin of the V.A.R building is a testament to how its creator was mindful of the local tropical climate in design.

Vietnamese mid-century modernist architecture fits perfectly in the discourses with the functionalism of global modernism. The V.A.R building responds to pragmatic needs including climactic concerns that did not exist at the site of other modernist structures. It was not simply a "machine to live in,” but rather a humane machine that connects to inhabitants via proportions and intuition that created the so-called "Vietnamese-ness" in mid-20^th-century modernist architecture.

Vietnamese modernist architecture was executed very differently than its counterparts around the world. The institutional buildings, modernist villas, shophouses, and modernist rural houses share a mutual spirituality about the way humans and architecture interact. Vietnamese modernist architecture in the mid 20^th century, unlike that in other centers of global modernism, relied on traditional craftsmanship. And the V.A.R building by Lê Văn Lắm is one of the most concentrated expressions of the unaffected identity manifested during this transformation of Vietnamese culture.

This article was originally published in 2021.

Written by Saturday Night Live alum Tina Fey and premiered in 2004, Mean Girls is often heralded as a sharp, self-aware comedy that was ahead of its time, yet still holds up surprisingly well today. Alas, its depiction of Asians has aged a little more poorly, even though at the time of its release, the Asian representation was shockingly accurate for its time, despite some haphazard characterizations.

In Mean Girls, a previously home-schooled Cady Heron was plopped back into an American high school after 12 years in Africa. The film follows her fish-out-of-water experiences as she learns how to navigate the complex politics and shenanigans of high school.

For Vietnamese kids with limited exposure to American culture like me, this premise was incredibly helpful because we were all Cadys ourselves: all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed to explore American school culture.

During lunch, Cady is introduced to the geopolitical map of the school canteen, where cliques are divided into different tables like world sovereigns. Amongst the Plastics, Unfriendly Black Hotties, and Sexually Active Band Geeks is the Cool Asians, spearheaded by its leader Trang Pak and deputy Sun Jin Dinh.

Trang Pak (Ky Pham) in red tank top and Sun Jin Dinh (Danielle Nguyen) in black shirt with pink letters.

This is where Mean Girls first failed its Asians: while both characters are Vietnamese, their names are a hodgepodge of Vietnamese and Korean names. I have to give the casting credits for hiring actual Vietnamese to play them, however: Ky Pham plays Trang Pak and Danielle Nguyen plays Sun Jin Dinh.

Trang Pak caught making out with Coach Carr.

Later in the film, we discover that the rumor that Trang made out with Coach Carr is, in fact, true and he was grooming her. I have mixed feelings. Nonetheless, the film’s top Vietnamese representation comes later, during a group therapy session in the gym where the girls are encouraged to have a heart-to-heart to make peace.

This obviously failed the Bechdel Test, but I found it delightful that the lines were delivered in Vietnamese, and fairly decipherable Vietnamese at that. I suspect the actresses improvised the lines themselves, because Tina Fey cannot be trusted with writing for non-white characters.

However, this is where Mean Girls failed its Asian the second time: Trang’s second line was mistranslated in the subtitle as “N****, please,” making her look like a racist for no reason.

From inside the workshop, artisans carry bundle after bundle of freshly made incense sticks into the courtyard amid the morning mist. A gentle scent of spices linger in the air.

At Lê Minh Xuân incense village

Despite its well-known moniker, this neighborhood where many incense makers congregate is not a village, but Lê Minh Xuân Commune of Bình Chánh District, Saigon. Here, the marks of urbanization are etched into every corner: a mishmash of old and new corrugated roof pieces is strewn across the canopy, forming distinctive patches.

Minh Phước incense workshop.

Having been here for nearly 50 years, Nguyễn Cát Bội Thúy, owner of the Minh Phước incense workshop, has witnessed the location experience ups and downs. She reminisces: “Before, the surrounding areas were all empty land. Then thatched huts started showing up. Long after that, life got better and the people got some help from the local commune authorities to construct corrugated roof homes like today.”

Thúy and her workshop have been keeping the traditional incense-making craft alive while creating a way to make a living for many underprivileged households here. Knowing first-hand the struggles of being stuck in instability, she fully understands the circumstances that lead people to this place.

Nguyễn Cát Bội Thúy.

A typical workday of an incense maker starts at 6am and ends at 6pm. “I think making incense sticks is not that difficult; I only needed one day to familiarize myself with all the steps,” a young worker in her early 20s tells me nonchalantly.

A workday starts at 6am.

Thúy sits down with me to explain how to make joss sticks; her dye-stained hands move animatedly with every description. There are four main ingredients for each stick: sticking agent, bamboo sticks, coating powder, and dyes. Each hails from a different place in Vietnam: the glue is from Gia Lai, while the toothpick-thin bamboo sticks are shipped from Hanoi.

“We can’t manufacture every single ingredient, because each region is specialized in one thing, each step is handled by a different worker. Take the bamboo sticks, for example. It might look simple, but if you’re not careful, they will break.”

Each worker handles a step.

Throughout decades in business, the incense-making process is still pretty much the same; any newcomer can learn the craft and handle any step of the way. First, the bamboo sticks are dyed red outside the house. Each 1,000-stick batch is soaked in a rectangular bath filled with red dye for five minutes, and then dried separately in the sun in the courtyard. The excess dye is reused for the next batch.

The sticks are soeaked in dye.

Just five minutes and the original yellow sticks have turned into that recognizable shade of scarlet while lying in the sun, so the colorant becomes baked in.

The sticks are dried in the sun.

Then, workers bring the sticks into a rolling machine, where the incense powder is evenly coated onto about two-thirds of the stick length. Once that’s done, wet incense sticks are dehydrated for 12 hours. Lastly, fully dried sticks are packaged in front of the house.

Rolling the incense.

A standard incense stick should have a smooth, crack-free surface. Every stick should be of the same length and, once lit, should burn seamlessly from top to toe in one go. Thúy tells me that she feels a sense of pride and assurance whenever she lights up a stick she’s made herself. It’s how she sends goodwill and well-wishing to the ancestors on the altar.

Drying the sticks.

Memories of hand-shaped incense and the forgotten counting machine

Before the advent of machinery, the most labor-intensive step in incense-making was rolling each stick by hand. Artisans used a plank to roll the powder onto the bamboo sticks. However, a “technological breakthrough” arrived in the incense community, not from engineering schools, but from the… scrapyard. A waste collector got his hands on a discarded currency-counting machine, one often seen in banks, and tinkered with it to produce the first prototype of an incense-rolling machine. Thanks to his invention, the process became more efficient: before, amongst 1,000 incense sticks made by hand, about 800 were not up to commercial standard; the figure is just 80 when rolled using the machine.

