A century before today's bulldozers, colonial planners were already wrestling with the same congested waterfront corridor — and the same promises of transformation.

Nguyễn Tất Thành Street pictured in 2025, running alongisde land prepared fro a public park. Photo by Quỳnh Trần via VnExpress.

In 2026, Hồ Chí Minh City is finally moving forward with one of its most long-anticipated infrastructure projects: the widening of Nguyễn Tất Thành Street, the perpetually gridlocked artery threading through the former District 4 between Khánh Hội and Tân Thuận bridges. The plan calls for expanding the road from its current four lanes to six or eight, at a projected cost of nearly VND3 trillion, while the adjacent Nhà Rồng–Khánh Hội port area — some 32 hectares of prime Saigon riverfront — is set to become a public park. Construction is expected to commence on September 2, 2026, timed to mark the 50^th anniversary of the city.

It reads like a story of long-overdue progress. But open the colonial archives in the Vietnamese National Archive Centre No. 2 on Lê Duẩn (the Government of Cochinchina files, thereafter GouCoch), and the sensation is uncanny: urban planners have been trying to sort out this exact corridor for over a century.

A canal that made an island

The story begins not with a road, but with a waterway.

On February 6, 1904, a French development company called the Société Française Industrielle d'Extrême-Orient was awarded an eight-year concession to maintain and improve Saigon's waterways. Among its tasks was the construction of a canal de dérivation — a diversion canal — planned to ease the chronic congestion of fluvial traffic between Chợ Lớn and Saigon's port on the Arroyo Chinois (nowadays Bến Nghé). The waterway linking Chợ Lớn to the hinterland and the Mekong Delta rice trade was simply too narrow, too shallow, and too crowded with junks to function efficiently as a commercial artery. The solution: dig a parallel canal to the south.

1906 map of Saigon and Cholon with canal and territorial annexation projects. (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753)

That canal is today's Kênh Tẻ.

The engineers got their waterway. But in doing so, they created an unexpected problem: they turned the village of Khánh Hội into an island. The canal would eventually become the boundary line between what residents knew as District 4 (now the Khánh Hội, Vĩnh Hội, and Xóm Chiếu wards since the city's July 2025 administrative reorganization), to the north, and Districts 7 and 8 (now Tân Hưng, Tân Thuận and Chánh Hưng wards respectively) to the south and southwest — a division that persists in the city's geography to this day.

Magnification of the above 1906 map to focus on the Khánh Hội and Chánh Hưng village territories to be annexed to Saigon (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753).

The village that became a bargaining chip

Khánh Hội had existed long before French colonization as a fluvial settlement on the southern bank of the Bến Nghé, close enough to Saigon's port to serve later as a logistical buffer zone, and legally part of Chợ Lớn province. Much of its southern reaches were swampland and rice paddies, considered unhealthy and largely undeveloped — a landscape that would take the better part of a century to fully urbanize. Once the new canal was dug to its south, the village was physically severed from its administrative parent. It sat, marooned between two waterways, on a strip of land that colonial planners quickly identified as valuable real estate.

Focus on areas set to be annexed: Khánh Hội (indicated with an 'A') and Chánh Hưng ('B') to be annexed to Saigon (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753).

In October 1906, M. Bos, the administrator of Chợ Lớn, wrote to the Lieutenant Governor of Cochinchina recommending that Khánh Hội be transferred to Saigon's municipal authority. The reasoning was pragmatic: a part of the area had factories, a dense population, and part of its northern waterfront was already registered under Saigon's cadastre. The famous Nhà Rồng Wharf — headquarters of the Messageries Maritimes shipping company, the same jetty from which a young man named Nguyễn Tất Thành would depart in 1911 to begin his decades-long journey toward becoming Hồ Chí Minh — sat in this disputed borderland.

The Saigon Municipal Commission accepted the annexation project on November 7, 1906. A map produced the following month, titled “Project for the expansion of the city of Saigon,” visualized what the administrators had in mind: not just a tidy administrative transfer, but an industrial island, an îlot industriel, stitched into Saigon's logistical network.

Ten notables, one letter

The annexation was not without friction. Vietnamese village notables were formally consulted — a procedural requirement under colonial regulations governing commune reorganization. The council of neighboring Chánh Hưng raised no objections to ceding a small portion of its territory. The representatives of Khánh Hội did.

