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How Bách Tùng Diệp Became a Saigon Park From Earmarked Consulate Land

2026-05-29T09:30:00+07:00

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.

Grab a Cold One: The Thirsty Colonial History of Ice Production in Vietnam

2026-05-17T20:00:00+07:00

Walking through Saigon nowadays, you will notice that ice is so omnipresent, it’s part of the scenery. From trà đá, cà phê sữa đá to sinh tố, every drink is consumed with ice in order to combat the intense heat. Before the French brought ice factories to Vietnam, in hot, tropical cities like Saigon, you wouldn’t expect to find ice. Controlling the cold chain is now an important part of our logistics, be it for healthcare or food storage, opening the door for any cuisine to expand with new ingredients. A few centuries ago, however, it was once a thriving business catering to French colonists.

Making ice in a tropical climate

Throughout history, Vietnamese people learned to manage food safety and storage by using the tropical weather as an advantage. Folks focused on fermentation to extend the shelf life of produce; to quench thirst, people either drank hot tea or used clay jars to cool down water by a few degrees.

When French colonists started living in Vietnam, they maintained their desire to live as comfortably as possible, according to their standards, even at the expense of the local people. One of the luxuries they couldn’t bring from home, but dreamt about, was cold beer. While ice trades, sourced from the frozen lakes of North America, flourished in large Asian ports in India, Singapore and Hong Kong, there is no evidence of a Vietnamese harbor importing ice.

While it is highly likely that ice was imported from these regional ports, the lack of documentation indicates that it must have been in small quantities and for special occasions. The absence of consistent ice vendors revealed a market void, which paved the way for a lucrative industry. It was two French brothers, Victor and Gabriel Larue, who noticed the opportunity first. Victor started selling ice as soon as he arrived in Saigon in 1879; he was later joined by his brother, but their method wasn't documented until 1886, when the business scaled up. That year, they imported 140,000 kilograms of machinery to make ice, and built a secondary facility in Hải Phòng.

Saigon - Larue ice factory interior. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

The Larue brothers imported many kinds of machines to their factories throughout the years; whether they were compression or absorption refrigeration machines, the main goal was the same: the process of making ice is a continuous cycle where heat is constantly moved from one place to another. It starts with the compressor, which takes a low-pressure gas and squeezes it into a high-pressure hot vapor. The brothers used ammonia, having imported 15,000 kilograms of it in 1879. This vapor then enters the condenser, where it releases its heat into the surrounding air and transforms into a high-pressure liquid. This liquid then passes through a throttle valve, where the sudden drop in pressure causes its temperature to plummet instantly. Finally, this cold fluid enters evaporator coils, which are submerged in or surrounded by water. Through the metal walls of these pipes, the refrigerant absorbs the heat from the water until the water solidifies into ice.

Business grew quickly: the target clientele was not only restaurants or bars, but also private individuals who were seeking blocks of ice for their homes. The sales process used prepaid vouchers that had to be bought beforehand, requiring a minimum purchase of one kilogram.

The Larue brothers were not the only ice makers in Vietnam. For example, there was an ice factory in Hanoi that was opened in 1886 by an entrepreneur named Berthoin. However, whether due to poor business management or bad luck, he didn’t succeed in lasting long. The price when he opened his business was 10 cents a kilogram (roughly equivalent to EUR2.5 today), which was criticized as too high. He had to cut the price to 6 cents a kilogram two years later. That same year, he lost a lawsuit that he initiated against a competitor whom he accused of selling tickets that were allegedly too similar to his, because they shared the same color palette. The next summer, Hanoi underwent an ice shortage, as Berthoin destroyed his old factory to build a new one. With quantity far outpaced by demand, some people queued for more than four hours to get some ice for their families.

The Larue brothers didn’t miss the opportunity and bought this factory in 1893, expanding their business to Hanoi, near the one they created in Hải Phòng.

Larue ice factory, Hải Phòng - Ice house. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

But maintaining an ice factory isn’t easy. One of the main issues was the quality of the water, which can affect the taste of the ice and, more critically, can create some serious health issues. Indeed, with water drawn from the river where trash was thrown, people were afraid that diseases could spread faster — most notably cholera, which caused many deaths in Asia at the time. In 1895, in Hải Phòng and Hanoi, many customers complained about the ice quality, as red stains could be seen through the blocks, and it tasted rotten. Wells were dug the next year in Hanoi to source better-quality water.

Larue’s success attracted a lot of attention, in particular amongst the brewing sector. The ice and beer businesses have always been intricately linked by the necessity of refrigeration. Specifically, the fermentation process must occur at a constant temperature, meaning that the ability to keep liquids cold is key for good beer. The Larue brothers had already entered the brewing industry as early as 1909, making their own “Larue” beer, which is still sold today.

Larue beer ad in the newspaper L’Information d’Indochine, April 26, 1934. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

Another colonial family, the Denis brothers, who were initially involved in the import/export of goods to Indochina, took the opportunity to merge the two already-linked industries into one and created the Brasserie et Glacière de l’Indochine in 1927. The Denis brothers bought the Larue business, and other breweries like Brasserie Hommel, and instantly became a formidable operation. This company, currently named Brasseries et Glacières Internationales, grew into an international firm with subsidiaries in many French colonies and later, other countries. Today, they are particularly dominant in the African beer market, but remain influential globally.

Outside of Hommel brewery in Hanoi, Tonkin. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

The business of colonists at the expense of locals

Ice-making was always intended to cater to French colonists' desire to drink cold beer, a colonial context wherein their wishes were satisfied at the expense of Vietnamese people. For example, the French relied on exploitative labor and the prioritization of private luxury over public sanitation.

Larue ice factory, Hanoi. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

Of course, workers in the ice and brewing factories were indigenous people, and the dynamic between them and the colonists was characterised by systemic inequalities. Vietnamese people were seen as a means of labor for white settlers, as illustrated in this article extract from L’Avenir du Tonkin (May 18, 1895) about a French doctor addressing the poor quality of ice and coming up with a solution using “con-gai” (a French word derived from the Vietnamese term con gái, refer to local Vietnamese women):

“Do you want a solution? The con-gai who draw and sell drinking water should wear a white cloth armband bearing, written in ink, the date on which they were issued a water carrier's permit. Europeans should buy their water exclusively from them. Furthermore, these easily recognizable women should be mercilessly locked up when they fill their buckets in ponds or in the stagnant branch of the river. They should simultaneously be hit with a rather heavy fine and be stripped of their authorization to sell water for a period of time, or permanently, in the event of a repeat offense. Finally, the police or the municipality, just as was done for rickshaw fares, should establish a fixed rate for the selling price of a load of water. This rate should be profitable for the vendors, but must not allow the European to be exploited.”

In the process, the Brasserie et Glacière de l’Indochine generated a lot of money: in 1930 it declared a net profit of 329,714 piastre, the equivalent value of around EUR2.3 million in 2025. French settlers got rich by exploiting a cheap local workforce whom they viewed as mere objects, for a luxury — chilled beer — that was almost exclusively consumed by settlers, as noted in this article extract:

“Until now, beer in Indochina has been treated as a luxury beverage. The new brewery being established in Hanoi is targeting a native clientele, of which it is already assured, by planning to offer an inexpensive beer that will likely not be bad at all.” — L'Éveil économique de l'Indochine, November 3, 1929

Household refrigeration developed when foreign companies entered the market after Đổi Mới, which enabled families to store food more safely and for longer. Meanwhile, most of the ice consumed in Vietnam is still made in industrial ice factories. They power restaurants and cafes, which account for most of the ice sold. Ice has historically been linked to the creation of beer in Vietnam, consumed by French colonists, but Vietnam has formed its own ice-beer relationship too: most Vietnamese people today like to drink beer with ice, a local custom that diverged from western conventions. Throughout their history, ice factories have never ceased to expand, paving the way for many creative cold drinks, like cà phê sữa đá with condensed milk — a humble Vietnamese cold beverage that is now conquering the world.

What Does the ‘Tower of Hanoi’ Puzzle Have to Do With Vietnam?

2026-05-15T11:00:00+07:00

What is the Tower of Hanoi? While this official name might sound mysterious, if you’re an avid consumer of adventure media and role-playing games or just simply a curious former child, it’s likely that you’ve seen or even played this game without knowing what it’s called.

Tower of Hanoi is a mathematical puzzle involving a platform with three pillars and a series of discs of varying sizes arranged neatly from biggest at the bottom to smallest at the top. The objective is usually to move all the discs from the leftmost pillar to the rightmost pillar following a set of strict rules.

A simple animation showing how to solve the puzzle. Image via Geeks for Geeks.

The rules are: only one disc might be moved at a time, only smaller discs can be placed on top of larger discs, and only the disc on top of a stack can be moved. While, in theory, there could be any number of discs — the more discs there are, the longer the solution will take — children’s toy versions often feature from seven to nine discs that are differently colored.

At this point, you might be tempted to ask: what does this have anything to do with Hanoi, or Vietnam, for that matter? To answer this, one needs to trace back to the Tower of Hanoi’s origin, which many attribute to one Édouard Lucas, a mathematician living in 19^th-century France with a fondness for puzzles.

Édouard Lucas (1842–1891)

It’s believed that Lucas invented the game, which became commercially available in 1883. “The Tower of Hanoï - Authentic Brain teaser of the Anamites - A game brought back from Tonkin,” the promotional material for the puzzle reads. The marketing credits the inventor as “Professor N. Claus (of Siam), Mandarin of the College of Li-Sou-Stian.” Read the rest of the text on the packaging below:

This game was found, for the first time, in the writings of the illustrious Mandarin FER-FER-TAM-TAM, which are being published, in the near future, by order of the government of China.

The TOWER OF HANOI is composed of levels, decreasing in size, variable in number, that we have represented by eight disks of wood, pierced at their centers. In Japan, in China, and at Tonkin, they are made of porcelain.

The game consists of demolishing the tower level by level, and reconstructing it in a neighboring place, conforming to the rules given.

Amusing and instructive, easy to learn and to play in town, in the country, or on a voyage, it has for its aim the popularization of science, like all the other curious and novel games of professor N. CLAUS (OF SIAM).

According to an old Indian legend, the Brahmins have been following each other for a very long time on the steps of the alter in the Temple of Bernares, carrying out the moving of the Sacred Tower of Brahma with sixty-four levels in fine gold, trimmed with diamonds from Golconde. When all is finished, the Tower and the Brahmins will fall, and that will be the end of the world!

The name N. Claus (de Siam), of course, is just an anagram for Lucas d’Amiens, with Amiens being the French hometown of Édouard Lucas; and Li-Sou-Stian is an anagram for Saint Louis, the school where he taught. The rest of the promotional text seems to be an exercise in passionate Orientalism, where the author tries to cram in as many eastern references as possible — perhaps in a bid to capitalize on the exoticism of a barely explored Far East in the 1880s.

The illustrations on the original packaging of the Tower of Hanoi game by Lucas. Images via The Puzzle Museum.

Considering the hodgepodge of Asian nations mentioned, maybe it was purely a coincidence that Hanoi made the official name, even though the only scenario where the Tower of Hanoi is related to Vietnam would be if the discs themselves are made of bún chả patties. In Vietnam, most toy vendors just refer to it as “đồ chơi tháp cầu vồng.”

Regardless of The Tower of Hanoi’s origins, its popularity has never waned, both as a children’s toy and as a recreational mathematical brainteaser. The puzzle has appeared in a number of pop culture products, including TV series like Doctor Who and Survivor, and RPG game titles like Mass Effect, Dragon Age, and Genshin Impact.

From Kiều's Snowy Skin to K-Beauty's Glow: Delving Into Vietnam's Love for Fair Skin

2026-05-10T20:00:00+07:00

The preference for light skin is widespread in Vietnam. It is discernible from the mere sight of Saigon’s streets during the day, when the majority of riders are covered up — in hoodies, jackets, jeans, pants, and masks — for protection against UV radiation, but also to prevent tanning under the blistering sun. Especially more so for women, light skin is often associated with beauty and social status, so protection against the sun has become more than a health concern.

But when did this preference for light skin begin? On one hand, it is tempting to think that its roots lie within colonialism and white supremacy; that light skin is desired via its proximity to whiteness. But while the sentiment behind such a perspective is not entirely untrue, the history of Vietnam's preference for light skin is considerably more complex. Colonial dynamics certainly reshaped and reinforced existing biases, but the preference for lighter skin predates French colonial rule. And while the same bias no doubt continues to exist today, its manifestation in modern times is also quite different from that of a century ago. Both then and now, light skin signifies social status via its proximity to modernity — the difference, however, lies in the kind of modernity envisaged. While the preference for light skin exists broadly across genders, the standard is considerably less rigid and pervasive for men. As a disclaimer, this piece focuses exclusively on women, largely due to the bias towards women of existing scholarship on the history of cosmetics and beauty in Vietnam.

Perceptions of skin color during colonial Vietnam

In pre-colonial society, the preference for light skin was largely a product of class dynamics. Darker skin signified exposure to the sun under long days of labor, while lighter skin signified upper class privilege and leisure. In exemplifying the beauty that was associated with light skin, the poet Nguyễn Du describes the protagonist of the legendary Tale of Kiều as possessing skin as white as snow.