Rolling the sticks.

Nonetheless, with technological advancements also came concerns over rising operating costs and risks of machine failures. Amid the constant clanking of the rolling machine throughout the day, workers now take on new tasks as part-time mechanics who have to both oversee their production step and “babysit” the machine to maintain work safety.

In any incense workshop, there are workers of all ages. From older adults with salt-and-pepper hair and curved backs to barely grown-up young people who couldn’t finish their K-12 education. They come from everywhere: some grew up right next door, while others migrated to the city from the Mekong Delta.

Người làm nghề nhang đến từ nhiều hoàn cảnh khác nhau.

Thúy tells me that her personnel is constantly changing. The most successful ones work for a few years and leave to form their own workshop, expanding the reach of the incense village. Some just quit altogether and move elsewhere to find other work.

Similarly, bundles of incense sticks leave the workshop and head towards a fate of their own. Most are shipped to the Chợ Lớn Bus Station, following each bus to every region in Vietnam, from rural to urban. And finally, when they are lit up on an altar of a cozy home, they would fulfill the ultimate honor of their existence — being a bridge between our reality and our historic roots.

The seasons of uncertainty about the future

In the minds of many, the COVID-19 pandemic might be a story of half a decade ago, but to many traditional craftspeople, its ripples could still be felt today. The economy is unstable and challenging, and ingredient costs have been on an upward trajectory. Consumers favor cheaper alternatives of questionable quality, so traditional makers are gradually losing out.

A last coat of colorant is applied.

For years, the peak season for incense production often falls on the month before Tết and the Hungry Ghost Festival, but these days, even those festive periods are less lively. Even though those days are gone, incense makers can’t bear to leave their craft, yet. “I’ve been in this trade for so long. It does make me sad, but what can we do? I just keep working and hoping that perhaps one day it will stabilize.” Thúy places her hope on the next generation, who has the IT know-how to take incense sticks onto internet platforms instead of just relying on regional buses and festive seasons.

Bundles of final products are ready for shipping.

Behind each lit incense stick is a prayer from descendants to their ancestors and an expression of the rich spiritual customs of Vietnamese, established and maintained through generations. Beyond that, incense sticks also encapsulate the story of their makers, people from all walks of life trying to make a living on a traditional craft that’s entering a time of modern uncertainties.

Sometimes, when I hear the distant sound of a tinkling bell, fond memories of summer days from my wonder years come flooding back to me.

Like many children who grew up in the city, I greeted the summers of my childhood with a sense of dread and boredom. The relentless extension of the urban sprawl had robbed us of the joy of flying kites in a field, or splashing in a cool pond. Instead, we endured the scorching heat in our concrete cocoon, our little bodies drenched in sweat if we dared venture outside to play. When it was high noon, our alleyway fell quiet and deserted, everyone sought refuge indoors to escape the punishing sun.

Kem ốc quế (ice cream cones).

Amidst that stifling atmosphere, the only sound that could break the silence was the gentle, rhythmic ringing of a bell. My eyes, momentarily drooped due to midday drowsiness, would suddenly open wide. My ears would strain to locate the source of the sound and I would quickly slip on my flip-flops and scurry along the sizzling asphalt road to follow the fading echo. Slowing down to a complete stop at a corner of the alley, an old motorbike stood, resting on its seat was a metal freezer box.

"Ice cream...here comes ice cream!" — the driver, a man whom I would later only know as “the ice cream uncle,” belted enthusiastically, bringing out all the children in the neighborhood. In my memory, the ice cream uncle was a hot-season version of Santa Claus — he was not plump, jolly-looking, nor bearded. Rather, the uncle was a scrawny and tan-skinned figure, his complexion darkened from hustling under the sun all day long. But calling him Santa Claus wouldn't be entirely inaccurate, as every time he came, he brought with him joyful and refreshing treats to share with us.

Kem đá bào (Shaved ice with syrup).

From the icebox at the back of his carriage, the uncle scooped out small balls of ice cream, placed them on crumbly waffle cones, and sprinkled some crushed peanuts and Ông Thọ condensed milk on top. There was even a house special, where three ice cream scoops were rolled into a sweet bread roll, priced at only VND2,000–5,000. In the hot Saigon noontime, a bite into these frozen sorbets felt like being transported to a distant oasis, where gentle breezes and calm blue lakes and seas awaited us urban-bound children.

Those were the years when I was in elementary school. I would pocket every bit of loose change around the house just to experience that fleeting moment of coolness and sweetness. On days when I couldn't manage to scrape together any money, I would stand by the door, peering for a long time until the shadow of the vehicle disappeared and the tinkling sound faded away, as if summer had left me behind.

By today's standards, my childhood treat is not considered fancy or even exceptionally delicious. The texture is airy rather than creamy, and as it is mostly made of ice, it melts more quickly than one could have enjoyed. The flavors were simple — strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, and if one was really lucky, taro or coconut. Sometimes, the only difference was in appearance, as they most probably all used the same flavoring agents. Food safety was also not ideal back in the day, so unexpected bowel movements were always a likelihood, a cautionary tale that the media would often warn children about to deter consumption.

Kem ống/kem que (popsicles).

The Vietnamese word for ice cream, kem (or cà rem in the Southern dialect) originated from the French word “crème” as the dish was introduced to Vietnam during the French colonial period. Crème refers to creme fraiche or fresh cream, an essential ingredient for making a true gelato as the west would define it.

Kem ốc quế, the version that I indulged in as a child, however, only constituted powdered milk and sweetener, thus lacking the rich and creamy flavor its western counterpart possessed. It was an adaptation by Vietnamese society in a period of economic hardships after Đổi Mới. Fresh milk and pure cream were still considered luxury items, and their preservation was costly. Thanks to simple, makeshift freezer boxes, children from working or middle-class families like mine could still taste the flavors of summer.

Kem bòn bon (ice pop).

I came to realize that our subsequent summers were filled with many “ice cream-like but not actually ice cream” treats similar to this. They arrived on bicycles and motorcycles, carried by tan-skinned Santas, characterized by the tinkling sound of bells, or even accompanied by a loud pre-recorded announcement from blaring speakers.