Letter from Khánh Hội village representatives dated 12 November 1906 (left) and Public Notice of the factory project in Khánh Hội, 1909 (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753 and 20665)

On November 12, 1906, ten notables of Khánh Hội addressed a letter to the municipal administration of Chợ Lớn. The document, preserved in folder GouCoch TDNK 16753, raises concerns that feel strikingly human across the distance of 120 years: they worried that Saigon's municipal authorities would not tolerate their maisons en paillotes — traditional straw-and-timber dwellings — standing alongside the brick buildings of an industrial zone. Since 1878, Saigon had decrees prohibiting such structures in urban areas. To be absorbed by the city meant risking eviction from their own homes.

The colonial council dismissed these protests on April 27, 1907, characterizing them as driven by personal interest rather than legitimate concern. The administrative transfer was formalized on December 31, 1907, handing over Khánh Hội's archives, tax registers, and land tenure records from Chợ Lớn to Saigon.

Yet the archives tell a more ambiguous story than that official dismissal implies. Documents from the 1920s — lease requests for marshy plots in Khánh Hội containing straw huts and family tombs — confirm that paillotes were still standing, unremarked upon, well into the decade after the transfer. Colonial authorities, it turned out, were far more interested in developing the northern waterfront for industrial use than in policing the housing of the people living further inland. The industrial programme took precedence; the social regulation never quite caught up.

Renovation-Prolongation project of Jean Eudel Street (in red), 1925 (GouCoch, TDNK, 29240)

The street that planners kept deferring

Scene from Khánh Hội in the 1930s that offers a glimpse into the industrial appearance of Khánh Hội. Photo via Flickr user Minhchan Le.

By the 1920s, Khánh Hội had taken on the industrial character that colonial administrators had always envisioned for it. Archives document an oxygen factory (1910), a tannery (1909–1914), a silk-spinning operation dating to the 1860s, a colonial distillery, and buffalo hide warehouses belonging to Maison Denis Frères. A 1925 master plan for urban redevelopment proposed improving tramway connections, reorganizing industrial zones, and extending port facilities along the Khánh Hội waterfront. A report that same year by the Chief Architect of Civil Buildings outlined several infrastructural upgrades for the area.

Among them was the question of the street running along the riverbank.

Folder GouCoch TDNK 29240, dated 1931–1933, is titled “Dossier relatif au prolongement de la rue Jean Eudel à Khánh Hội” — the file on extending Jean Eudel Street. A renovation and prolongation project appears in the archive drawings in red ink, tracing the same corridor that would eventually become Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. The colonial engineers sketched their improvements; the files record the deliberations; the project was, apparently, partially implemented and partially deferred.

Map illustrating the renovation of Jean Eudel Street, c. 1931–1933; the dotted lines show the areas concerned by the project (GouCoch 29240).

By 1941, Admiral Decoux, making an official visit to the Pont en Y at Chợ Quán, was still publicly lamenting the poor connectivity between Khánh Hội and the rest of the city. The Tribune Indochinoise recorded his remarks in September that year. More infrastructure was needed. The links were insufficient. Something had to be done.

The Japanese occupation began shortly after. The interwar colonial development phase ended. The plans stayed on paper.

A century of deferral, one September deadline

What is striking, reading across these archival layers, is not the failure of any single plan but the persistence of the problem — and the repetition of its proposed solutions. Widen the artery. Improve the connections. Develop the port land. Make the industrial island legible and accessible within the city's broader logic.

Graphic by Dương Trương.

The Kênh Tẻ Canal transformed Khánh Hội in 1906–1907 by isolating it and then absorbing it. Jean Eudel Street — named after a French colonial official, later renamed to honor the man who left from Nhà Rồng Wharf to change the country's history — became the corridor through which that absorption would, eventually, be made real. It has been chronically under-built ever since: four lanes where the traffic demands eight, a waterfront of rusting port infrastructure where city planners have imagined parks for decades.

After years of chronic gridlock, Nguyễn Tất Thành Street — connecting the former Districts 7 and 4 with downtown — is now set to be widened, and Nhà Rồng Wharf is to be transformed into a riverside park. The proposed expansion would bring the road to a minimum of eight lanes with a cross-section of 30–40 meter. Construction is expected to begin on September 2, tied to the expansion of the Hồ Chí Minh Museum area and the Nguyễn Tất Thành road project.

An AI-rendered plan for the widening of Nguyễn Tất Thành Street with adjacent park space. Image via VNExpress.

The village notables of Khánh Hội who wrote their anxious letter in November 1906 could not have imagined the city that would grow around their straw huts. But they understood, with perfect clarity, what it meant when administrators started drawing new lines on maps of the place where you lived. They knew that infrastructure is never just about roads and canals. It is always also about who gets to stay, and on what terms.