Under French colonial rule, the preference for light skin continued to persist, but under different terms. Colonialism did not so much create or displace the existing bias as it did complicate and reconfigure it by layering a logic of whiteness on top of what existed before.

The front cover of the Ngày Nay volume published on July 26, 1936.

Cosmetics and the skincare industry is one site in which such dynamics were, and continue to be, most visible. As the historian Christina Firpo explains in her recent book Beauty and the Nation — a thorough scholarly account of the development of beauty culture in colonial Vietnam which this section draws heavily from — mass-market cosmetics were popularized only in the 1920s and 1930s, both in Vietnam and around the world. The boom in the cosmetics industry could be attributed to a number of factors such as the development of new technologies for better and more consistent products, a shift in public perception of cosmetics away from its association with sex work, as well as innovations in transportation which allowed goods to travel around the world. It should be noted, though, that forms of skincare existed in pre-colonial Vietnam as well. For instance, women often used a concoction containing rice powder to whiten their skin, as per Sino-Vietnamese medical tradition.

“Crème Siamoise,” Phụ Nữ Tân Văn, May 16, 1929

Cosmetics gained significant traction in colonial Vietnam because it offered an avenue for self-expression for women. This was significant especially at a time when women sought to challenge traditional gender norms. In addition to challenging polygamy and the expectation of chastity for widows, women also began to reject the idea of arranged marriages and seek out romantic love instead.

Cosmetics during the mid-late colonial era entailed a range of different products: lipstick, mascara, perfume, as well as powder and skincare products such as cream. Together, these elements constituted the aesthetic of the “modern girl.” In reality, however, only elites could reliably afford such cosmetic products, except perhaps for lipstick. Most cosmetics were likely manufactured at homes and local pharmacies. Regardless, the mere advertisement of such cosmetics commodities — most of them European, some Japanese — carried immense social force, for advertisements in newspapers and magazines were powerful sites of meaning-making with respect to gender and womanhood.

The cosmetics industry burgeoned in colonial Vietnam precisely by capitalizing on this appetite for social change with respect to gender norms and a yearning for modernity, as epitomized in the caricature of the “modern girl.” And skincare products were of course no exception to this. In one telling advertisement, Firpo points out, the Swiss brand Tokalon “assured women that men were fascinated by smooth white skin and promised that Tokalon cream would lead men to fall in love with them.” As Khanh Tran writes in a previous Saigoneer article, “well-off women in Vietnam cherished good, fair skin over any painted visage”

‘Tokalon,‘ Phong Hóa, October 26, 1934

Interestingly, even while targeting a Vietnamese audience, cosmetic brands most often featured white European models. As Christina Firpo explains, “In some cases it is possible that the companies simply never converted their original European advertisements for the local market, but it is likely that many deliberately used European models to capitalize on their associations with white prestige.” Firpo points out that even Vietnamese-owned businesses, such as the beauty institute Mỹ Viện Amy, featured French women to promote its products.

“Mỹ Viện Amy,” Ngày Nay, September 7, 1940

While the preference for light skin long predated French colonial rule, the terms through which lightness was made legible were shifting. Lightness was no longer legible only through class, but was now also being read through the lens of western modernity and proximity to whiteness, though, of course, the two were by no means fully separable.

The present

While the preference for light skin persists today, it is abundantly clear that beauty ideals are now increasingly modeled after women of East Asia — especially, of Korea. As NPR correspondent Elise Hu writes in her book Flawless: Lessons in Looks and Culture from the K-Beauty Capital, “the modern Asian face is increasingly defined by a Korean beauty standard, with Southeast Asian women especially looking toward Korea for the latest and most advanced beauty products and procedures.” This modern face is defined by ideals of clear, pearl-white skin, a V-shaped jawline, a high and slender nose bridge, and double eyelids — facial features around which now globally famous industries of skincare and plastic surgery have developed.

It goes without saying that beauty ideals vary among individuals. At the same time, however, the broad enthusiasm for “K-Beauty” in Vietnam is not difficult to discern. One need only look at the leading fashion magazines such as Elle Vietnam and Đẹp Magazine to observe this, where articles and images of Korean stars, such as Jisoo of Black Pink, are frequently featured. Behind this lies the significant influence of Korean cultural and economic capital: the soaring popularity of K-pop and K-dramas, as well as the fact that Korean brands constitute the highest share of Vietnam's beauty and personal care market (more broadly, Korea is once again Vietnam’s largest foreign direct investor, as of this year). What set the stage for this shift was Vietnam's integration into the global economy following the Đổi Mới period, in conjunction with the subsequent rise of Hallyu, or the “Korean Wave”' which began in the late 1990s and has escalated dramatically since the 2010s.

Jisoo, a member of K-pop group Blackpink, on the cover of Elle Vietnam's September 2023 issue.

In Vietnam, the ideal skin complexion that so many desire during the decades after Đổi Mới, epitomized by Korean skincare, is perhaps best encapsulated by the word “sáng,” or brightness. The prominence of this word should be evident to anyone who has spent time cruising through shopping malls or surfing online in search of skincare products. It should be said that the emphasis on brightness is not ubiquitous across different geographies — as a start, we can note that the phrase “bright skin” itself already feels awkward in English. In comparing the websites of higher-end skincare brands across Vietnam, Korea, and the US, the same product is marketed differently on their Vietnamese websites, often centering its effects for brightening.

Kiehl’s Clearly Corrective Dark Spot Solution

Take, for instance, one of Kiehl’s bestsellers in Vietnam. While its English name is “Kiehl's Clearly Corrective Dark Spot Solution,” on Kiehl’s Vietnamese site, the same product is advertised as a “brightening” serum, explicitly invoking the word sáng. The Korean brand Innisfree’s bestseller in Vietnam, “Cherry Blossom Glow Tone-Up Cream,” again features the word sáng in the SEO product title on its Vietnamese website. To be sure, “glow,” of course means bright too, but the difference is that the Korean name for the product transliterates the word “glow,” mainly for the purpose of manufacturing a kind of scientificity associated with English in Korea. One can find the word sáng peppered throughout the online stores of other major cosmetics brands like L'Oréal Paris, as well as Vietnamese-owned brands like Cocoon. Clearly, there is a kind of craze over sáng within the world of skincare.

Innisfree Cherry Blossom Glow Tone Up Cream

On one level, “brightening” is simply an alias or moniker for “whitening.” But the semantic difference between the two terms is significant and worth reflecting upon. The sociologist Thuy Linh Nguyen Tu writes, “sáng refers not to a skin color, but to a quality, a luminousness that radiates from the skin.” In contrast to a notion of fairness or even softness, sáng signifies a kind of strength that radiates from within, a quality not wholly reducible to the realm of aesthetics. This is evident from the fact, for instance, that sáng can also be used to describe brightness with regards to intelligence or even one’s future. During her visit to Vietnam, she recalls frequently encountering the phrase “sáng, sạch, đẹp” as a descriptor for ideal skin complexion — a mantra that, fascinatingly, echoes “xanh, sạch, đẹp,” a slogan that is oft-repeated by urban developers.

If colonial-era advertisements featured European women to invoke the allure of western modernity, sáng points towards a different set of aspirations. It reflects a yearning for what sociologist Kimberly Kay Hoang calls “pan-Asian modernity”: aspirations for modernity that looks not to the west, but elsewhere in Asia for inspiration, especially as the influence and power of East Asia continues to rise, both regionally and globally, while the West’s is in slow decline. From this perspective, it becomes possible to read sáng not simply as a norm for beauty, but as a reflection of broader ideals for Vietnam’s socioeconomic posture. If sáng signifies whiteness, it is, as Linh writes, “surely whiteness of a different color.”

Trần Thị Thu Ngân on the cover of Harper's Bazaar Vietnam's November 2016 issue.

A comparative perspective of the present day and colonial era shows us the ways in which beauty ideals for skin are both shaped, and made sense of, by forces larger than “mere” aesthetics and beauty. Both then and now, the preference for light skin has persisted through its signification of social status, though the conception of modernity underpinning it has since shifted.

To end on a personal note: I myself am a Korean with tanner skin than most Koreans — a product of having lived in Vietnam for many years — and I feel entirely comfortable with this fact. In writing this piece, I’ve thought about why. Personally, I’d like to think of it as evidence of a rejection on my part of colorism as a form of social bias and discrimination. But if I’m being honest, I think my comfort speaks more so to two things: firstly, my gender as a man, which offers more lenience with respect to standards for skincare; and secondly, my socioeconomic class, in large part constituted by my position within Vietnamese society as a Korean — which places me firmly within the very sphere of modernity that sáng aspires for, thus, in a rather twisted way, making the need to signify it through light skin somewhat obsolete. I am doubtful that I would’ve felt as comfortable with my tan skin had I lived and grown up in Korea, for instance. From this perspective, my rejection of light skin is not a feat, but rather a feature of a deeper issue, of which colorism is one manifestation. Of course skin tone should not determine how one is perceived or judged. But when we say that colorism is a problem, we should be clear-sighted: the problem lies not so much in the fact that skin tone is used as an indicator of status, but in the fact that a hierarchy of social status — organized around rubrics of race, class, and modernity — exists at all.

The History of Saigon General Hospital, the Clinic Funded by a Doctor's Generosity

2026-05-04T11:00:00+07:00

The Saigon Hospital at 125 Lê Lợi was originally built in the late 1930s as the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie. The French named it after French doctor Théodose Déjean de la Bâtie, who devoted his life to treating members of the Vietnamese community.

While the wealthy Chinese communities set up their own well-appointed hospitals in Chợ Lớn from as early as the 1870s, medical facilities in Saigon during the first half century of colonial rule were provided almost exclusively for the use of European settlers.

During that period, Vietnamese people living in Saigon had to travel to the Chợ Quán Hospital for treatment, or alternatively to visit the tiny Thị Nghè clinic of the Sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres, which, according to one government report, “compensated, to some extent, for the lack of an Hôpital indigène in Saigon.”

The need to create a hospital “specifically designated for indigenous people” in Saigon was taken up at the turn of the century by Dr Théodose Dejean de la Bâtie (1865–1912).

A former director of Chợ Quán Hospital who developed a pioneering programme to improve standards of maternity care, Dejean de la Bâtie was elected to the Colonial Council in 1900 and lobbied vociferously for the government to provide more civilian doctors for the treatment of local people.

In April 1903, using his own money, Dejean de la Bâtie set up “a clinic on the rue d’Adran [Hồ Tùng Mậu], behind the Justice of Peace,” which offered “free medical and surgical treatment to all Asians who wished to benefit from European medicine.”

Dejean de la Bâtie personally funded the operation of the clinic for nearly two years, but its success nearly bankrupted him, and, in 1905, the municipal government took over its operation. In that year, the clinic received subsidies from the Saigon Municipality (1,200 piastres), Cholon Province (300 piastres) and Gia-Dinh Province (300 piastres).

According to a report of 1905 in the Annuaire général de l'Indo-Chine française, “Although recently founded, this institution has given brilliant results and seems to be destined to be of great service. For the first 12 months of operation, the free consultation room was crowded with 3,151 patients of all nationalities. In total, they came here 15,717 times to ask for bandages or medication, or simply for advice on their health. During this period, Dr Dejean de la Bâtie, assisted by his colleague Dr Flandin, carried out 166 surgical procedures under chloroform, 86 under cocaine and 21 under ethyl chloride. The free healthcare services are provided here by Dr Dejean de la Bâtie, assisted by a European nun, an Annamite nun, an Annamite nurse and a secretary-interpreter.

When Dejean de la Bâtie died unexpectedly in 1912 at the age of just 47, many tributes were paid to the man who had devoted his life to improving standards of medical care for local people.

Speaking in 1930, his former deputy, Dr Georges M L Montel, commented that he “cared too much for his patients and didn’t charge fees… It was only when his clinic became such a major undertaking, and his personal resources were no longer adequate to pay for it, that he consented to hand it to the municipality. He had a heart of gold. That’s why he died penniless, and his widow, instead of being chauffeured around in a car like so many other ladies, had to be content to live as a modest teacher.”

Two years after his death, the clinic founded by Théodose Dejean de la Bâtie was relocated to a larger building on boulevard Bonard, the site occupied today by the Saigon Hospital. Known initially as the Polyclinique du Marché or the Polyclinique du boulevard Bonard, it was placed under the direction of Dr Georges Montel.

However the demand for medical services by local people continued to grow, prompting Colonial Council member Trương Văn Bền in 1919 to urge the government to build a much larger Hôpital indigene in Saigon in order to cope with the “alarming growth” in the number of local patients.

Indochina – medicine before 1930.

As annual patient numbers at the Polyclinique du Marché rose from 28,982 in 1922 to 37,957 in 1924 and 45,161 in 1926, the authorities responded by opening smaller clinics at Tân Định (1925) and Khánh Hội (1930),

Finally in 1935, Cochinchina Governor Pierre Pagès (1934-1939) approved plans to rebuild the Polyclinique du Marché as a fully-equipped city hospital.