A favorite of mine was a dessert called xi rô đá bào. The vendor, with a cloth in hand, would hold a large block of ice and scrape thin ice shavings onto a cup. Colorful syrups and condensed milk were drizzled over the ice to create a sweet and fancy flavor. To add a touch of sourness, slices of fruits like oranges or limes could be sprinkled on top. The syrup, stored in a green glass container without a label, was a good indicator that it was a reliable, authentic xi rô đá bào cart.

Frozen yogurt.

Kem ống emerged as an upgrade from kem ốc quế, featuring a wider variety of flavors like mung bean, black bean, or jackfruit. In a stainless steel container, each ice cream stick was placed in a long, pointed iron tube. The pre-mixed powdered milk was poured into the tubes, which were then shaken, rotated, and sealed. Inside the container were large trays of ice covered with salt to ensure maximum coldness. After a few minutes, the liquid had frozen, and each ice cream stick emitted a plume of smoke when placed in my hand.

Later on, as household appliances became more affordable, even the neighbors in my community could participate in the homemade ice cream industry. I no longer had to wait for the tinkling sound of bells at the end of the alley. I could simply visit the local tạp hóa whenever I craved bòn bon, ya-ua, or kem chuối.

Bòn bon was made with fruit-flavored syrup poured into plastic tubes, while ya-ua was frozen in pouches, and kem chuối was a mixture of coconut milk, condensed milk, and mashed plantains. My joy during summer days revolved around standing in front of the freezer section, feeling lightheaded from the cool air, and carefully selecting the largest ice cream bars or pouches, just like how my mother picked vegetables at the market.

Kem chuối (banana pops).

I have since grown up and ventured far from the old alley. The sound of bells rarely echoes in the city, and I don't know where to find many of the old-fashioned ice cream flavors anymore. Rapid economic development has allowed people to enjoy ice cream made from actual dairy and fruits, of various flavors and origins. On a scorching summer day, I can treat myself to an organic Italian gelato, an avocado frozen treat from Đà Lạt, or a bowl of Korean bingsu. And yet, a taste of childhood lingers in the back of my mind: that powdery, artificial sweetness that made the hot noons less oppressive, enough to make one feel instantly like a child again upon hearing the fleeting sound of bells passing by on a summer day.

This article was originally published in 2023.

“Let’s go to Vietnam!” declared Sabrina Baracetti, president of the Far East Film Festival (FEFF) in Udine, Italy, as she wrapped up her introduction for Leon Lê's Quán Kỳ Nam (Kỳ Nam Inn). Sitting in the Teatro Nuovo, watching Quán Kỳ Nam unfold for the first time, I felt an overwhelming surge of pride.

Quán Kỳ Nam does exactly what Baracetti promised: it does not showcase the hyper-modern, rapidly developing Vietnam of today; rather, it captures a deeply tactile Vietnamese essence, distilled down to the flicker of a single oil lamp or the hum of a rusty electric fan. Sharing this experience with an international audience, I felt a profound connection to how our people were portrayed with kindness, sensitivity, and a resilient sense of community, bonding to rebuild a post-war nation. Crucially, Leon allows his characters to be beautifully flawed. They are petty, guarded, and endearingly humane. These are people tentatively navigating the unfamiliar terrain of peacetime, having spent years bracing for the worst. All these quiet, lingering conflicts are gently woven through a forbidden romance between a young, rising intellectual and a widow tied to the former regime.

Quán Kỳ Nam actress Ngô Hồng Ngọc (second from left), director Leon Lê (second from right) and Far East Film Festival's Vietnamese programmer, Nguyên Lê (far right).

Nguyên Lê, the Vietnamese programmer for FEFF, notes that he seeks films “where the essence is local but the expression is global.” As he rightly pointed out, Quán Kỳ Nam “does precisely this.” It takes the universally understood geometry of a love triangle and embeds it within the highly specific context of 1970s Vietnam. It makes the mundane, quiet moments of human existence feel entirely refreshing, captivating international audiences without ever resorting to tired, exoticised tropes.

But the fervor surrounding Quán Kỳ Nam in Udine did not stem solely from its narrative heart. Much of the heat generated by the film was a triumph of pure craft: it marks the first Vietnamese feature in two decades to be shot entirely on 35mm analogue celluloid.

The struggles of pioneering

As the 35mm celluloid process constantly evolves, it is no longer the fragile art form of decades past. While it remains a revered staple in major industries in Hollywood and Europe, prized for its unique texture and grain, the reality in Vietnam is starkly different. For feature-length cinema, it has been 20 years since a production was shot entirely on 35mm. In television, the gap is even wider. The local industry migrated to digital over three decades ago, leaving analogue equipment either hopelessly outdated, broken down, or entirely unusable. This infrastructural void posed a monumental challenge for Leon Lê and his team.

Recalling the genesis of the project, Leon acknowledges the sheer luck of securing unwavering support from his financial backers right from the start. “I knew that with the budget I had, I was going to shoot on film,” he explains. “The reason the investors agreed to support the project was mostly that they loved my first film, Song Lang. They fully understood that a project like Quán Kỳ Nam is extremely risky commercially.”

However, securing the generous funding to shoot on analogue film only solved half the battle. While financially possible, it was practically impossible logistically. The infrastructure simply did not exist. At least, not until director of photography Bob Nguyễn (Quán Kỳ Nam, Song Lang) proved it could be done. This required working from the ground up.

“The DOP had to train the rest of the crew,” Leon remembers. “Young filmmakers haven't worked with film, haven't practiced with it, don't know how to load film, and don't know how to attach the magazine to the camera. The DOP had to put them through a training process.”

The education extended far beyond the film set. “Then we had to collaborate with a film developing lab and teach them,” Leon adds. “They were used to developing 35-exposure photo rolls, so how do you develop a five-minute reel? But I was very confident in my team.”

So, driven by the uncompromising dedication of Leon and his crew, Vietnam finally has a new 35mm feature, offering a deeply textured, organic cinematic experience that cuts through years of crisp, sterile digital imagery.

A still from Quán Kỳ Nam.

A celluloid renaissance or a lone exception?

Leon remains resolute in his commitment to the medium and expresses unwavering faith in his team for future 35mm projects. “For all my upcoming projects, I still plan to shoot on film and continue to develop and scan in Vietnam,” he reveals. His confidence lies in local ingenuity: “Generally speaking, Vietnamese people are very smart. They tinker with things out of curiosity and eventually figure it out. It's just that they are hesitant, so they haven't done it yet. But if they want to, they can.”