As the bulldozers prepare for September, the archive suggests a gentle corrective to triumphalist narratives of urban transformation: this particular bend in the river has been waiting for its redesign for a very long time. And the people who lived there, long before the planners arrived, were asking reasonable questions that the plans still rarely think to answer.

The archival research for this article was conducted at the Vietnamese National Archive Centre No. 2, Ho Chi Minh City, drawing primarily on the Cochinchina Government Collection (GouCoch), in particular folders TDNK 16753, 29240, and 29345. The research is part of a broader project on colonial urban planning in Saigon-Chợ Lớn at RMIT Vietnam, School of Communication and Design.

Thwunk! Thwunk! Thwunk! Thwunk! The vendor’s cleaver struck the heavy wooden chopping board again and again after slicing through duck meat. Centimeters away, a microphone hovered, capturing each strike. 

“To me, photography and sound recording are actually very similar. They're both ways of preserving memories, just through different senses… Whenever I listen to old recordings, it feels like I'm transported back to that exact moment. I'm there again, surrounded by the same atmosphere, reliving the experience,” explained Trần Đăng Khoa, the founder of Vietnam Sound Library, as we ate the duck soup he had just recorded being prepared.

Between noodle slurps, he expanded on his philosophy of audio preservation. Sounds can be a powerful means of eliciting memories and triggering nostalgia for moments we’d forgotten, but all too often, unlike photos, we don’t think to record something until it’s already gone.

Khoa, however, is always thinking about what to record and approaches every sound field trip systematically. When arriving at a location, he asks himself two questions: “First: What is the most distinctive quality of this sound? If someone closed their eyes and listened, would they immediately recognize where they are? Second: 30 or 50 years from now, when the world has changed, which sounds from today will still mean something to people?” 

Khoa records Bình Tây Market's opening activities.

Saigoneer spent the morning witnessing Khoa’s approach in action, starting with when Chợ Lớn (Bình Tây Market) was just opening for the day, and a truck arrived at the front gate to unload. “This is significant — men at work,” he exclaimed before jolting off to get himself in position for the clanks and clamors of metal tables and stools being lugged down and set up. Minutes later, he was on the market’s second floor, asking a vendor to open and close her shopfront gate. Always listening for a sound to throw himself towards, Khoa even interrupted himself mid-sentence at breakfast to rush off to record a passing chè vendor.

A wellspring of energy, after the market, he brought us to several nearby pagodas where he recorded gieo quẻ xin xăm, a blind lottery vendor’s banter with visitors, bells being struck, and the ambient sounds of murmured prayers.

Sound has been central to Khoa since he was a child. “Every time I watched a movie and felt emotion, goosebumps, I realized mostly it came from sounds.” From there, the Saigon native took a logical route, studying sound engineering and finding work editing and mixing sound for films, TVCs, and other commercial projects. Occasionally, a scene would call for a specific ambiance or noise that wasn’t available in any archive. Sometimes, a Foley artist can create a sound that differs from reality but delivers a stronger emotional impact and enhances storytelling. But other times, there is no replacement for reality. In those situations, Khoa ventures off into the world to locate and capture it.

To organize and share these real sounds, in late 2024, Khoa created Vietnam Sound Library. At the time of writing, the archive contains more than 550 audio tracks assembled with a mission to make the everyday sounds of Vietnamese life available to everyone. Uploaded via SoundCloud, the lossless audio tracks are organized into clear albums such as parks, markets, residential areas, restaurants, the metro, and even festivals and activities, including a funeral. Within the folder are broad ambience and specific actions, such as a schoolyard’s morning drum, a street jackhammer, and people playing pickleball.

After our morning at the market and pagoda, we traveled to Khoa’s studio, where he sat in front of numerous monitors and a giant screen to edit what he’d recorded. He would review the recordings, isolate and remove distracting background elements, and cut out pauses before labeling and organizing them for upload. Likening the process to photo editing, he noted that every sound artist has their preferred level of manipulation, and it’s ultimately a matter of taste for how much polishing to apply.

To showcase how he uses the audio professionally, Khoa then pulled up an in-progress feature film for which he was completing the sound design. For a scene that takes place in a forest, he layered various sounds he’d recorded several weeks earlier in Cát Tiên National Park. Ambient noise, crickets, birds calling, a mosquito landing on the microphone, and other elements are layered atop one another to achieve not what a scene sounds like in reality but what listeners will imagine it to sound like.

While Khoa started Vietnam Sound Library for practical, professional use, the project took on new depth and significance when he met his partner, Đinh Vũ Thu Thủy. “At first, my goal was simply to build a sound library for film production. Then, in 2025, Thủy joined the project and brought me a completely different perspective on sound,” he shared.