Constructed and opened in stages between 1937 and 1939, the new hospital cost 185,000 piastres (1,850,000 francs) to build. In February 1938, the Colonial Council decided that it should be named the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie, “in honour of the devoted and selfless philanthropist who was the creator of the municipal polyclinique.”

A “colorized” image of the the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie in 1949.

While most of the funding came from the city government, the Hui-Bon-Hoa family made a sizable donation of 38,000 piastres, securing for themselves the naming rights to the south wing (nearest the market), which became known as the “pavillon Hui-Bon-Hoa.” The north wing was named after Bâtie’s protégée Dr Georges Montel, who had become known in the 1920s for his groundbreaking treatment of leprosy, while other smaller donations were recognised by the naming of individual consulting rooms and operating theatres. A marble plaque was posted in the main entrance lobby, bearing the names of all donors and benefactors who had contributed to the construction.

A CFTI electric tram passes the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie in the early 1940s.

After 1955, the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie was renamed the Saigon General Hospital (Bệnh viện Đa khoa Sài Gòn). Since that time it has continued to function as one of the most important hospitals in the city.

However, in recent years the fabric of the building has become badly degraded and, in an article in Người Lao Động, the hospital was described as “seedy, dirty, with inadequate service and bad management.” The same article quoted a leader from the Hồ Chí Minh City Department of Health as saying: “It has all the necessary facilities and a convenient location, but the performance of the Saigon Hospital is very poor....This situation must be resolved. The Department of Health is considering whether the entire hospital personnel should be reorganised or the hospital should be closed completely.”

The Saigon General Hospital today.

This article was originally published in 2015.

From WWI Monument to Ancestor Temple: The Story of Saigon's Hùng King Temple

2026-04-24T11:30:00+07:00

The Hùng King Temple at 2 Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm was originally built in 1927–1929 under the name Temple du Souvenir Annamite (Annamite Temple of remembrance), primarily to honor the memory of Vietnamese soldiers who died while fighting in World War I.

It is a little-known fact that more than 92,000 Vietnamese men from French Indochina fought in the French armed forces during the Great War of 1914–1918, and it’s been estimated that at least 12,000 of these lost their lives during that conflict.

In 1920, the Cochinchina authorities decided to build a Great War memorial and cenotaph to honor all those who fought and died for France during World War I. This Monument aux morts de la Grande Guerre was inaugurated on November 11, 1927 on place Maréchal Joffre (now Turtle Lake).

The Monument aux Morts de la Grande Guerre.

However, leaders of the Vietnamese community in Saigon felt that there should also be a dedicated memorial to the large number of local soldiers who lost their lives in the conflict, and that this should take the traditional form of a temple to worship their memory. After extensive discussion, it was decided that this temple should commemorate not just Vietnamese war dead, but also great historical figures associated with the south.

Consequently, in 1921, the Cochinchina administration granted a plot of land next to the Botanical Gardens and a committee was set up under patronage of Cochinchina Governor Le Gallen to raise funds for the construction of the Temple du Souvenir Annamite. The fundraising campaign was targeted at the wealthy Vietnamese community of Saigon: “proprietors, shopkeepers, civil servants and others for whom the work or sacrifice of our dear departed has assured happiness.”

The Temple du souvenir Annamite in the late colonial period.

By 1927, a public subscription of 48,000 piastres had been raised, and in November 1927, when architect Auguste Delaval was commissioned to design the new city museum, he was also charged with designing and supervising the construction of the Temple du Souvenir Annamite on the adjacent site.

The temple was built of masonry around a wooden frame supplied by the École professionnelle de Thu-Dau-Mot, and inaugurated together with the new Musée Blanchard de la Brosse (now the Hồ Chí Minh City History Museum) on January 1, 1929. It was described by Le Progrès Annamite newspaper as “a place where the great figures of history, the mandarin benefactors of the people, the writers of talent and the dead of the Great War will be combined in a single official cult.”

Dragons flanked the stone steps leading up to the temple, which was designed in a style typical of Nguyễn-Dynasty mausoleums in Huế, with a three-layered curved roof richly decorated with dragons and phoenixes.

A colonial-era view of the Musée Blanchard de la Brosse from the Temple du souvenir Annamite.

The newspaper described the Temple as “a building of pure Annamite style, its interior decorated with sculptural motifs which bring together dragons and other symbolic animals (cranes, unicorns, turtles and phoenixes)” and featuring “masonry walls which combine durability with the fine elegance of collonades and bas-reliefs made from precious wood.” Each of the 12 black wooden pillars supporting the roof represented a sign of the zodiac.

The Temple du souvenir Annamite has always been popular with photographers.

In the center of the temple was placed “a marble stele, where, next to the famous names of Le-Van-Duyet, Phan-Thanh-Giang, Nguyen-Huynh-Duc, Truong-Vinh-Ky, Tong-Doc-Loc, Tong-Doc-Phuong, Paulus Cua and Le-Quang-Hien, are inscribed the more modest but no less glorious names of our brave Annamites who died on the field of battle.”

The newspaper concluded that “as well as a place of meditation and pilgrimage for the Annamites, the monument will also be a masterpiece where foreign tourists will come to appreciate the beauty of our local art.”

In 1955, the temple was rededicated to the memory of the founding Hùng Dynasty of Việt Nam, and officially renamed the Đền Quốc tổ Hùng Vương (National Hùng King Ancestor Temple), although the original stele remained and the temple continued to be known popularly as Đền Kỷ niệm (“Temple of remembrance”).

This 1950s Ford advert used the Temple du souvenir Annamite as a location.

After Reunification, the memorial stele was removed and the temple was dedicated exclusively to the Hùng kings. Today, the main Hùng king shrine stands at the center of the temple, guarded by a set of eight bronze-tipped weapons (lỗ bộ), a gong and a drum. Various other items are placed around the side of the hall, including two replica Đông Sơn drums and a model of the main Hùng King Temple in the northern province of Phú Thọ.

The plague carrying the temple name today.

Each year, on the 10^th day of the third lunar month (usually around mid April), the temple hosts the city’s official Hùng King Ancestors Festival, which begins with a solemn ceremony giving thanks to the Hùng dynasty for their contribution to the Vietnamese nation.

In the yard immediately in front of the Hùng Temple is a three-ton bronze elephant statue mounted on a rectangular concrete pedestal. This was presented as a gift to the city by King Rama VII of Siam on the occasion of his first visit to Indochina on April 14, 1930.

A 1960s shot of the bronze elephant statue presented as a gift to the city by King Rama VII of Siam in 1930.

The Hùng King Temple today. Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

This article was originally published in 2015.

A Brief History of the Saigon-Mỹ Tho Line, Indochina’s First Railway

2026-04-13T10:00:00+07:00

Inaugurated on July 20, 1885, the Saigon–Mỹ Tho line was the first railway line in French Indochina.

Originally conceived as part of an abortive grand Mekong Delta railway network, the Saigon–Mỹ Tho railway line had a long and difficult birth, marred by bitter disputes between the contractor and the colonial authorities.

Workers take a break from construction.

One particular bone of contention was the failure of the Maison Eiffel to compensate for track subsidence on marshy ground, leading to problems with the access ramps of its three metal viaducts at Bình Điền, Bến Lức and Tân An.

The Tân An railway bridge seen in the late 19^th century.

In 1888, the colonial authorities withdrew the franchise from the original operator, the Compagnie des Chemins de Fer Garantis des Colonies Françaises (CCFGCF). The line was subsequently managed by the Saigon tramway operator Société Générale des Tramways à Vapeur de Cochinchine (SGTVC) until that company’s demise in 1911, after which it became part of the Réseaux Non Concédés, the network of railway lines operated directly by the Government General of Indochina.

Throughout its history, the line’s original 20kg/m rails were never upgraded, rendering it unsuitable for anything other than lightweight rolling stock.

The Vaico steam engine.

During the 1930s, when competition from road transportation began to impact seriously on passenger numbers and revenue, the authorities responded by substituting Renault ABH-2 300hp diesel railcars for locomotive-hauled passenger trains.

A Renault ABH-2 on the Saigon–Mỹ Tho line.

During the First Indochina War, the French military began using the branch to move men and equipment in their campaign against southern revolutionary bases. On several occasions, Việt Minh forces responded by inflicting serious damage on the line’s track and bridges, but on each occasion repairs were carried out swiftly and the line remained open for the duration of the conflict.

By the 1950s, the road network in the Mekong Delta had expanded significantly. Lacking investment, the dilapidated line was increasingly unable to compete with faster trucks and motor coaches. With losses mounting, the South Vietnamese Department of Railways (Sở Hỏa Xa Việt Nam, HXVN) opted for closure. The last train from Saigon to Mỹ Tho ran on June 30, 1958.

However, that wasn’t quite the end of the story. The railway track from Saigon to Chợ Lớn (km 6) and Phú Lâm (km 8) remained in place after 1958 and continued to function intermittently as a local freight spur until at least 1970.

Wilbur's Vietnam: 1960s Saigon Through the Lens of a Famed National Geographic Editor

2026-03-31T10:00:00+07:00

The 1960s witnessed an unprecedented influx of foreigners into Saigon and Vietnam. From soldiers to teachers to just intrepid shutterbugs, the visits of these camera-clutching characters resulted in a wealth of old photos taken in the city from the early 60s all the way until 1975.

At Saigoneer, we’ve featured dozens of such photo collections over time — captured during numerous occasions of the year and spanning just as many geographical landmarks — but the images below by notable National Geographic photographer Wilbur E. Garrett still remain our all-time favorite.

Garrett was one of the magazine’s most prominent picture editors, whose career-defining works cover historic moments such as the Korean War, Vietnam War and the cover photo depicting the famous and haunting “Afghan girl” by Steve McCurry. Unfortunately, he passed away in 2016 at age 85.

As an avid photographer and picture editor, Garrett’s involvement with Vietnam was prolific: he started making yearly trips to the country from 1960 to 1968. His time in the Southeast Asian country spawned an expansive archive of magazine-quality photos that might not look out of place in any editorial spread nowadays.

In this article, Saigoneer will feature some of the best shots of Garrett in Saigon from trips in 1961 and 1965. Feast your eyes on the famed photographer’s Saigon photos, courtesy of Flickr user manhhai, below:

Al fresco tables outside of the L'Imperial cafe (now Vietnam House restaurant) at the corner of Tự Do-Nguyễn Văn Thinh (now Đồng Khởi-Mạc Thị Bưởi), 1961.

Looking from District 2 towards the Bạch Đằng Wharf and District 4, 1961.

A young couple dashing down a suburban street in 1961.

A temple in Chợ Lớn (left) and famous cải lương performer Thanh Nga in a play (right), 1961.

The Bạch Đằng Wharf in 1961.

A lady in a yellow áo dài, 1961.

Morning on Tôn Đức Thắng Street, 1961.

A lion dance performance in Chợ Lớn (left) and a lady riding a Velo Solex on Tôn Đức Thắng Street, 1961.

Two xích lô drivers taking a nap, 1961.

A freshly constructed Thủ Đức Intersection, 1961.

Praying at Lăng Ông Bà Chiểu in Bình Thạnh District, 1961.

Nón lá smile, 1961.

A bánh mì stall in chợ cũ on Tôn Thất Đạm Street, 1965.

The crowds in a temple in Chợ Lớn during Tết, 1965.

A view of downtown Saigon from District 4, 1965.

A security post where the police pat down two bikers, 1965.

A porter in Chợ Lớn (left) and a roast chicken store in chợ cũ (right), 1965.

The Lê Lợi-Pasteur intersection, 1965.

A group of students practicing judo at the Quang Trung Judo Center on Phạm Đăng Hưng Street (now Mai Thị Lựu), 1965.

Rows of students praying at the Quang Trung Judo Center, 1965.

A suburban neighborhood (left); a vendor using his mouth to water branches of apricot blossoms during Tết (right), 1965.

Rows of bikes and bicycles in a parking lot on Nguyễn Huệ Boulevard, 1965.

The Tàu Hủ Canal, which links District 1, 5, 8 and 6.

Photos by Wilbur E. Garrett via Flickr user manhhai.

From North to South, a French Photographer's Glimpses of 1992 Vietnam

2026-03-24T12:31:57+07:00

How much of Vietnam have you explored? For many of us with a busy life and working schedule, one or two trips a year might be as much as our time and money can afford, and even so, at times, visiting a location only involves staying at an all-inclusive resort to recuperate from work stress.

French photographer Renault’s trip to Vietnam in 1992 was perhaps one of the most productive photographic journeys we have ever come across in our history of sharing vintage albums of Vietnam. From north to south, Renault seemed to have checked off nearly all popular destinations — and with awesomely shot visual receipts to prove it: Hanoi, Ninh Bình, Hạ Long, Saigon, Hội An, Nha Trang, Đà Lạt, Huế, Đà Nẵng, Mỹ Tho, and Phú Quốc.

Have a closer look below:

Long Biên Bridge, Hanoi.