Yet, Leon harbors no illusions that his personal obsession as an auteur will revolutionize the wider Vietnamese film industry. “There will be crazy people like me who want to do it, but to call it a recovery or renaissance of celluloid — probably not,” he admits. He believes a problem also lies in the current state of mainstream Vietnamese cinema: “Looking at the Vietnamese film market right now, it's still struggling. The timeframe of a production from concept to scripts, casting, shooting, post-production, release... they do it so quickly and carelessly. How could they invest in [analogue filmmaking]? It's both risky and costly. You have to love the outcome and love the process to be able to endure it.”

Nguyên Lê echoes these concerns regarding the state of the industry, noting the friction between analogue filmmaking and modern Vietnamese sensibilities. “It is unfortunate the format is more costly and time-consuming in a society more careful with our spending and our timing, and in a culture that has a tendency to treat the latest as being the greatest,” he observes.

However, the programmer remains hopeful about the ripple effect of Leon Le's uncompromising ethos. He predicts these formats will “live on” in the short film arena, citing Chín (Ripe) as a recent example, or that the rigorous storytelling methods of Leon and his crew will be “studied and carried over,” ultimately “paving the way for higher quality, more internationally competitive productions.”

Listening to their reflections leaves me with a lingering sense of unease. The stark divide between independent and commercial filmmaking in Vietnam is undeniable. They are funded differently, crafted differently, and targeted at entirely different demographics. To succeed domestically, mainstream commercial products often rely heavily on familiar character tropes and highly specific cultural shorthand, what Nguyên terms “doubly-local expression.”

This approach stands in direct opposition to Nguyên's “local essence, global expression” attribute that makes Quán Kỳ Nam so universally translatable. Until the wider industry learns to bridge this gap by placing artistic rigor over rushed, hyper-localized commercialism, Vietnamese cinema will, unfortunately, continue to struggle to secure its rightful place on the international stage.

The looming threat: AI, VFX vs. The soul of cinema

In Quán Kỳ Nam, eagle-eyed viewers might occasionally spot modern architecture lurking in the corners of street scenes or looming in the distance during rooftop shots. When asked about this, Leon is refreshingly blunt. “I really hate VFX,” he admits. “Because there are special effects done practically that look absolutely amazing compared to VFX. Especially with those action and martial arts movies in Hollywood right now, they abuse VFX so much, and it looks very fake. So, not everything new is good; it has to be appropriate.”

And his philosophy works entirely for the world of Quán Kỳ Nam. For an international audience, these modern anomalies easily go unnoticed. More importantly, attempting to digitally patch these details to perfect the “vintage” illusion would be disastrous. A rough, modern VFX job would glaringly stand out against the rich, organic grain of the 35mm film, completely ruining the meticulously crafted, authentic 1970s Vietnam they worked so hard to build.

To my mind, VFX should be a tool used to enhance a filmmaker’s vision, not a synthetic bandage used to cover mistakes or cut corners in production. But the creeping reliance on Artificial Intelligence is far more insidious; it is an unacceptable intrusion into the creative process that is already pushing genuine artists out of work. We are currently witnessing a dangerous era where AI is being hastily embraced for cheap commercial gain, all while legislation painfully struggles to catch up with the harm being done to genuine artists.

Yet, when asked about the threat of AI replacing filmmakers, Leon remains resolutely confident. “They can never do my job,” he declares. For him, the creative process is intrinsically human. Only he possesses the vivid, visceral memories of his mother and aunts visiting his grandfather at a post-war re-education camp, the exact memories that served as the primary, direct inspiration for the character Kỳ Nam. There is no technology in the world, present or future, capable of synthetically recreating that level of lived trauma, personal emotion, and artistic vision.

Ngô Hồng Ngọc (left), director Leon Lê (right) at the Far East Film Festival.

However, programmer Nguyên offers a sobering reality check regarding the wider Vietnamese industry. “I don’t believe other filmmakers share Leon’s sentiments, but I do hope to be proven wrong,” he notes. “As I noted in my essay and industry report for this year’s FEFF, many stages of the cinematic creative process in Vietnam right now feature AI, with some finding it a gift from above and others deeming it a hasty shortcut.”

The human resistance

Leon's observation on the mainstream Vietnamese machine is entirely valid, yet there is a sliver of hope he might be overlooking. We are currently witnessing an infiltration: a new wave of independent filmmakers successfully making their commercial debuts. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ recent regulation changes, strictly mandating human authorship for any Oscar submission, serve as a monumental, institutional pushback against generative AI.

Ultimately, cinema is a medium built entirely on human vulnerability. I wholeheartedly echo programmer Nguyên’s resounding final sentiment: “Give me imperfect films with soul — and I like quite a few! — any day.”

Photos courtesy of Far East Film Festival.

Most people who have flown with VietJet are probably familiar with the song ‘Hello Vietnam’ or its Vietnamese version ‘Xin chào Việt Nam.’ As it's often played during landing, tourists might mistake the song for a cute jingle of the company, but the meaning behind the song lyrics is much more nostalgic. It’s about a person of Vietnamese descent longing for their ancestor’s homeland, a place they’ve never been — a story that can certainly strike a chord with many Vietnamese people. Few know, however, that this song was originally a French-language song, one that was almost never released.

‘Hello Vietnam’ achieves the rare feat of being widely recognizable among Vietnamese today, even though it originally emerged from the diasporic community.

The song cover.

Perhaps this accomplishment should not be surprising, as the song seems specifically crafted to appeal to Vietnamese sensibilities: nostalgic lyrics on a melancholic melody were the framework of many other widely acclaimed songs in Vietnam. Even though the lyrics describe the feelings of a person who’s never been to Vietnam, the longing can resonate even with Vietnamese people who never left the country, whether towards their hometown or a version of Vietnam from another decade.

“Want to see your house, your streets. Show me all I do not know.
Wooden sampans, floating markets, light of gold.”

The sheer love and curiosity for Vietnam, along with descriptions of its wonders make the song an easy choice for anyone who wants to convey patriotic pride. This may explain why it sounds familiar even to people who have never heard of it. The exposure to the music is huge: it's featured in travel companies’ commercials, videos on social media, and background music in cafes.