It's rare to see either Thủy and Khoa without a smile.

Reflecting on the first time she joined him on a recording trip, Thủy said: “The first collection I worked on was recordings from traditional markets. That's when I realized that sound isn't just data — it tells cultural stories. Khoa felt the same way. Sounds like street vendors calling out to buy scrap metal, the school drum, or children playing năm mười were all part of our childhood growing up in the 1990s. But many of those sounds are gradually disappearing. That made us realize we should document everyday sounds while they're still here.”

The recording equipment is light and compact, so the couple is ready to go at almost any time.

Since then, Thủy has been by Khoa’s side on every trip, pointing out noises that might not be immediately relevant for films, but are important elements of Vietnamese culture that won’t be around forever. She also takes all the unique photos that accompany the tracks so people have a more exact understanding of what they are hearing, particularly if it's something they haven’t witnessed in person before. And in the studio, she is there to help clarify file names (“not sliding door, but rolling door”), and add essential cultural markers such as specific locations, dates, and times, beyond the generic notes that would be sufficient to satisfy the needs of filmmakers.

The project has changed Khoa and Thủy’s relationship with each other, as well as with sound itself. Thủy shared: “Before joining this project, I never paid much attention to sound. I took it for granted. I could hear, but I wasn't really listening. Now I've learned to slow down, to listen more carefully, and to notice the tiny sounds that I used to overlook. Through that, I've come to understand that sound carries much more than what we hear every day. It holds stories about culture, the environment, and people's memories. [Vietnam Sound Library] taught me to understand my surroundings through listening.”

In contrast, Khoa always appreciated sounds, but hadn’t before realized that his appreciation was a form of meditation: “One thing that really surprised me while recording was what happened when I gave my full attention to listening. I started feeling deeply connected to the present moment. Everything around me suddenly became much more vivid. That's when I realized that, before this, I had spent so much time lost in my own thoughts that I wasn't truly present in everyday life.” 

The genuine appreciation the couple has for sound recording allows them to work without annoying their subjects. Combined with a palpable sense of joy and excitement, this authenticity removes skepticism and puts the people populating streets, markets, schoolyards, and restaurants at ease. This is particularly important because while many sounds may be of natural or manmade objects, Thủy considers the presence of voices to be among the most important ones for culture. The street vendor calls, which Khoa likens to singing, are her favorite: “After hearing just a few voices, you can immediately feel the unique atmosphere of a Vietnamese market. Every vendor has their own style, their own rhythm, and their own voice, and together they become part of the market's identity.”

When was the last time you heard the call of a local rat trap vendor? An ice cream cart? What about a mobile laminator or someone offering to weigh your child on a scale? While discussing vendor songs, we soon found ourselves talking about lost sounds. With Khoa and Thủy, it’s easy to become philosophical and ruminate on the value of sounds, our favorite sounds, the sounds we wish we’d heard before they’d vanished, and what is disappearing all around us. What did Saigon sound like when horses still clomped down the streets pulling carts, and before plastic replaced vendor tables and chairs? “I wish I could record traditional Vietnamese children's games,” Khoa noted before offering the observation that “every generation has their own sound, for example, when elders come together and talk nowadays, they talk differently than elders 30 years ago; the way they talk, the topics they talk about, even their volume.” 

In addition to archival value, these sounds of the past can have a powerful impact on the present. Khoa explained: “One day, we received a message that said, ‘I'm studying abroad, and I really miss these sounds. Thanks, bro.’ It was incredibly moving because that was the moment we realized these recordings aren't just preserving sounds. They're also helping people reconnect with their own memories and emotions.”

Regardless of their use, one unavoidable truth of the sound library is that Khoa and Thủy cannot do it all. Even if one discounts sounds vanishing every day, Saigon simply contains too many noises for one couple to capture. And then one has to consider other locations, with Khoa noting “one man is never enough because its not about technique, it's about experience. People born in the north will understand the north, people born in the seaside or the mountains will understand their homeland better than me; they know what to record better than me.”

At the moment, Khoa and Thủy are not focusing on the marketing and branding that would help raise more awareness and attract additional archivists, let alone thinking of any way to monetize the library. Rather, they seem content to chase after important sounds and ensure they are preserved. If this means a homesick Saigoneer can connect with their childhood, or a film can contain a bit more reality, that's all the better. And in the process, we can all hope they remember to record themselves the soft laughter and exultations that accompany their process — that, too, is now an important part of Saigon’s auditory history.