The capital's St. Joseph's Cathedral has always been a popular landmark for tourists.

Children play next to old plane carcasses in the former Lenin Park (now Thống Nhất).

A bakery selling French pastries and traditonal treats at 252 Hàng Bông.

A clock store and the family who ran it.

Inside an electronics store in Hanoi with brand-new Samsung TVs on display.

Elementary school kids in Hanoi.

The Metropole Hotel is one of Hanoi's oldest structures.

Downtown Saigon from the balcony of the Rex Hotel.

Riding xích lô in Saigon.

A newsboy in Saigon and his stock of French-language papers.

French brands like Peugeot had a prominent presence in Saigon.

The State Bank of Vietnam building, which used to house a branch of the Banque Nationale de Paris.

A poster of the local showing of the French erotica film L'Amant.

In Chợ Lớn, neighborhoods were largely undeveloped and streets weren't even paved.

A helicopter carcass in Củ Chi.

Khải Định Mausoleum in Huế.

A rural classroom in Hội An.

Inside Tam Thai Pagoda, Đà Nẵng.

On the road between Nha Trang and Đà Nẵng.

Fishing boats in Nha Trang.

A bánh mì vendor next to a Renault Goélette in Nha Trang.

Students in Đà Lạt wearing their sweater uniform.

Ninh Bình.

Hạ Long.

A Citroen in Mỹ Tho.

Phú Quốc.

Photos by Pool Renault/Rieger/Gamma-Rapho via RedsVN.

From Quảng Nam to Gwangju: Confronting the Bloody History of South Korea's 'Vietnam'

2026-03-15T19:00:00+07:00

In her novel Human Acts, the renowned South Korean author and Nobel Prize recipient Han Kang writes about the May 18 Democratization Movement, also known as the Gwangju Uprising. That month, student-led demonstrations broke out in the city of Gwangju following army general Chun Doo-hwan’s coup d'état, and his military government responded with a violent crackdown and an indiscriminate massacre of civilians.

In one of the chapters in Human Acts, set in 1990, a university professor interviews an unnamed narrator who had previously been imprisoned and tortured. Upon being asked about a photo depicting a line of dead children from the massacre, the narrator recounts the story behind the harrowing image:

We kept our faces pressed into the corridor carpet for as long as the soldiers ordered us to. Around dawn, they hauled us to our feet and took us down to the yard. They made us kneel in a line, our backs to the walls, with our hands tied behind us. An officer came over. He’d worked himself up into quite a state. His combat boots thudded into our backs, driving our heads down into the dirt, while he spat out a string of curses. “I was in Vietnam, you sons of bitches. I killed thirty of those Vietcong bastards with my own two hands. Filthy fucking Reds.” Kim Jin-su was kneeling next to me. The officer stamped on his back, grinding his face into the gravel. When he let him back up, I saw slender threads of blood clinging to Jin-su’s forehead. [...]

“Look at these bastards!” the officer yelled. He was practically frothing at the mouth. “Want to surrender, do you, you fucking Reds? Want to save your precious skins?” With one foot still up on Kim Jin-su’s back, he raised his M16, took aim, and fired. The bullets tore into those school kids without hesitation. My head inadvertently jerked up, and when he whooped in the direction of his subordinates, “As good as a fucking movie, right?” I saw how straight and white his teeth were.

Han Kang’s depiction of the ruthless and cold-blooded violence is jarring. But what is perhaps additionally surprising is the novel’s reference to Vietnam.

Students captured by soldiers after a raid during the Gwangju Uprising. Photo via The New York Times.

Human Acts is not the only novel by Han Kang that references the “Vietnam War” — as it is known in South Korea, instead of the “American War” in Vietnam. Two of her other major novels, The Vegetarian and We Do Not Part, also make references to the war.

Perhaps her most famous novel, The Vegetarian centers around Yeong-hye, who turns vegetarian and refuses any engagement with meat after dreams involving the slaughter of animals. Towards the end of the first chapter, narrated by Yeong-hye’s husband, Yeong-hye’s father becomes infuriated with Yeong-hye’s refusal to eat meat. In a disturbing sequence of events, her father slaps her and tries to “thrust” a piece of pork into her mouth with his fingers, after which Yeong-hye slits her wrists, resulting in her hospitalization. For her father, Yeong-hye’s vegetarianism is a disgrace, most of all to the patriarchy, inconveniencing the diet and lifestyle of her husband.

Like the officer in Human Acts, Yeong-hye’s father, too, is a veteran of the Vietnam War, described at one point by Yeong-hye’s brother-in-law as a “Vietnam War hero.” Here, again, Han Kang appears to link violence within Korea, this time patriarchal in form instead of authoritarian, to a history of violence abroad.

Han Kang delivering a keynote speech at the International Congress of Writers Writing in Korean, in Gwangju, 2023. Photo via Korea Herald.

The third novel worth mentioning is We Do Not Part, which follows Kyungha’s journey to Jeju Island upon the request of her friend Inseon. The central topic of the novel is the Jeju massacre that took place on the island from 1948 to 1954. Between April 1948 and May 1949, what is known as the Jeju Uprising broke out in protest against US-run elections, which the island’s residents feared would further entrench the division of the two Koreas (which it did). Under the premise of cracking down on communist collaborators, military and police forces under the US Army Military Government in Korea (USAMGK) massacred civilians, resulting in an estimate of between 25,000 and 30,000 deaths.

Like her other two novels, Han Kang again alludes to the Vietnam War in We Do Not Part. Part of the novel’s premise is that Kyungha’s friend Inseon is a documentarian and filmmaker who previously worked on a series of interviews with Vietnamese women who had been the victims of sexual violence perpetrated by Korean troops during the Vietnam War.

What explains the repeated allusions to the Vietnam War? What do they reveal? What are these traces symptomatic of? Though certainly motivated by Han Kang’s works, I should note that my questions are not literary so much as historical. In answering these questions, we must thus first confront the history of Korea's participation in the Vietnam War: a past that Korea has yet to properly reckon with, and one that turns out to be far closer to home than most Koreans realize. Korean violence in Vietnam must be regarded as part of the same apparatus of violence that also brought about the massacres in Jeju and Gwangju. The glimpses of Vietnam in Han Kang are the hauntings of a past that Korea has for too long neglected to face.

South Korea in the Vietnam War

Despite not being so widely discussed, South Korea’s involvement in the Vietnam War was significant in multiple facets. Between 1965 and 1973, South Korea deployed 320,000 troops to support the US-backed Republic of Vietnam, making it the second-largest foreign participant in the war, second only to the US.

South Korea’s participation was, in part, ideological. Like Vietnam, Korea was one of the “hot” zones in the so-called global cold war. Park Chung-hee’s authoritarian and militant rule, which spanned the whole of South Korea’s involvement in the Vietnam War, was staunchly anti-communist, as was the case for both dictatorships that preceded and followed Park’s, during which the Jeju and Gwangju massacres occurred, respectively.

Former President Park Chung-hee (black suit) greets ROK Army personnel during their deployment in Vietnam. Photo via Korea Pro.

But Korea’s involvement in the Vietnam War was also heavily driven by economic interests. Park’s initial push to offer South Korean military personnel was strategic, with a broader vision in mind of eventually landing favorable terms to access the US military-industrial complex. Indeed, the Johnson administration repaid the favor. In addition to paying Korean troops in Vietnam rates 22 times greater than regular Korean military pay, the Johnson administration also procured preferred treatment for Korea under the State Department’s offshore procurement program (OSP): a strategic program of procuring goods and services from foreign countries. This proved hugely significant for Korea's economic development. In the late 1960s, OSP and the US’s Military Assistance Program (MAP) collectively comprised between 40% and 60% of South Korea's gross capital formation, while chaebol conglomerates like Hyundai derived as much as 77% of their total profits from military contracts between 1963 and 1966.

South Korea’s ascent from one of the world’s poorest countries to one of East Asia’s “tiger” economies is often referred to as “the miracle on the Han River.” But the term “miracle” mystifies too much. In many ways, South Korea’s participation in the Vietnam War constitutes no small part of the story of the country’s rapid economic boom that began in the 1960s.

A South Korean soldier in Bồng Sơn. Photo via The New York Times.

But as with any war-derived profit, the economic benefits South Korea gained from the Vietnam War were built upon, and remain inseparable from, the tremendous violence that had been perpetrated by South Korean troops. The atrocities that the US committed in Vietnam are well known: carpet bombings, the use of Agent Orange, torture and sexual violence, as well as indiscriminate massacres, including, most famously, the Mỹ Lai massacre. But though less well known, South Korea perpetrated many of the same atrocities, including brutal massacres of villages and rape of countless women. Korean soldiers in Vietnam gained a reputation for being “harsh, ferocious, even brutal,” such that even Americans viewed the Koreans with a measure of fear.

Among the atrocities that Korean troops committed in Vietnam are the following: In December of 1966, South Korea troops murdered 430 unarmed civilians, 166 among them children, in Bình Hòa Village in Quảng Ngãi Province. In February 1968, South Korean marines also killed 151 civilians in Hà My Village in Quảng Nam Province. Of those murdered, 60 were children under the age of 10 and many were women. In the same month, South Korean marines also murdered more than 70 civilians in Phong Nhị-Phong Nhất, also in Quảng Nam. Photos documented by US troops, who entered the village shortly after the South Korean troops left, show brutal images of children shot dead, women with their breasts cut off, and burned corpses. The group Justice for Lai Dai Han continues to campaign for South Korea’s recognition of the rape of women by Korean soldiers and the tens of thousands of children who were born as a result. One such victim, Trần Thị Ngải, recounts the horrors of a Korean soldier forcing his way into her home and raping her at age 24, “he pulled me inside the room, closed the door and raped me repeatedly. He had a gun on his body and I was terrified.”

From Vietnam to Gwangju

The story of Korean violence in Vietnam, however, did not simply end with the withdrawal of its troops — for it eventually found its way back home, to Gwangju. In seeking to justify the expansion of martial law that enabled the subsequent violent crackdown on Gwangju, South Korea’s minister of national defense at the time described the state of the country as akin to the early stages of Vietnam. In the eyes of Chun Doo-hwan’s military government, the threat of communism spanned borders: the events in Saigon that occurred just years prior loomed as what must be prevented at all costs, spurring violent military action.

South Korean citizens in Seoul welcome soldiers home from Vietnam on March 20, 1973. Photo via Korea Pro.

In fact, Chun Doo-hwan, the head of the military coup, as well as other notable figures in his military government such as Roh Tae-woo — who would eventually succeed Chun as president — had themselves served in the Vietnam War. In later assessing and analyzing the excessive use of force and violence by Chun’s government, the US Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) cited their training and experience in the Vietnam War as a driving factor, even describing Gwangju as “Korea’s Mỹ Lai,” in which Korea’s own citizens were treated as foreign threats. In Vietnam, for both US and Korean soldiers, the alleged impossibility of distinguishing ordinary civilians from enemy soldiers in the context of guerilla warfare served to rationalize the indiscriminate murder of civilians. Precisely the same logic was applied in Gwangju. In his book Discourse on Colonialism, Afro-Martiniquan French poet and writer Aimé Césaire writes of the “boomerang effect”: the ways in which colonial violence abroad eventually returns to the metropole to be deployed against its own people. In South Korea’s case, its own military violence boomeranged back from Vietnam to Gwangju.

But we can complicate things further. For it is not that violence simply boomeranged back from abroad. Rather, such violence already existed in Korea long before the Vietnam War, deployed on its own people via US-backed, staunchly anti-communist and anti-left authoritarianism, as had been the case for the Jeju massacre — which had been the result of the perpetuation of forms and methods of violence deployed by Japanese colonizers during its occupation of Korea. From this perspective, it is no wonder that Han Kang considers Human Acts and We Do Not Part to constitute “a pair.” Both novels invoke the Vietnam War because the atrocities committed in Vietnam and the civilian massacres of Jeju and Gwangju belong to the same historical matrix of state violence, driven by a logic of cold war counterinsurgency and aggressed by US-backed governments. This shared history was not lost when, in 2018, two victims, one of the Hà My massacre, and one of the Phong Nhị-Phong Nhất massacre, visited victims of the Jeju massacre and commented, "I had not realized that Jeju had experienced such pains. It broke my heart to witness a similar scene.”

Civilian protestors captured by troops in Gwangju. Photo via AP.

Jeju, Vietnam, and Gwangju exist in an interconnected web. In The Vegetarian, Yeong-hye's father "thrust[s]" a piece of pork at his daughter's lips, an act that unmistakably evokes sexual violence. It is a form of violence rooted in the same patriarchal system that enabled sexual violence in Vietnam — the subject of Inseon's documentary in We Do Not Part. It is also the same patriarchal system that Park’s regime invoked in mobilizing a “remasculinization” of the nation via the Vietnam War. And again, the violence committed by Korean troops in Vietnam remains inseparable from the atrocities of Jeju and Gwangju. The glimpses of Vietnam in Han Kang are brief and sparse, but together they point to historical connections that run far deeper than what the surface reveals.