The story behind the creation of ‘Hello Vietnam’ actually began in Belgium, where its original singer, Phạm Quỳnh Anh, was born. Her parents are Vietnamese immigrants. Her father went to Belgium to study and her mother was a political refugee. Always a talented singer, at 13, she participated in the Belgian singing competition TV show Pour la Gloire and won with a terrific cover of Celine Dion’s ‘The reason.’ This achievement convinced her that a career in music might really be a possibility: “Pour la Gloire all started with a bet between my father and me. He was like, ‘Yes, you’ll make it,’ while I was thinking, ‘I won't even get past the first auditions.’ And that's just how it happened; I didn't really realize what was going on at the time,” Quỳnh Anh recounts in French.

Phạm Quỳnh Anh.

In 2005, her career took off, as she became Marc Lavoine’s protégée. Marc Lavoine, a famous French singer most known for his karaoke classic ‘Elle a les yeux revolver…’, was looking for a voice to feature in ‘J’espère,’ a new duet. He was convinced by Quỳnh Anh's performance: three takes during the audition was enough. Following this duet’s success, Quỳnh Anh went along with Lavoine on his tour to many countries.

Being close to Marc Lavoine provided a pivotal boost to Quỳnh Anh, even more so as Lavoine wrote her some songs, which were never released — one of which was called ‘Bonjour Vietnam.’ When learning that the song was written by a white French man, one can feel weirded out at first by the lyrics, notably the description of the character’s physical traits. It was however written at the request and supervised by Quỳnh Anh.

While working on a potential album, she felt the need to sing about her roots, and as such, asked the lyricist Yvan Coriat to write about Vietnam. The text was allegedly too long, which is why she later reached out to the seasoned Lavoine to transform the text into a song, with music by him. The Vietnamese-Belgian singer was immediately charmed: “I tried it, and it worked instantly. It’s amazing because they’re European, yet they recreated an Asian atmosphere so well. I feel very lucky to be surrounded by talented people who help me express myself.” She says in a French interview in Vietnam.

Marc Lavoine.

How ‘Bonjour Vietnam’ reached stardom was its own story: a demo leaked on the internet, and quickly spread throughout the diaspora. By Tết 2006, the song had already blown up all over the world, usually paired with a fan-made video montage of Vietnam. This unexpected instant hit made Quỳnh Anh famous around the globe among Vietnamese diasporic communities. The song never had an official release, and yet she started receiving offers to perform live in many countries like Canada, the US and Australia. Spurred by the global attention, it behooved her to release an English version, translated by Guy Balbaert, called ‘Hello Vietnam.’ This version gained a wider audience in Vietnam, while solidifying her fame among the English-speaking diaspora.

In 2008, she performed ‘Hello Vietnam’ on Paris by Night, which cemented the ubiquity of the song in the diaspora. At the end of the same year, she was able to set foot in the forever longed-for Vietnam in the lyrics, thanks to the popularity of the song, via a short tour in the country.

The original version in French performed by Phạm Quỳnh Anh.

There is a some undeniable poetry in the fact that everything seems to have led Quỳnh Anh to the country of her roots. Starting with her meeting with Marc Lavoine, which resulted in the creation of a song where she sings about how much she would like to go to Vietnam. Then the fact that the song got a self-made fame of its own. And finally, the English translation reached Vietnam, bringing her there as she wished for in the lyrics.

“One day I’ll touch your soil.
One day I’ll finally know your soul.
One day I’ll come to you.
To say hello… Vietnam.”

Nowadays Quỳnh Anh’s musical career has gotten much more quiet, she kept her studies a priority throughout this success, and now it seems to be a historical period, as she has begun new chapters of her life. But the popularity of ‘Hello Vietnam’ is as strong as it has ever been: many translations to Vietnamese helped the song gain a new audience. The budget airline VietJet decided to play a mix of the English and Vietnamese versions as landing songs and a welcoming gesture. This has increased the song’s popularity even more, though it has also inspired a sense of overexposure for frequent domestic travelers. The history of ‘Hello Vietnam’ is usually forgotten, obscured by its reputation as a mere commercial jingle, but it was once a heartfelt wish to reconnect with a homeland one hears about so much but has never encountered.

In 1927, after being abandoned for more than 60 years by its Spanish owners, the “Jardin d’Espagne” — known today as Bách Tùng Diệp or Lý Tự Trọng Park — seemed set to become the new home of the British Consulate General in Saigon… but it was not to be.

The participation of Spanish naval forces in the 1859 French conquest of Cochinchina is well documented. The event which had triggered the expedition was the execution on July 20, 1857 of the Spanish bishop of Tonkin, Monsignor José Sanjurjo Diaz. In response, the invasion fleet incorporated a large contingent of Spanish troops drawn largely from the Philippines.

In the aftermath of the conquest, several streets in Saigon were named in honor of Spain, including Rues Isabella, Isabella II and Palanca.

The Jardin d’Espagne on the left of the postcard.

A potential location for a Spanish or British Consulate?

The French authorities also granted the Spanish government a plot of land on which to build a consulate. According to the Colonial Council minutes dated November 8, 1928, the Conventions of May 15, 1864 signed by Spanish Acting Consul Manuel M Caballero, and of January 31, 1866 signed by his successor Fédérico Taque, ceded to the Spanish government “a 3,000m² plot of land on the north side of the junction between Rues Lagrandière and Mac-Mahon [now Lý Tự Trọng and Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa].” The concession of this land, now part of Lý Tự Trọng Park, was “made free of charge, but under the provision that the land is allocated solely for installation of a Spanish consulate and cannot be used for any other purpose”.

For a short while, an “old Annamite house” on the site was occupied by a group of Spanish naval officers. However, when the Spanish delegation eventually departed from Saigon, it had “failed to take effective possession of this land and abandoned the project of constructing a consulate in Saigon”. Thereafter, Spanish diplomatic affairs in Cochinchina were handled through the Consular Agent of Portugal.

Over the next half-century, as the surrounding streets were transformed into the so-called “Triangle of Power” (comprising the Law Courts, the Central Prison and the Palace of the Lieutenant Governor), this little piece of Spanish territory was christened the Jardin d’Espagne. During this period, it was looked after carefully by the staff of the Botanical and Zoological Gardens, who installed lawns and flowerbeds and took great care of its ancient banyan tree.

By 1919, the Consulate-General of Great Britain had outgrown its premises at 4 Rue Georges-Guynemer (present-day Hồ Tùng Mậu), and the search began for a suitable plot of land on which to build a larger diplomatic mission. The Jardin d’Espagne seemed to fit the bill perfectly, and later that year the British Consul-General wrote to the director of local administration asking if the French government “would be disposed to give its consent to the cession of this land from the Spanish government to the British government, which proposes to build a consulate there”.