A Moral Failure

Concerning the atrocities of Jeju and Gwangju, significant, though far from adequate, efforts have been made by the state to address the injustices and human rights violations, including, most notably, the trial of former presidents Chun Doo-hwan and Roh Tae-woo (both of whom were convicted but eventually pardoned), as well as various truth commissions tasked to investigate the truth behind the events and give victims a public platform for testimony.

The same simply has not been true concerning the Vietnam War. Though several left-wing presidents have expressed regret for the pain and suffering Korea has caused during the war, South Korea has yet to make a formal apology to Vietnam. This comes even as the country recognizes the immense economic benefits it has gained through its participation in the Vietnam War.

Against the state’s largely disappointing refusal to engage with the legacy of Korea’s involvement in the Vietnam War, Korean civil society groups have long pushed to bring justice for victims and their families — specifically, ever since the progressive Korean newspaper Hankyoreh’s breakthrough investigations that began in 1999.

In recent years, there have been two noteworthy developments. On the one hand, there have been efforts to seek compensation for victims through the courts. In January 2025, Nguyễn Thị Thanh — one of the two aforementioned victims who visited Jeju Island, a survivor of the Phong Nhị-Phong Nhất massacre — received a favorable ruling after the South Korean government sought to appeal a lower court decision (a move which the Vietnamese government called “extremely regrettable”) requiring the government to pay more than KRW30 million, or approximately US$20,000. At the age of 8, the massacre left Nguyễn Thị Thanh orphaned and with an abdominal injury caused by a shot in the stomach.

Nguyễn Thị Thanh (right) and her uncle Nguyễn Đức Chơi (left), a witness to the same massacre, at a press conference prior to a hearing before the Seoul Central District Court on August 9, 2022. Photo via VICE.

Meanwhile, there has been a push to launch a formal investigation into the Hà My massacre under the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). Unfortunately, the TRC dismissed the request, citing lack of jurisdiction over incidents concerning foreign nationals outside Korea’s territory. Since then, five victims and bereaved family members of the massacre filed an appeal to challenge the dismissal, but in August 2025, the appeal was rejected in a lower court decision. Lawyers representing the victims plan to appeal the decision to the Supreme Court.

In criticizing the TRC’s dismissal, Im Jae-seong, lawyer for the Vietnam War Task Force of Minbyun (Lawyers for a Democratic Society), commented, “How crucial is the victim’s nationality? [...] How crucial is the location of the unlawful act? Why discriminate, choosing not to pursue truth simply because the victim is foreign?”

Indeed, why the discrimination? Especially in the face of unthinkable violence, such a distinction feels utterly arbitrary. If anything, the brutal violence committed in Jeju, Gwangju, and Vietnam must be seen as one. The three are all connected in that the violence committed in each case had been a result of the same lineage of cold-war authoritarian dictatorships leading up to Korea’s democratization in 1987. Why is it that Korea has utterly failed to make progress in reckoning with its atrocities in Vietnam, unlike in Jeju and Gwangju? Vietnam is exceptional in that it laid the groundwork for Korea’s “miraculous” economic boom. The exception of Vietnam sends the message that violence, even at its most barbarous and heinous, remains permissible if it enables economic growth.

For the American anti-war movement, Vietnam has long served as a shorthand for the moral failings of US foreign interventionism. The Vietnam War is more often than not invoked as what must not be repeated elsewhere. Gwangju, likewise, occupies a similar psychic territory in Korean public memory. In a way, Gwangju is to Korea what Vietnam is to the US — both operate as “common nouns.” But as we have seen, the parallels run deeper than mere rhetoric or symbolism. Since its very beginning, Gwangju has already long been Korea’s “Vietnam.” Korea cannot properly reckon with injustices at home without reckoning with its injustices abroad. Korea must recognize, apologize, and compensate for its war crimes in Vietnam. All of it is long overdue.

How Did Vietnam Start Celebrating International Women's Day on March 8?

2026-03-05T12:00:00+07:00

In the hyper-commercialized world we now live in, it might be impossible to associate anything but overpriced flower bouquets and corporate sponsorships with International Women’s Day (IWD), but the widely celebrated occasion actually has a rich history of over 100 years of the women’s rights movement.

March 8, known as Ngày Quốc Tế Phụ Nữ in Vietnamese, was officially codified by the United Nations as IWD in 1975, but the idea for a day for women started brewing way before in 1910 during the International Socialist Women's Conference in Copenhagen, when German journalist Clara Zetkin and other delegates put forth the idea for a yearly “Women’s Day,” though no specific date was mentioned.

On March 18, 1911 — the 40^th anniversary of the Paris Commune — the first widely recognized IWD event took place in Europe, where over a million Austrian, German, Swiss, Polish, Dutch, and Danish women took part in marches and meetings.

In Petrograd, Russia, on March 8, 1917, women textile workers took to the street to demand the end to WWI, food shortages, and Tsarism, igniting the start of the February Revolution (due to a previous calendar system in Europe, March 8 was February 23). March 8 continued to be celebrated by Bolsheviks as IWD to remember the beginning of the revolution.

The march in 1917 that sparked the February Revolution. Photo via Bảo tàng Hồ Chí Minh.

In 1922, the then-communist Zetkin worked with Vladimir Lenin to formally establish International Women’s Day on March 8 as a communist holiday of the Soviet Union. From then, IWD started to be widely adopted by other communist nations and the communist movement worldwide, including in Brazil, Chile, China, Cuba, Czechoslovakia, and, of course, Vietnam.

Due to IWD’s roots in socialism and official link to communism, the US and many members of the Western Bloc remain icy to the day for most of the 20^th century, though in recent decades, following the UN’s recognition, it is starting to appear on the festive calendar of more countries.

In Vietnam, the earliest evidence showing IWD observation points to a letter from Hồ Chí Minh, published in Nhân Dân newspaper on March 8, 1952, to commemorate Hai Bà Trưng’s death anniversary and International Women’s Day. In the address, he showed his respect for the female soldiers who sacrificed themselves for the revolution, as well as those whose children and husbands were fighting in the war.

[Top image via Euro Maidan Press]

Life on the Streets of 1978 Hanoi in Black and White

2026-03-05T09:00:00+07:00

In August 1978, I visited Hanoi as part of an educational tour organized by a professor from La Trobe University in Melbourne. I was a high school history teacher at the time and an avid photographer. I walked the streets of Hanoi and took many photographs of everyday life in the city, and until now, these photographs have remained unpublished.

A pedicab driver seeking business in Đồng Xuân.

Beyond our tour group, I saw no other westerners in Hanoi, and there was little western photographic documentation of life in Vietnam in the immediate post-war era. Economic conditions were difficult for the citizens of Hanoi and only improved after 1986 with the Đổi Mới reforms.

In many respects, Hanoi in 1978 appeared to have changed little since the war years. Saigoneer, for example, has published heritage photographs taken by German photographer Horst Faas of Hanoi in 1973 in the aftermath of heavy bombing by the US (Linebacker 11). My photographs feature some similar street scenes. The tram network had changed little; it was ageing, heavily patronized, and invariably featured young children clinging onto the external rear carriage. Many people travelled by bicycle, and some utilized pedicabs.

Tram travel in Hanoi.

Working lives were difficult for most Hanoians, often involving hard, physical labour. Consumer goods were rationed, and everyday living included crowded and shared family accommodation. But despite these hard times, today there are some older Hanoians who look back on the historical Bao Cấp Era with a degree of nostalgia for the comradeship and for having lived through and experienced such hard times.

Have a look at a selection of the photos below:

Bicycle travel was very common.

A moment’s relaxation for a pedicab driver.

Laboring in the city.

Traveling on a lake (left), exercising by a lake (center) and working in a local shop (right).

Typical living accommodations in the city.

Portraits of children in Hanoi.

Portraits of older citizens on the streets.

A Rare Album by Photographer Bruno Barbey Brings Us Back to Tết in 1994 Hanoi

2026-02-25T11:08:35+07:00

What do you remember most about the 1990s? Do you remember the fashion, the old-timey technology, or the lack of traffic? And if you were just a wee child, do these memories stay with you?

This collection of candid shots, taken by French photographer Bruno Barbey in Hanoi right during Tết of 1994 (Giáp Tuất), would teleport you to a simpler time of rudimentary new year decorations, sharp suits, and some particularly dope sunglasses.

Have a closer look below:

A lady sells paper toys outside Ngọc Sơn Pagoda.

Strips of firecrackers on sale at an army supply shop, Mơ Market.

Posing with Tết decorations.

A couple next to Tết ornaments in Hoàn Kiếm.

Children frolic in toy vehicles.

Young Hanoians enjoy phở at a stall outside Ngọc Sơn Pagoda.

At Hàng Da.

On a Tết ride.

An older couple pose for a picture at Ngọc Sơn.

Tiny shops in the Old Quarter.

On the side of Long Biên Bridge.

On a dimly lit street.

Photos by Bruno Barbey via RedsVN.

The First Asian in Space Was Vietnamese. He’s Still Alive Today.

2026-02-03T12:00:00+07:00

Most Vietnamese schoolkids grew up learning about Phạm Tuân as the first Vietnamese in space, but few know that he was also the first Asian person to clinch the honor.

Born in 1947 in Thái Bình, Phạm Tuân joined the air force and graduated from the Krasnodar Flight School in the Soviet Union as a MiG-17 pilot in 1967. He became a lieutenant colonel before being sent to the USSR-Vietnamese joint space program to train as a research cosmonaut.

In 1979, he was chosen as a crew member of the 6^th international spaceflight as part of the Interkosmos (Интеркосмос) program. On July 23, 1980, Phạm Tuân and Soviet cosmonaut Viktor Gorbatko were launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome (Kazakhstan) on board the Soyuz 37 mission.

Soviet cosmonaut Valery Ryumin (left) welcomes Tuân (middle) and Gorbatko (right) to Salyut.

They successfully docked at the Salyut 6 space station, stayed for seven days, and returned on July 31, making Tuân the first Asian and Vietnamese to travel into space.

Interkosmos, founded in 1967 at the peak of the Cold War-era “Space Race” between the US and the USSR, was established by the Union to promote cooperation among socialist countries in space exploration and research.

As part of Interkosmos, USSR cosmonauts accompanied non-Soviet companions on routine crew missions. Participants were selected from members of the Eastern Bloc and countries of the Non-Aligned Movement. Under the initiative, many early milestones in space travel were recorded, such as the first non-US/USSR person in space (Vladimír Remek of Czechoslovakia), the first black-Hispanic person in space (Arnaldo Tamayo Méndez of Cuba), and Phạm Tuân as the first Asian.

The pair being interviewed by Soviet reporters after returning.

While in the orbiting facility, Tuân conducted scientific experiments on mineral melting in microgravity; studied azolla, an aquatic fern; and photographed Vietnam from space for cartography.

Before retiring in 2008, Tuân held the rank of Lieutenant General. He lives in Hanoi with his wife and two children. He’s shared in interviews that he still keeps a close friendship with his Russian cosmonaut friends and travels to meet them every year.

An archive photo of the pair in 1980 with their autographs.

To date, only three people of Vietnamese descent have been to space: Phạm Tuân (1980), American biochemist Eugene Huu-Chau Trinh (1992), and most recently, American activist Amanda Nguyen (2025).

Photos via khoahoc.tv.

My Great-Great-Grandfathers Were in Indochina in the 1880s to Build the Railway

2026-01-26T10:00:00+07:00

We often see archival images of old Hanoi, but these photos are different — they are personal. The following shots, which come from a collection of five photo albums, are the only surviving record of my two great-great-grandfathers’ presence in what was then Indochina.

I don’t know when exactly they arrived, but it was around 1880, right in the midst of the French colonization of Tonkin. One, named Vézin, was an entrepreneur or a contractor; the other, Louis Vola, was a civil engineer for the colonial administration.

The most remarkable subject in these albums is the documentation of early railway construction. We can see land being leveled, bridges being built, locomotives at train stations and workers toiling in the mountains.

After gathering some information from my father and uncle, it seems more than likely that both my ancestors worked together on the railway from Phủ Lạng Thương, which is just outside Hanoi, to beside the Chinese border at Lạng Sơn.

Neither of the two men has gone down in history; their names are almost completely forgotten. And it might be for the best. As Tim Doling explains in his book The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam, Vézin was not known for his kindness:

On 18 March 1887, a technical commission nominated by Resident General Paul Bert approved the construction of a 98km military line leading from Phủ Lạng Thương (Bắc Giang), 50km northeast of Hà Nội, to the strategic border town of Lạng Sơn. This ligne de la porte de Chine (China gateway line) was conceived primarily to improve lines of communication between the border region and the Red River Delta and to facilitate the movement of troops and supplies to and from Lạng Sơn fortress during the Tonkin campaign.

The Department of Public Works entrusted the construction of the line to the Entreprise des chemins de fer du Tonkin, ligne de Phu Lang Thuong–Lang Son, which in turn engaged two sub-contractors—Entreprise Vézin and Entreprise Daniel—to carry out the work. However, the project was blighted from the start by poor management, cost over-runs and frequent attacks by roaming bands of brigands, who inflicted considerable damage on the chantiers during the difficult four-year construction period.

When initial attempts at voluntary recruitment failed to provide enough workers, thousands were forcibly requisitioned from neighbouring provinces to carry out the work. Treated brutally by overseers and obliged to work from dawn to dusk in difficult terrain and intense tropical heat, many succumbed to dysentery and cerebral malaria, while others deserted en masse.

Kidnappings were a regular occurrence on the construction sites of the Phủ Lạng Thương–Lạng Sơn railway. Monsieur Vézin himself was kidnapped in July 1892 by a band that included many of his own workers, who then demanded money for his safe return.

While it can be hard for me to read about such a troubled and immoral family history, it at least seems clear that Vézin eventually received the treatment he deserved.

Have a look at the railway’s construction below:

Photos courtesy of Julie Vola.

This article was first published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2018.

An Indie Archival Project Dreams of Time Travel. How? Lots and Lots of Vietnam Maps.

2026-01-18T12:00:00+07:00

Its entrances flanked by ATMs and adverts for international airlines, the Sun Wah Tower on Nguyễn Huệ today appears to be another nondescript testament to the global economy and Vietnam’s enthusiastic place within it. However, on those same grounds only 150 years ago, a guillotine was set up to decapitate people on order of the colonial authorities at the Justice de paix.

The Sun Way Tower pictured in 2015 (left) and The Justice de paix, opened in 1875 (right). Photos via Historic Vietnam.

This reality comes into focus when looking at its colorful depiction on an 1882 Saigon planning map. It’s possible to toggle between this surprising past and the present day instantaneously via The Vietnam Map Archive Project (VMA) on your computer or phone. More than just a repository of static images, old maps are anchored on modern ones, letting users instantly journey through time by overlaying centuries of history onto their current location.

Saigon planning map from 1882 via the French National Library archive. Keen observers will recognize Nguyễn Huệ is not a paved street, but a canal.

VMA’s co-founder Tuệ had suggested we chat about the project at a Highlands Cafe just off Nguyễn Huệ so we could see the tower in question and then journey through time via maps on our computers. Since meeting Tuệ several weeks prior at the Engaging with Vietnam conference, where he introduced the project to a group of gathered academics, I had occasionally flipped through the twenty-odd historic maps stretching from 1791 to the present day. Doing so allowed me to observe when the site of my favorite coffee shop ceased being a snarl of swampland and how the city’s central market once stood near the river, before Bến Thành was established as the “new” market.

The old market on Charner Boulevard, now Nguyễn Huệ built in 1982 (left) and the site of the new market at Bồ Rệt Swamp (Marais Boresse) as depicted in 1898. Images via Flickr user manhhai.

I expected my time with Tuệ would produce a few more interesting details about the city as revealed by looking at the maps. And while I certainly did hear some incredible anecdotes, such as the many notable buildings owned by Wang Tei, a fabulously wealthy 19^th-century Chinese businessman who ran the city’s opium refinery and the factory that made the bricks for Notre Dame Cathedral, I left with a more profound understanding of how maps can serve as the skeleton for a city’s soul. Dedicated to preserving, nurturing, and sharing this soul, VMA’s scope and scale is truly limitless, with each stage of development able to greatly enrich the experiences of students, scholars, tourists, urban developers, and anyone who simply loves maps, histories, and stories. In other words, the Vietnam Map Archive Project is for Saigoneers.

Construction of Wang Tei's mansion on the Saigon River (left) and when it was purchased by the French authorities in 1882 to house its Directorate of Customs and Excise (Direction des Douanes et Régies). Photos via Historic Vietnam.

A love of maps

“I like old maps, because, first off, they’re beautiful,” explained Tuệ. A data journalist at VnExpress, he is pursuing a master's degree in Public Policy from Fulbright University and his knowledge of data is largely self-taught. His earnest love of maps and a seemingly insatiable desire for interdisciplinary knowledge motivated him to embark on this passion project in his free time approximately one year ago. “I started it because I wanted to learn how to work with maps,” Tuệ admitted.

A screenshot of VMA in action.

Saigoneer shares with Tuệ a despair over the sudden and inexplicable loss of the manhhai Flickr account, which held thousands of archival photographs from Vietnam. “This disappearance of manhhai’s Flickr collection was a wake-up call for me,” Tuệ explains in the VMA’s founders' letter released six months ago. In response, he formed a vision for VMA as “A fusion of open access, historical preservation, and visual storytelling [...] We are a group of young researchers and scholars trying to build a home for these scattered memories. What we wanted was simple: a place that is both as secure as a professional archive and as open as the Internet. A library built by the community, for the community.”

While many of the maps are focused on downtown Saigon, which constitutes a small area of the modern city, some expand their views outwards as in this one from 1923. Image via the French National Library archive.

Since the beginning, Tuệ has amassed a small team of volunteers representing complementary backgrounds and disciplines to strengthen and support VMA’s goal. “Our mission is to create a collaborative space for our shared heritage,” the letter continues. “We believe that history is not a monologue delivered by experts; it's a conversation. You might have an old map from your grandfather. A researcher in France might have a rare document. A student in Hanoi might have a question that connects them both. VMA wants to be the room where that conversation happens. Our dream is that one day, a student in Huế can pull up a map from 70 years ago, find the street their grandmother lived on, and for the first time, truly see the world through her eyes. That is the magic we want to build.”

A sparse slithering of rivers and inexact estuaries comprise 1791’s Plan de la rivière de Saïgon. Its failure to chart the city’s streets and the imprecise placement of certain stretches of water compelled the team to deem it unworthy for VMA; he has hundreds of maps to select from and can thus be discerning when selecting which to include so as to not overwhelm users. Other members of the VMA team, however, pushed back, arguing that because it is amongst the first western chartings of the city, the map tells a powerful part of its development. Specifically, before the French could impart so much change in the region, they had to arrive and enter, which occurred via the rivers. The map, error-filled as it may be, informs the narrative of Saigon’s progress over the past centuries. The VMA’s researchers won out, and the map is now included in the project.

Saigon's rivers map from 1791. Image via the French National Library archive.

The fate of the river map provides insight into how the VMA team works. Currently consisting of about 10 volunteers, including Tuệ, the team is split into departments for maps, research, technical details, and operations. Everyone aims to contribute at least 10 hours a week to their respective specialty. Some scour archives, historical documents, and reputable resources like Tim Doling’s Historic Vietnam, while others work on the backend framework and another team is dedicated to finding and assessing new maps. There are several great online archives of relevant maps, including the David Rumsey Map Archive and one maintained by the French National Library. Specificity, accuracy, novelty, purpose and annotations are all important criteria used to select which maps will be uploaded for VMA. And because maps are stored as images, the team must add information for coordinates and established landmarks so the maps can all be understood in relation to one another.

The search for maps to use revealed some surprising truths about cartography communities. In Vietnam, there are many original maps held in private collections and for sale. Unfortunately, their owners have not been willing to lend them to the project to upload. Alas, knowledge remains hamstrung by commerce. Meanwhile, a more philosophical argument is at play. Users will quickly notice that VMA’s maps are mostlyl Western in origin, reflective of and perhaps contributing to inequities. “Maps are a projection of power; those who make the maps have the power,” Tuệ said before explaining why the team focused first on maps created by the French. Indeed, the most readily available and accurate by modern-day standards were created by colonial powers, but Vietnamese perspectives remain essential. Given the modern-day realities, it was easiest to start with foreign ones, but they are learning about native sources as well, noting Vietnamese created maps using an alternate system informed by stars.

Plan annamite d'Hanoï dated 1876–1883. Image via the French National Library archive.

In addition to reliance on celestial points, Asian mapmakers from the past offer an alternative understanding of how maps can represent our world. The size of depicted structures and natural features can be reflective of their relative importance. I saw this first-hand when Tuệ was creating a sample Hanoi version of the project for us to tinker with. The citadel dwarfed the surrounding area to emphasize its role in the city, as opposed to the specific dimensions of its walls.

A matter of bodies and souls

The streets, bridges, buildings, parks, and rivers depicted on maps can be understood as a city’s body, which we can observe growing and changing across time. However, Tuệ emphasized that this is of minimal importance without encountering and knowing the soul of a city. This means details, histories, narratives, and sensory descriptions. For example, what was sold in any specific building? Who owned it? How much was rent for the tenants? Why was it abandoned and later reclaimed? And beyond these straightforward facts, what did the surrounding streets sound like at 6am when vendors peddled past? What did it smell like on a hot summer afternoon? And what about the hopes, fears, and joys of the people who occupied it?

Input of knowledge will allow static images, like this map from 1902, to have story along with structure. Image via David Rumsey archive.

Adding these details via primary and secondary sources is essential for developing VMA into a knowledge hub, as outlined in the founder’s letter: “Currently, each map is meticulously georeferenced, dedicatedly researched, effectively stored, and beautifully presented for the public. We will then establish a system that welcomes and streamlines community contributions without any compromise to quality. In another word: our small core team will build the house. We'll set up the shelves with this standardized, high-quality process, and make sure the lights are always on. Then, we invite you to help fill it.”

Additional knowledge will enhance the VMA experience, as showcased in this sample focusing on Nguyen Hue Street.

With backgrounds in history, sociology, anthropology, and other social sciences, Tuệ’s team members helped convince him of the need to add additional sources, including photographs, news stories, official records, and diaries. Providing the body with its soul, so to speak, requires far and wide research which is currently underway. This will then be uploaded and accessible via search terms and navigating the maps on VMA.

This eclectic and inclusive gathering of material helps combat the idea that history is a matter of important men, battles, and dates. “It’s a crime to look at history as fragmented stories in space,” Tuệ said when professing the power of individuals and common experiences for truly understanding history. Only by having these details and the awareness of what life was like in the city for the average person can one begin to see its soul.

Free knowledge with no limitations

While construction of the soul is underway, the team welcomes support. Everyone is encouraged to contact VMA and share maps as well as photographs, documents, research, questions, and ideas. The group’s research team will function as reviewers, vetting any material that goes online, but ultimately it's a community project. “Everyone can use it, contribute to it, have fun with it,” Tuệ said.

An intrinsic aspect of VMA's communal nature is free access. A strong believer in freedom of knowledge as adhered to by such projects as LibGen and Anna’s Archive, Tuệ seeks to ensure that shared wisdom is accessible to everyone, not just those with privileged access to higher education or government archives. Given this principle, the team hopes that users are not merely passive observers; they are invited to become co-authors of the historical narrative and co-designers of the experience.

However, openness does not imply a compromise on accuracy. To safeguard the scholarly integrity of the archive, VMA employs a team of in-house researchers and engages a network of experts to review and validate crowdsourced submissions, ensuring that every data point and detail is as reliable as it is accessible.

To further guarantee that this collaborative work endures, VMA adopts the International Image Interoperability Framework (IIIF). IIIF is a global standard for open digital storage, ensuring that maps, photos, scanned books, etc., are preserved with integrity and remain interoperable for future researchers. Moreover, to ensure that their work doesn't disappear like that of manhhai’s, all information is stored in at least three separate locations, including the Internet Archive.

The VMA landing page.

There is no limit to where VMA can grow into. After offering a variety of near-term use cases such as charting the historical biography of an ancestor using their diary entries or creating an annotated guide to literature set in the city, Tuệ revealed a wild, long-term vision: fully 3D immersion. Using current and future technology, one could buy a ticket to ride the city’s 19^th-century train and witness Saigon in complete reconstructed glory, with VR glasses allowing one to take in the tiniest detail of every building along with the fashions and mannerisms of the citizenry.

This form of 3D navigation is an ambitious dream for VMA, but every step towards it offers great value as more information gets added to the project. Tuệ agrees that now is the perfect time to spread the word because enough of the “body” is in place to entice the creativity and passion of people to contribute. Tuệ’s letter concludes with an inspired call to action: “If you are a student, you don’t need to be an expert. Your curiosity is more than enough. If you are a researcher or a collector, consider sharing just one story, one map. Let’s start a conversation. If you simply believe in this idea, your support, in any form, gives us the fuel to keep going. Let's build this shared space for our heritage, together.”

To get in touch with the team, you can visit the VMA homepage or email them directly.

A Brake Failure and 200 Victims: Remembering Vietnam's Deadliest Rail Accident

2026-01-05T11:00:00+07:00

About 55 kilometers from Saigon, in the small commune of Tây Hoà rests the 17/03/1982 Railway Cemetery. It currently houses 85 unidentified graves of victims of the Train 183 Disaster, the deadliest railway accident in Vietnamese history.

March 16, 1982

It was a humid night at Nha Trang Station. Almost all of the surrounding area had sunk into a deep slumber, except for the platform housing SE6, also known as Train 183. It was about to embark on an eight-hour journey to Hồ Chí Minh City, with designated stops to accommodate additional passengers. Inside the locomotive, engineer Đậu Trường Tỏa, first mate Phạm Duy Hạnh and trainee Trần Dao Chi were finalizing their preparations, while conductors welcomed the first group of passengers onboard. Train 183 was part of the main North-South intercity railway, so the crew had expected a high volume of passengers as the route progressed. But for now, everything appeared to be in order, and 183 began to depart at 10pm.