The Jardin d’Espagne can be seen on the right of this early 20^th-century postcard of the Lieutenant Governor’s Palace.

The three-way negotiations between France, Spain and Great Britain continued for another eight years. Finally, on November 10, 1927, “the Consular Agent of Portugal, M. Brodeur, in the name of the Spanish government, ceded and abandoned to the Consulate General of Great Britain represented by Mr. F Grosvenor Gorton, its rights to the Jardin d’Espagne”.

For its part, the Cochinchina government agreed that Great Britain would be substituted for Spain in the conditional rights to the land, which were once again linked exclusively to the construction of a consulate.

Had things proceeded as planned, the British Consulate in HCMC might now be in a very different location, and Saigon would have lost a valuable green space to redevelopment. But that wasn’t quite the end of the story.

From would-be consulate to park

After commissioning a long-overdue survey of the Jardin d’Espagne in December 1927, the British “encountered problems and communicated these to the Cochinchina authorities.” On January 21, 1928, Cochinchina Governor Paul Blanchard de la Brosse wrote to Grosvenor Gorton: “On the occasion of the transfer, you pointed out to me the inadequacy of the said land area with regard to its function, which is the construction of your consulate, and informed me that you would consider favorably the principle of exchange against another city lot administered through the Domaine locale.”

A subsequent report to the Colonial Council by Blanchard de la Brosse sheds further light on the problems encountered and also reveals the alternative lot which had been identified:

“The Consul General of Great Britain has noted that the area of this land is too small for construction of a [consulate] building, and secondly that the Jardin d’Espagne does not seem favorable for the installation of a consulate. For our part, the local administration believes that there is interest in maintaining the current function of the Jardin as a convenient square for walkers and children’s games in the very central area where it is located. Therefore, the principle of exchange of this land against Lot 7 of the subdivision plan of Boulevard Norodom is being considered. This latter terrain, situated between Boulevard Norodom (Lê Duẩn) and the Rues de Massiges (Mạc Đĩnh Chi) and Lucien Mossard (Nguyễn Du), has an area of 3,548m² and its market value is equal to that of the land known as the Jardin d’Espagne.”

A plan of the 3,548m² Lot 7 on Boulevard Norodom, which the British Consulate General was granted in exchange for the Jardin d’Espagne.

A formal offer was made, and on April 25, 1928, British Consul General F Grosvenor Gorton wrote to the governor accepting the substituted plot on Boulevard Norodom. This undoubtedly pleased the French; another report dated November 26, 1928 says of the Jardin d’Espagne that “its situation right in front of the Governor of Cochinchina’s Palace, from which it is separated only by the Rue Lagrandière, is not appropriate for the installation of a consulate”.

On October 6, 1928 Les Annales Coloniales carried an article entitled “The future British Consulate in Saigon”, reporting the exchange of the Jardin d’Espagne for the new plot on Boulevard Norodom, and explaining that “the plans, drawn up in London, will be executed in Saigon under the supervision of one or more architects who will come all the way from England. The design will be a reproduction of those buildings already constructed to serve the same purpose in Bangkok and some major cities in China; or rather, it will be a ‘Cochinchina adaptation’ of the commonly adopted type.”

A view of Saigon's Boulevard Norodom.

The replacement lot was formally ceded by the Domaine Locale on December 21, 1928, but the new British Consulate General at 21 Boulevard Norodom (now 25 Lê Duẩn) took several years to construct and was not inaugurated until 1934. Sadly, no photographs have survived of this building, which in the 1950s became the British Embassy to the State of Vietnam and then briefly to the Republic of Vietnam. It was demolished and rebuilt in its current form in 1958–1959.

The 1958-1959 British Embassy building, now the British Consulate General in Ho Chi Minh City.

Crucially, the land exchange of 1928 returned the Jardin d’Espagne to the Domaine Locale and it became a small municipal park.

After 1955 it was renamed Công viên Liên Hiệp (Union Park) and, after 1975, Công viên Lý Tự Trọng. Then in the early 1980s, the buildings which had stood on the adjacent plot of land were demolished and the park was doubled in size, so that today it stretches the entire length of the block between Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa and Pasteur Streets.

Abandoned by the Spanish and rejected by the British, the Jardin d’Espagne was eventually transformed into one of Saigon’s best-loved parks.

The former Jardin d’Espagne, now the Lý Tự Trọng Park, in 2016.

This article was originally published in 2016.

Tim Doling is the author of the guidebooks Exploring Huế (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2018), Exploring Saigon-Chợ Lớn (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2019) and Exploring Quảng Nam (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2020) and The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam (White Lotus Press, 2012). For more information about Saigon history, visit his website, historicvietnam.com.

Authorities in Gia Lai Province have approved plans to relocate the Quy Hoà leprosy village from its current ocean-side setting in Quy Nhơn to make room for an ambitious real estate and tourism project.

Founded as the Laproserie de Quy Hoà Hospital in 1929 by Paul Maheu, a French priest, along with Dr. Lemoine of the Bình Định Hospital, the facilities in Quy Hoà include private homes, treatment rooms, a church and recreational areas. It was essential for providing care to patients when the disease was heavily stigmatized before an effective treatment was discovered in 1940, and remained important for treatment services for decades. While populations have declined thanks to improved sanitation and vaccination efforts, as of today, it is home to 250 families and 300 patients. Many families have spent several generations in their homes after a patient recovered from the disease. 

In addition to its on-going medical purposes, Quy Hoà holds significant heritage value. It boasts stunning modernist architecture situated in sight of the ocean and is home to the grave and former home of beloved poet Hàn Mặc Tử. Easily accessible from expanding Quy Nhơn city, including via scenic hiking path, it offers visitors an opportunity to learn about a unique period in Central Vietnam's development, marvel at colorful buildings with bold design choices and even take in some cultural oddities. 

Hàn Mặc Tử's grave (left) and some materials placed in the home he occupied in the village (right).

Anyone who has visited Quy Hoà and witnessed the picturesque ocean with sandy beach juxtaposed by the humble, impoverished buildings of the leprosy colony would be able to understand why it is wanted by developers. The inevitable is finally official with the Gia Lai People's Committee announcing on May 19 that the province is currently accelerating procedures for the implementation of the Ghềnh Ráng-Vũng Chua International Beach Resort Urban Area. Covering nearly 2,900 hectares, the project will require Quy Hoà to be moved to Tuy Phước Commune of Gia Lai Province, approximately 20 km to the north and noticebly not on the ocean.

View looking down onto Quy Hoà.

The new megaproject aims to provide upscale housing for 40,000 people and accomodate an average of approximately 6,900 tourists per day. A sports center, a golf center and hotels will rise above the austere bed where Hàn Mặc Tử once perished in agony. Flying taxis and seaplanes are included in Sun Group's plans. 

Officials have stressed the need for careful planning to ensure uninterrupted healthcare services for the patients. Specific plans for the site of the new leprosy treatment hospital and community are in development. 

Whether they're from Saigon, Hanoi or Đà Nẵng, urbanites in Vietnam have all grown up amid the chaos of local street culture, where the pulses of civic life churn with every vendor, family business, and gig worker. "Moment of Stillness," a collection of colorful illustrations by artist Hoàng Thanh Hiền, was born of the artist's keen observations of the familiar scenes in her immediate surroundings.

Hanoi streets are notoriously busy and hectic, but when one actually sits down to focus on each moving part in that busy puzzle, they would immediately notice the charms and vivid liveliness of things that we often overlook while going about our life. Each artwork in Hiền’s illustration project zooms in and isolates an element from the street scene in Hanoi, and highlights it with her artistic sensibility.

“The bikes carrying seasonal fruits, the food carts, the corner vendors selling iced tea, the trees and traffic signs that double as helmet or raincoat racks,” Hiền shares with Saigoneer via email. “Perhaps, with the forces of development and convenience of modern society, sidewalk vendors have become something associated with disorderliness and complications. But I want to redraw those images with a gentle palette. A moment of stillness for people whom I think are dealing with a lot of hardships.”

Mobile fruit sellers, a deliveryman waiting for pickup, rideshare drivers on bikes, a sugarcane juice cart: the subjects of Hiền’s illustrations are mostly small business owners and gig workers who spend the majority of their workday on sidewalks. The human figures are all faceless, perhaps in line with how most of us perceive the people we brush past on the street, but each scene is portrayed using cheerful color choices to celebrate the small moments rather than dismiss them.

Observing daily moments and illustrating them have become an escape for Hiền after the many hours spent at her day job. While drawing has been her favorite pastime since she was four or five years old, she graduated with an unrelated degree and then started working. “After many years, I still drew, wanted to draw, and constantly thought about art, so I quit and started learning art from the beginning,” she says. “ I got another job and, fortunately, met seniors who are very patient with me and believe in me. So I’ve been working while studying since.”

The title “Moment of Stillness” refers to the snapshot of street moments that Hiền collects while walking around Hanoi, but on the other hand, it also started from a need for her to take a break from drawing for work. “One day, I felt like I was illustrating like a machine. I illustrate at work, for my jobs every day. Everything runs smoothly and everybody is satisfied, but suddenly I stopped feeling that joy when I draw,” she shares. “A product finishes and another one comes right along; I don’t know how things began to flow so fast [...] So I started doing art just for myself in my free time.”

With a simple goal to reignite that happiness while drawing, she began with the simplest things that are right around her: “A dry leaf on the street, a fold on my clothes, a muscle of human anatomy… everything can become a story. I want to return to finding beauty in simple things like that. Gradually, I started paying more attention to our sidewalk space and its daily life.”

It might be a bittersweet time period for anyone making a living on Hanoi’s pavements or harboring great affection for the city’s vibrant informal economy, as a sidewalk-clearing campaign is sweeping through local streets, aiming to make them neater and safer for pedestrians. Independent art projects, like “Moment of Stillness,” will serve as an indelible documentation of the street moments of our collective memory.

Hailing from Hải Dương, Hiền herself has been in Hanoi for 10 years through her education and career. Creating art about Hanoi has encouraged her to observe where she lives more instead of being a mere passerby.

“I think each person has a different Hanoi. An old cart can be someone’s way to make a living. It seems like there’s everything on the sidewalk: necessities, food, clothes, even haircuts. Fruits, bánh mì and coffee in the morning and iced tea and skewers in the evening. The space on the pavement might look messy, but operates rhythmically with its own symbiotic negotiations.”

To view more of Hoàng Hiền's artworks, visit her Behance page here.

The most straightforward definition by which to explain ayam penyet to the Vietnamese layperson is perhaps “cơm gà Indo.” It’s technically not wrong: the dish has rice and chicken, and originates from Indonesia. But once you've actually sunk your teeth into this special fried chicken, the translation seems unfairly reductive because ayam penyet is so much better than the sum of its parts.

Editor's note: As of March 2024, Ayam Penyet Vindo has moved to 24 Điện Biên Phủ. The interior depicted in the review features the previous location.

You can’t go 500 meters in Saigon without bumping into cơm gà. Combining the cheapest carbohydrate and the cheapest meat, permutations of chicken rice are available to people of all ages, financial situations, and walks of life. With just VND50,000 or less, Saigoneers can wolf down a portion of Hainanese-style chicken rice or crispy cơm gà xối mỡ just around the corner from their natural habitat. This poultry love is not limited to Saigon, as many other Vietnamese localities have concocted their own versions as well, such as cơm gà Hội An, Phú Yên, Nha Trang, and Phan Rang, among others.

Ayam Penyet Vindo's light box.

As a cơm gà hobbyist, I find great pleasure in its level of ubiquity, but for home cooks aspiring to break into the commercial scene with their own creations, this means there are many chickens in the market to compete against. The owner duo behind Ayam Penyet Vindo, Lizam and Ricoh, find the popularity of cơm gà in Vietnam both an opportunity and a challenge to overcome — how to convince local customers’ taste buds that ayam penyet is not just typical rice with fried chicken.

Originating from Java, ayam penyet is nothing fancy, though its accessibility means there are thousands of versions out there. “Ayam” means “chicken” and “penyet” is Javanese for “smashed.” After being fried, the chicken leg is pounded to break up the meat. Some theorize that the action is to make it easy to eat ayam penyet by hand, but Ricoh tells me that it’s to release the moisture so that once sambal is applied on top, the meat will absorb the sauce, becoming more flavorful.

According to Singaporean food blogger Tony Boey, this now-commonplace dish had its beginning in sambal tempe penyet from the East Javan city Surabaya where tempeh — fermented whole soybeans pressed into blocks — is fried and pressed into a plate of sambal. This is a favorite meal of Pak Wardoyo, the son of Puspo Wardoyo, the founder of Ayam Bakar Wong Solo restaurant chain, so he added it to their menu, and later Pak incorporated fried chicken to form a new dish called “ayam penyet” in 1992. The smashed chicken gradually grew in fame, spreading to the rest of the country, and even to nearby neighbors like Malaysia, Singapore, and now Vietnam.