Train 183’s route with 9 stops before arriving at Saigon Station. Map via JHNews.

Train 183 continued operating without incident until the early morning of March 17. After passing through the provinces of Ninh Thuận and Bình Thuận, Đậu Trường Tỏa was instructed by the authorities to stop at Long Khánh Station in Đồng Nai. The surprise inspection was intended to detain potential smugglers, as black market operations were rampant at the time. The inspection could also assist the crew in removing unticketed passengers, who had been on the train for the past hours.

Free-riding had plagued intercity lines such as 183 for years, so much so that people would refer to them as tàu chợ (lit: market trains), meaning “trains without laws.” It was common knowledge that smaller, less strict stations in the countryside offered the easiest means to sneak onto trains. And in most cases, unticketed passengers would bring their entire possessions on board, even animals, in order to relocate to a larger city. As a result, by 4am, over 400 passengers including commodities, livestock and cargo of different sizes were crammed inside the 11 carriages. The suffocating stench of diesel and animal waste led some passengers to disregard safety measures by standing near open entrances, flocking to carriages for oversized goods, or even riding on the train’s roof. It was as hectic as one might imagine, but no one expected disaster to strike.

A typical scene on tàu chợ. Photo via Văn hóa & Phát triển.

At Long Khánh Station, contraband inspectors were waiting for Train 183. However, as it approached, they soon noticed a problem. The locomotive did not appear to be slowing down; rather, it was accelerating. Before reaching Đồng Nai, Đậu Trường Toả had noticed that the train was deviating from its speed limit of 55 km/h. As he tried to apply the brakes, to his horror, he realized that they had stopped responding. This meant that either the main air compressor or the braking pipes connecting each carriage had been damaged. With no emergency braking system installed, the three engineers now faced the reality that the train was accelerating out of control. At 4:33am, the train rushed through Long Khánh Station, leaving those waiting bewildered at what just happened.

Long Khánh Station in the 2010s. Photo via Vietnam Railways.

Passengers on board had also noticed the train’s increasing speed. Although most assumed that the engineers were making up for lost time, some remained anxious as vibrations grew more intense by the hour, with overhead luggage starting to pile up in the passageways. To maintain order, the conductors announced that the train was traveling in rough terrain, and everyone must remain seated until further notice. It was unclear why the conductors were not informed of the current situation. Perhaps the engineers dreaded the resulting panic. Or perhaps with his years of experience, Đậu Trường Toả believed that he could solve the problem in time. Nevertheless, upon failing to stop at yet another station in Dầu Giây, Train 183 was traveling at a speed of over 100 km/h.

Remnants of the old Bàu Cá Station located in today's Trảng Bom District, Đồng Nai Province. Photo via Thanh Niên.

At 5am, convinced that the engineers had lost control of the locomotive, passengers had begun to flee from 183. As most exits were blocked by mountains of luggage, some plunged themselves through the train’s roof and windows, in a last-ditch effort to survive. However, at such high speeds, all attempts proved fatal. For many passengers, especially families who were hoping to start anew in Ho Chi Minh City, their worst nightmares had become a reality. Now, they might not make it beyond Tây Hoà. As cries of terror reverberated throughout the train, some passengers decided to vent their anger upon the conductors, while others embraced their loved ones for what could be their last moment together. With the train descending further into chaos, patrolman Nguyễn Thành Sơn was pleading for 183 to drop speed. Being the last personnel present at Bàu Cá Station, he was the only one who knew that the train was fast approaching a C-shaped curve about 500 meters away. If 183 did not decelerate, derailment was inevitable.

Unfortunately, it was all too late. After final warnings were given and received no response from the engineers, Nguyễn Thành Sơn watched helplessly as 183 veered off the railway track and crashed into a nearby field, as a massive explosion engulfed what was left of the locomotive. Đồng Nai provincial police, firefighters, and dozens of Tây Hoà volunteers arrived soon after. They were confronted with burning wreckage, horrific wailing and raging fires that consumed the day's dawn.

Map showcasing Bàu Cá station, its train track and the site of 183’s derailment (red pin).

While the injured were transported to a hospital in Saigon, authorities estimated at least 160 people had perished upon impact, with children as young as four years old found among the wreckage. Most of the crew of 183, including Đậu Trường Toả, Phạm Duy Hạnh and Trần Dao Chi, along with officials of neighboring provinces were among the casualties. A few hours later, the final death toll reached around 200 after dozens of victims succumbed to their injuries. The derailment was, by all accounts, the worst railway accident in Vietnamese history.

Having a definitive confirmation on the death toll, authorities began attempting to identify the victims. However, problems arose. Reunification had taken place only eight years prior and the national identification system remained inadequate and almost non-existent at communal levels. Furthermore, the fire had destroyed any remaining documents needed to notify the victims' next of kin. As such, only a handful were recognized by their families through names and initials sewn onto their clothing. Up to 113 victims remained unidentified two days later. In order to clear traffic and console the grieving residents, the victims were then transferred to a plot of land 3 kilometers from the site of the derailment. Volunteers began digging temporary graves for the dead, praying that one day, the unfortunate souls would reunite with their families.

Nameless graves in the area. The Headstone on the right reads: "These are the two gravesites where our mother is buried. If you are a family member of the other person, please contact us for more information." Photos via Pháp Luật.

Two years later, Vietnam Railways (VNR) issued a statement confirming that brake failure and inaction of the engineers were the primary causes of the derailment. The corporation also aided Đồng Nai provincial police to indict those related to the disaster. Four employees at Long Khánh Station received sentences of 15 years apiece for gross negligence, while seven smugglers received 8 years for violating railroad traffic laws. Although the charges were meant to comfort the victims’ families, many felt unsatisfied as hundreds of bodies were left stranded in Tây Hoà. In response, VNR agreed to construct tombstones as well as a fence enclosing the graves, while vowing to aid local authorities in identifying the deceased and bringing them home. However, that promise was never fulfilled, and the nameless victims remained at the Railway Cemetery for the next 30 years.

By 2014, the cemetery had fallen into disrepair after years of neglect. Only parts of its wooden gate remained with untamed grass and rubble obscuring most of the burial grounds. Families of the victims were shocked by the condition. Within a year, a petition was sent to VNR with four requests requiring immediate resolution: first, the retrieval of burial records to locate victim’s gravesites; second, DNA analysis for the identification of the victims who may or may not be buried together; third, low-cost renovation of the gravesites to ensure distinction; and fourth, the renovation of the cemetery’s gate and fences. Only one request was granted, which was to repair the external infrastructure of the Cemetery, while the others were denied on grounds beyond VNR’s jurisdiction.

The main gate and inside the cemetery in disrepair in 2014. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Who exactly held authority over the Railway Cemetery had been a source of contention for years. Even during the 1990s, the People's Committee of Đồng Nai and the Department of Labour stated that the cemetery was the responsibility of VNR and the railway industry, as it was the result of a railway accident. VNR, on the other hand, was adamant that only the provincial governments could authorize the excavation, as doing so without permission was illegal. By the time the renovation was completed, both official agencies delegated responsibility for the cemetery’s upkeep and care solely to the people of Tây Hoà. Most agreed without hesitation and continued to fund the construction of a shrine at the disaster site.

The shrine built for the railway disaster. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Many who lived through the Subsidisation Era will forever remember March 17, 1982. It was a day that revealed decades of blunders and destitution in a country still recovering from the war. Yet, it was also a day that brought about changes. As Vietnam entered a period of economic growth in the early 1990s, several legislations were enacted to improve railway safety, including the mass recall of D9E engine, which had been used by Train 183, in favor of the new D19E, aptly named the ‘Đổi Mới’ locomotives. Infrastructure development also received increased funding, and the curve that caused the disaster, as well as Bàu Cá Station, were soon dismantled to give way to a new railway route.

Maingate and within the cemetery in 2018. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Today, 85 graves are housed at the Railway Cemetery after 23 remains were reunited with their families after years apart. The main gate has been refurbished for a second time, now sporting a golden coat of paint and a plaque that describes the tragedy that once befell the small commune of Tây Hoà. Once deserted, the disaster site has been given new life via the development of a housing complex for railroad workers, inside which the shrine sits reverently at the center. Each year, residents come to the cemetery with baskets of offerings in hand to sweep and clean the gravesites of those who remain.

A British Photographer's 30 Years of Forming a Kindred Connection With Vietnam

2025-12-30T14:00:00+07:00

When he boarded a flight from Bangkok to Hanoi in 1992, Andy Soloman thought he would stay in Vietnam for just one month. Little did he know that what seemed like a brief trip would stretch into seven years — the beginning of a bond that has tied him to Vietnam for three decades and beyond.

At that time, Soloman was a freelance photographer living in London, struggling through an economic recession as projects grew fewer. An opportunity came when he accepted a short-term assignment in early 1992 to Hong Kong. Once there, he kept hearing stories about Vietnam, a country still bearing the scars of war but was standing on the cusp of change, where fragile infrastructure strained under an economy weakened after the collapse of the Soviet Union and burdened by the US embargo.

That awakened Soloman’s curiosity. And so, a few months later, he took a flight to Vietnam with a vague plan to travel around the country, but he knew no-one and had no idea what awaited him. The belongings of the 30-year-old photojournalist amounted to his Nikon camera gear, four bags stuffed with rolls of film, a few notebooks, a sense of adventure, and a heart eager to understand a land in transition, a country on the brink of profound change shaped by its era.

Construction workers building a road in Hanoi.

A journey without a plan: how one month became seven years

Early afternoon on October 21, 1992, Soloman stepped into Nội Bài Airport, then a small, old, yellow building with no electronic boards or spacious lounges like today. “As I waited at immigration, I saw a few Vietnamese people calling names as they greeted passengers. I looked around, no one called mine,” Soloman laughed as he recalled it. “I didn’t know where to go, and I knew no one in the city.” He asked someone nearby, “Can you give me a ride to the city center?” And so his journey began on a rickety car rattling along the rough road from Nội Bài to the Old Quarter. Along the way were only bicycles, pedestrians, livestock, and cows ambling right down the middle of the road.

Street kids on Tràng Tiền.

In the Old Quarter, Soloman lodged in a small French-style hotel for US$10 a night (100,000VND then). On his first morning in this unfamiliar land, he opened the window to a sky as clear as glass. He wandered through the narrow alleys and winding streets. “Life moved at an astonishingly slow pace,” he remembered. Everything was far removed from London or Hong Kong — from moss-covered houses to street vendors’ calls echoing through the lanes, from cyclo drivers napping in their seats to the sea of bicycles at Đồng Xuân Market. Hanoi at night in 1992 was silent, only dim lights dissolving into thick darkness.

Xích lô drivers in Hanoi.

Vietnam was poor then, but the radiant smiles on kind faces were what Soloman saw everywhere. What made him fall in love with the country from the start were the people: the smile of a street vendor, the warm nod of a cyclo driver. And that first impression made Soloman want to stay longer.

Crossing Vietnam in seven years

After spending some time in Hanoi, the wanderlust of a photojournalist urged Soloman to explore life along the length of the country in its full depth. Collaborating with the Press Center of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Soloman set off on many trips across Vietnam to fulfill that mission.

His camera became the bridge between the British photographer and the people of Vietnam. Everywhere he went, Soloman saw a country struggling to heal from the wounds of war: rough roads turning muddy under rain and ruined bridges awaiting repairs; budding industrial towns; understaffed clinics and schools; city electricity flickering while rural areas plunged into darkness lit only by oil lamps. In remote regions, life was harsh and mired in crop failures and disease outbreaks.

A H'Mông man in Đồng Văn, Hà Giang.

His first trip took him from Hanoi to Hải Phòng, Quảng Ninh, Lạng Sơn, up to the Chinese border. There, he witnessed bustling fishing ports, emerging industrial towns, and early cross-border trade. In Hòn Gai, the sea wind blew salt into the air, and the harbor was busy with boats beside a Hạ Long Bay still devoid of foreign tourists. Fishermen lived with their dogs, cats, chickens, and ducks on floating boats. Amid this scene, Soloman found a quiet tenderness watching a couple share a simple lunch of fresh shellfish on the deck. As one of the rare foreign visitors, he was always greeted with curious, friendly smiles.

A coal mine in Cẩm Phả, Quảng Ninh.

Not long after, in Lạng Sơn, while sipping tea at a small shop, a family spotted him and invited him to their wedding. “A burst of firecrackers exploded, announcing the bride’s arrival,” Soloman described. “We celebrated, raised glasses, drank Chinese beer and homemade rice wine.” Later, he photographed the young couple on their wedding night.

A wedding of Tay Đăm ethnic minority in Sơn La.

After these early journeys, Soloman traveled farther southwards. In an old Soviet UAZ-469 jeep, he crossed the Central Region, visiting Quảng Trị with its war remnants, the Hiền Lương Bridge that once divided the nation, the Trường Sơn Cemetery, Huế, Đà Nẵng, Quy Nhơn, and onward to the Central Highlands.