From house party to restaurant

Having sampled some particularly memorable ayam penyet versions in Singapore, I often find myself daydreaming about sambal chicken and airy fried batter flakes. A spontaneous Google query during the lockdown in 2021 brought up Ayam Penyet Vindo, a casual upstart promising authentic fried chicken from their home base on Cống Quỳnh Street, which has since shuttered as the Vindo duo ventured outside the alley onto the streets of downtown District 1. As you make a turn from Điện Biên Phủ into Mạc Đĩnh Chi, it’s impossible to miss the bold red-and-yellow sign of Vindo. The restaurant’s dining area is sparse, with a small entrance furnished with a few table sets, and a cozy air-conditioned corner upstairs.

Vindo is open from 10am to 10pm.

Vindo is run by Lizam, a Malaysian, and Ricoh, an Indonesian, who had been close friends for years before they decided to dip their toes into the F&B world. Lizam, with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm demeanor, represents the cautious, measured half of the pair, while bespectacled Ricoh fills in the rest with an adventurous streak and knowledge of Indonesian cuisine.

Back in Malaysia, the two met in 2014 while working for the same rubber company: Lizam in marketing and Ricoh in a technical role, a dynamic that they said carried over into the restaurant’s genesis. The friends moved to Vietnam in 2016 and 2017, following a call for a foreign partnership from a Vietnamese rubber company. Working together in Vietnam, they once shared an apartment and sometimes would cook dishes from home; this was the setting for the first spark leading to Vindo. Being an Indonesian restaurant, Vindo’s original chicken recipe naturally came from Ricoh, though once they realized that this flavorsome chicken was something special, they worked together to perfect it into an easy-to-follow recipe for the kitchen staff. 

Lizam and Ricoh, the owners, came to Vietnam in 2017 and 2016, respectively.

“One day, in the evening, I fried chicken, then he [Lizam] said he loved it so much. Then I suggested ‘how about we make ayam penyet?’” Ricoh recalls. He would make ayam penyet again for a Malaysian buddy, and slowly the tasty fried chicken gained a reputation among their Malaysian and Indonesian friends in Saigon. “They love the chicken so much, so people would call and say ‘Please come to my house and eat chicken together.’ They ask me to cook the chicken. I said ‘Oh my god, I cannot cook for you every day.’”

Nonetheless, getting from “this is some delicious chicken, we should sell it” to opening an actual business is not a simple A-to-B journey. “We didn’t agree [on the decision to open the restaurant]. We spent a month or two playing devil’s advocate. He was ‘pro,’ I was ‘con,’” Lizam explains. “After a while, Ricoh said ‘let’s just rent a place and do it.’ So we pooled the money, got the place, and rented it. Do first, worry later.” It took them about a month to test the whole dish together to reach a final product that can appeal to most Saigoneers, meaning trying to temper the heat in the sambal so as not to blow people’s heads off with Indonesia-level spiciness.

A chicken by any other name

Clockwise: ayam panggang, ayam penyet, ayam kremes, gado-gado, and nasi goreng in the middle.

At Vindo, the menu is decidedly straightforward: the main attraction is chicken leg quarters done in various ways. The headliner, of course, is ayam penyet, a fried chicken leg gently smashed and slathered in a coat of bright, pungent sambal. Ayam panggang instead subjects the leg to open flame in a grill while rendang ayam is chicken that has been braised for hours in coconut milk and a host of aromatics. If one is tired of poultry, there’s also fried rice in the form of nasi goreng, and a sweet peanut salad in the form of gado-gado, both officially recognized as Indonesian national dishes. Each chicken plate arrives with rice, fried tofu, tempeh, and a dollop of sambal.

Nasi goreng.

Gado-gado.

Differentiating their fried chicken from the corner cơm gà in the eyes of eaters is a continuous concern for the pair, though, if the addition of sambal and native accouterments like tempeh is not enough to do that, the flavor of the chicken leg would surely suffice. Having been parboiled with spices before being fried, the chicken absorbs much of its surroundings to stand on its own, but the sambal topping really equips it with a powerful punch. Notes of galangal, turmeric, chili, and garlic seep into every bite, cutting the oily side of the frying. We enjoy the sambal so much that we have to order an extra bowl to smear on everything.

The flavorful chicken is enveloped in a layer of sambal.

A slice of tempeh.

According to Ricoh, every day he has to make three batches of fresh sambal, each with a different level of heat. If this was Indonesia, we likely would need just one — at the hottest level — but alas the sweet tooth of Saigoneers necessitates palatal coddling. I am guilty as charged, and I enjoy dipping my chicken into the Level 1 sambal a lot.

Vindo’s ayam penyet is just as delectable as my memory serves, but admittedly, it’s just No. 2 in my ranking of dishes here: the first position belongs to their rendang ayam. It’s a festive treat whose main method of imbuing flavors into the meat is by cooking it for hours and hours, as Lizam aptly puts in my favorite description of anything we sampled during our visit: “Rendang is like ‘Danggg, you don’t have rendang?’” Its existence is so natural in any self-proclaimed Indonesian eatery that people will bemoan its lack thereof. With every slight maneuver of my cutlery, the meat falls off the bone, deeply infused with a coconut-rich sauce that prompts me to demolish the entire portion of rice as quickly as it arrives.

Ayam kremes.

Ayam panggang.

There used to be a time when Vindo’s following was made up of nearly all Malaysians and Indonesians, but now, they tend to book takeaway orders rather than make time to dine in. On weekends, Indonesian households living in suburban Saigon or nearby localities visit the restaurant as a stop during a family outing, but during the weekday lunch rush, Vindo’s tables host groups of Japanese office workers, curious passersby, and even gaggles of young Vietnamese eager to sample new, exciting food.

“We are a halal restaurant. People always think halal is ‘no pork,’ but it’s actually much bigger than that, it’s about the cleanliness, method of preparation, and the animals being used. We want to portray that it’s not just for Muslims,” Lizam says. “When you put in effort, when the food is good, the people are happy. The love is there.”

To sum up:

• Opening time: 10am–10pm
• Parking: Bike only
• Contact: +84 366 891 668
• Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood, Grab

Khôi loves chicken, is a raging millennial and will write for food.