Dung, a newborn at the Huế Central Hospital.

In December 1992, he stopped at the Huế Central Hospital. The hospital was simple, with outdated facilities, though medical students studied diligently around patients’ beds. “Doctors were highly skilled and dedicated, but worked under immense shortages. In pediatrics, there were no air-conditioners for hot days, no heaters for cold nights. Neonatal incubators could be counted on one hand,” Soloman reminisces. The photo of Dung, a newborn infant lying in a ragged hospital cot, is still kept by Soloman today, a snapshot of Vietnam’s health system at that time in Huế.

When he reached the Central Highlands, he saw red-dirt roads winding through hills scarred by chemical defoliants; barren slopes and charred tree stumps blended with burnt grass. Passing through Jrai, Sedang, and Bahnar villages, Soloman eventually arrived in the homeland of the Brau, one of Vietnam's smallest ethnic groups — then only 212 people — at the border of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. There, the village elder, A Lem, welcomed him with infectious enthusiasm. Wearing a loincloth, holding a spear, performing ritual dances to the beat of gongs, A Lem insisted Soloman drink “rượu cần,” a traditional wine served in large earthenware jars and drunk through long bamboo straws, which was the Brau’s ceremonial liquor.

Phan Cao Toại, a doctor at the Tuy Hòa Leprosy Hospital.

In 1992, poor transportation and limited communication were the biggest obstacles. “Most roads were full of potholes; going 20 km/h felt lucky,” Soloman said. With no internet and difficult phone access, film had to be sent overseas for developing. Years passed before Soloman saw many of his images. Some films were lost or damaged, so the photos vanished forever.

That made every surviving moment more precious. Through each frame and story, Soloman preserved Vietnam in 1992–1999 in its raw truth. But what stayed with him for life were the people: the determination amid poverty, the unconditional hospitality. “I arrived as a stranger, but I left as a friend,” he said.

Workers at the Chiến Thắng Textile Factory.

Reunions after 30 years

Those early encounters had forged in him a profound affection for Vietnam. More than three decades after his first journeys, Soloman embarked on an incredible quest: to find the people he photographed in the 1990s.

Nguyễn Văn Sơn in Đồng Kỳ.

The idea began during the pandemic, when he finally had time to revisit his old photographs. He posted a few images from the Đồng Kỵ Firecracker Festival of 1994 on social media. Unexpectedly, the post caught the attention of many. Messages from the people of Đồng Kỵ poured in. They said, “That’s my grandfather in the photo,” or “That’s my father when he was young.” In that moment, Soloman realized something profound: for them, these images were more than just photographs, they were fragments of family memory, of a time now gone. And he wondered: could he find these people again and return these memories to them?

That question spurred Soloman and his wife to set off in 2022. The couple rented a motorbike in Saigon and rode north to the Central Highlands, and from Pleiku and Kontum they sought out remote villages he visited in 1992. In their hands were neatly printed photographs and clues painstakingly gathered from hundreds of old notebooks, and the hope that someone might still recognize the faces from the past.

On their return to the Central Highlands, Soloman visited the Jarai villages in Kon Tum to find the little girl he had photographed in 1992, when she was just ten years old, carrying her sibling on her back. He showed the photo to the people he met along the way. Curious and delighted, they pointed out that the girl from decades ago was now a mother of four. Soloman asked how she could recognize herself. She explained the details that had stayed with her: the dress and the sandals.

“I loved that dress and those sandals. I cried asking my mother to buy them. The sandals cost 3,000VND, and my mother struggled to get them,” she said, eyes glistening as she recalled her childhood. Her name was Y Trinh. The old photograph opened a door to a carefree time long past, and it deepened her appreciation for her mother’s sacrifices.

Y Von in Kon Tum.

In 2022, when Soloman returned to the Central Highlands, the once-bare hills had become covered in coffee, pepper and rubber plantations. In the distance, towering wind turbines slowly turned. Wooden stilt houses had almost disappeared, replaced by new concrete homes. Cafés, asphalt roads, new markets, schools, and hospitals had become much more accessible. Economic development and waves of migration had reshaped the landscape, infrastructure, and everyday life. Yet the way people welcomed him remained unchanged from thirty years ago. In 1992, A Lem danced with spears and shared “rượu cần” with Soloman; 30 years later, his daughter, Nang Pha, greeted him with a new jar of “rượu cần,” quietly continuing the tradition with pride.

In Thái Nguyên, the British photographer sought out Đào Văn Pai, the H’Mông musician who had played the khèn, a traditional H’Mông musical instrument, and danced for him in 1992. Thirty years later, Pai still owned the instrument, though it no longer worked.

Pai, a H'Mông khèn musician in Thái Nguyên.

There were also times when the people he once knew were no longer there. In 2024, Soloman visited a small shop by Hoàn Kiếm Lake, where he had once conversed with Bùi Thị Thanh Niên, its owner, in 1992, despite language barriers. She had passed away 15 years earlier, and Soloman handed her photograph to her daughter, Nguyễn Thị Xuân Hương. She had carefully preserved her mother’s belongings: glasses, a worn French-Vietnamese dictionary, and a poetry notebook, all reminders of a woman passionate about languages, knowledge, and her work at the shop. Hương kept the shop open in memory of her mother, maintaining a small corner of memory in a city continually in flux.

Ngọc Trâm, a news reporter of the Vietnam National Television (VTV).

The journey continues

Hundreds of other photographs and their stories remain safely stored in a very special corner of Soloman’s memory. He plans to continue this “return” journey in the years ahead: “The most valuable thing in photography is connection. The camera is the bridge that brings me closer to people. It is human warmth that has kept me tied to Vietnam for thirty years.”

Andy Soloman and his wife.

After more than 30 years, Soloman always felt that he had received far more from Vietnam than he could ever give back. Vietnam is where he met and married his wife, a Hanoi woman. It's where his children were born, where strangers opened their homes to him, offered tea, shared warm meals, and recounted their life stories by the fire at night. All of these experiences became an integral part of the memories forming his lifelong bond with Vietnam.

Top photo: Hanoians watch a circus performance at Lenin Park on October 15, 1992.

Rare Film Photos by Andrew Holbrooke Showcase an Industrious Vietnam in 1991

2025-12-27T10:00:00+07:00

Money cannot buy happiness, but it makes happiness easier to attain.

The East German Simson is cool, but those shades are even cooler.

That adage can be applied to this selection of dreary photographs from 1991. American photographer Andrew Holbrooke captured images of people during a period of economic dynamism. The wide-reaching impacts of Đổi Mới were under way, but people remained overwhelmingly impoverished with the GDP per capita estimated at just around US$140.

Garment factories produced clothing for export.

While few smiles can be observed in the photographs, the people appear steadfast. This graceful determination foreshadows today's more prosperous nation. In addition to the individuals, the cityscapes and surroundings captured in dour grays create a gloomy sense of endurance. From dirt roads to arduous physical labor, the daily experience was simply more challanging 35 years ago.

As we look around at sparkling cities replete with shiny flimflam and otiose luxury, it's important to remember these leaner years. If happiness requires aknowledgement of what one has, these photographs are of great use.

Dogs being transported via bicycle for sale in dog meat restaurants outside Hanoi.

Have a look at the photos below via RedsVN and visit Holbrooke's website for an expanded selection of his photos from the time period:

Far from a tourist stop, Saigon's Central Post Office was aflutter with folks preparing items to send.

Students preparing to cycle home after classes.

A xích lô driver reads the paper between customers.

Hanoi's streets featured typists who would prepare documents for customers.

A woman harvests water spinach in Hữu Tiệp Lake in Hanoi with a downed American fighter partially submerged behind her.

Cigarettes and coffee have always and will always be very cool.

Hitachi had a TV factory line in Saigon for assembling their Japanese electronics.

Children employed at a garment factory in Saigon.

Doing homework has never been fun.

How Nhà Thờ Tân Định, Saigon's Iconic Pink Church, Came to Be

2025-12-22T10:00:00+07:00

You just have to mention the “pink church” and everyone knows which one you mean. But few are aware that the building in question — Tân Định Church — is one of Saigon’s oldest and most important Roman Catholic institutions.

The history of Tân Định Church may be traced back to 1874, when a Catholic mission was set up here under Father Donatien Éveillard (1835–1883). It was Éveillard who supervised the construction of the first church, which cost 15,000 piastres (38,000 Francs) and was inaugurated in December 1876.

While no image of the original church survives, this drawing shows the rebuilt church of 1896–1898, before the front tower was added.

Éveillard also invited the Sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres to set up an orphanage and boarding school next to the church. This Sainte Enfance de Tan-Dinh, or École de Tan-Dinh, opened in 1877 and by the early 1880s it had around 300 children.

Perhaps Éveillard’s greatest achievement was the establishment at Tân Định of a religious publishing house known as the Imprimerie de la Mission, where he trained disadvantaged children from the Sainte Enfance de Tan-Dinh for the publishing trade.

The interior of Tân Định Church after the reconstruction of 1928–1929.

A much-loved figure in the local community, Éveillard died in 1883 and was buried beneath the nave of the church, where his tombstone may still be seen today.

By the early 1890s, the original church and school buildings were no longer fit for purpose, so Éveillard’s successor, Father Louis-Eugène Louvet (1838–1900), organised a lottery to raise funds to rebuild them. Much of the present Tân Định Church dates from 1896–1898, when this reconstruction was carried out at a cost of 8,600 piastres (22,000 Francs).

In 2023 Saigon, the Tân Định Church is a well-known tourist destination thanks to its iconic coat of paint. Photo by Nguyễn Lương Cao Nhân.

The adjacent school buildings were also rebuilt during this period and a new École des Sourds-Muets de Tan-Dinh (school for deaf and mute children) was opened within the Sainte Enfance de Tan-Dinh. By 1908, the Sainte Enfance had a staffing complement of four French and 10 Vietnamese nuns.

Designed in Romanesque style with Gothic and Renaissance elements, Tân Định Church comprises a nave with a tall barrel-vaulted roof (today hidden by a false ceiling), separated by arcades from side aisles and outer corridors. The design also incorporates a triforium or shallow-arched upper gallery and features two apsidal chapels which extrude from either side of the nave, close to the entrance. The one to your right as you enter the church is dedicated to Mary and Joseph, while the one to your left is dedicated to St. Theresa. The Saint statues and the 14 Stations of the Cross which currently adorn the outer side aisle pillars date from the 1890s.

It was Louvet who appointed a missionary named Jean-François-Marie Génibrel (1851–1914) to run the Imprimerie de la Mission. In subsequent years, alongside religious works, Génibrel published a remarkable series of scholarly publications, including the Manuel de conversation Annamite-Français (1893), the Vocabulaire Français-Annamite (1898), the Vocabulaire Annamite-Français (1906) and the ground-breaking Dictionnaire Annamite-Français (1898), which took Génibrel 14 years of painstaking research. Génibrel also started working on a Dictionnaire Français-Annamite but never completed it.

The church is closed to visitors on Sundays. Photo by Nguyễn Lương Cao Nhân.

The publishing house at Tân Định Church continued in operation until 1951. By special request, several published works and some old printing tools from the Imprimerie de la Mission may still be viewed today in the St. Joseph’s Seminary museum at 6 Tôn Đức Thắng.

Tân Định Church underwent further reconstruction in 1928–1929, commissioned by Father Jean-Baptiste Nguyễn Bá Tòng (1868–1949), who later famously became Indochina’s first Vietnamese bishop, responsible for the diocese of Phát Diệm.

A rear view of Tân Định Church after the reconstruction of 1928–1929.

During this period, the 52.62-meter, six-bell octagonal tower and entrance vestibule was added to the front of the building and a false ceiling was created above the nave. A single-storey U-shaped rear extension was also installed at the rear of the nave, in order to provide new vestry space and to create large open seating wings on either side of the altar platform.

While the 1928–1929 reconstruction was under way, wealthy French parishioner François Haasz and his Vietnamese wife Anne Tống Thị Mực paid for the installation of the church’s richly decorated Italian marble high altar and side altars, which today rank among the most outstanding decorative features of any church in Saigon.

More detail from the church’s richly-decorated Italian marble high altar, paid for by wealthy French parishioner François Haasz and his Vietnamese wife Anne Tống Thị Mực.

In 1949, the structural pillars in the nave were strengthened and, in 1957, the church was refurbished and repainted in the memorable pink colour (salmon pink on the outside, strawberries and cream on the inside!) which it has sported ever since. Since that time the church has undergone major refurbishment on several occasions.

The sanctuary of Tân Định Church features an elaborately decorated Italian high altar of 1929. The pink color of the interior was subsequently painted over in recent years.

The former Sainte Enfance de Tan-Dinh, next to the church, is still partially used by the Sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres, but most of the complex now houses the Hai Bà Trưng High School at 295 Hai Bà Trưng street.

Tân Định Church at 289 Hai Bà Trưng is open to visitors from 8am to 11am, and from 2pm to 4.30pm every day except Sunday.

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.