On September 9, 1883, ominous smoke hung over Huế. The sun was blue-green, and throughout the day, people on the streets had no shadows. As their legitimacy relied on maintaining the Mandate of Heaven, the Nguyễn royal court was alarmed. Three high-ranking mandarins rushed to advise the Emperor to change his ways to regain Heaven’s favor. While this strange incident can be easily dismissed as another case of outdated superstitions, a closer look reveals it as a rare conjunction of astrology, power, and — given the source of the smoke — volcanism, all set against the backdrop of France’s rapid incursion into Vietnam.

The smoke of that baleful day stemmed from the island of Krakatoa in the Sunda Strait, located less than 2,000 kilometers south of Saigon. A vigorous, multi-volcano component of the Ring of Fire, Krakatoa showed the first signs of eruption on May 20, 1883, when a strong earthquake reached as far as the Dutch East Indies capital of Batavia (now Jakarta, Indonesia), rattling doors and windows. The following day, plumes of whitish steam and thick black smoke soared from various vents across the island, and molten rock burned away the lush vegetation on the volcanic slopes. This smoldering phase continued all summer; ships entering the Sunda Strait would report large, barnacled chunks of pumice bobbing in the waves. By late August, even passage through the strait became impossible, as ships were bombarded with pumice and ashes falling out of the sky, and around the island, loud bursts were heard every few hours.

A 1801 map of Southeast Asia by English cartographer John Cary. Image via Wikimedia.
The indicator of Krakatoa located towards the bottom left, between Sumatra and Java is added by Saigoneer.

Then, on the morning of August 27, Krakatoa exploded. The noise was so intense that it blew the eardrums of British sailors more than 60 kilometers away and sent shockwaves circling the world three times. Nearly 70% of the island was destroyed, and the pyroclastic flows that gurgled out of its collapse scorched entire Sumatran towns such as Ketimbang, killing more than 4,000 people. Tsunamis swallowed the nearby port city of Merak and crashed against shores as distant as South Africa. At least 21 cubic kilometers of dust and ash were launched into the sky, carried west by high-speed air currents that only scientists in the aftermath would come to identify as jet streams. As noted by British meteorologist Rollo Russell, wherever it spread, this smoke scattered the sunlight, changing the color of the sun into a bluish green, and that of the sky into an ashen grey in the day, then a bloodshot red at sunset. After wafting around the world for two weeks, the smoke entered Vietnamese skies, still thick yet more dispersed, in early September.

Footage from the Japanese weather satellite Himawari-8 of the 2022 Hunga Tonga-Hunga Haʻapai eruption, which was of similar scale to Krakatoa. Image via EUMETSAT.

At the time, the Nguyễn Dynasty was in crisis. The last few years were marked by constant French encroachments, and with the death of the staunch Confucianist Emperor Tự Đức in July 1883, the French saw an opportunity to ramp up these attacks. On August 18, Admiral Amédée Courbet launched a naval assault against the forts at Thuận An Estuary, where the Perfume River led straight into the capital. The three-day raid took the lives of many Nguyễn soldiers, including commander Trần Thúc Nhẫn who jumped into the sea to his death.

Victorious, the French marched inland, and Commissioner François-Jules Harmand gave the court an ultimatum, vowing that if they rejected French demands, then “even the worst catastrophe you can imagine will fall short of what will happen to you. The Empire of Annam, its dynasty, its princes and its courtiers will have chosen their own extinction. The name of Vietnam will be erased from history.”

On August 25, the same day Krakatoa entered its critical phase, representatives of Emperor Hiệp Hoà signed the Treaty of Huế (Hòa ước Harmand) with the French, which recognized French protectorate over their territory, renounced their own diplomatic independence, and allowed Bình Thuận Province to be annexed into the colony of Cochinchina. While the treaty was slightly revised in 1884, it had effectively put an end to Vietnamese sovereignty.

One of the few portraits of Hiệp Hoà (left) and an artist's interpretation (right). Images via Khám phá Huế.

Let us now return to the morning of August 27. According to a report by British officer Richard Strachey to the Royal Society, as soon as Krakatoa erupted, its sounds were heard in Cape St. Jacques (now Vũng Tàu, 1,800 km away) and Saigon (1,873 km away). That only two such locations in Vietnam were named was likely because Cochinchina had become a full colony and saw a stronger European presence than the rest; since the shockwaves circled the globe three times, it is possible that people elsewhere in the country heard the sounds too. Their wide propagation is also implied in Notes sur l’Annam (Notes on Annam) by explorer Etienne Aymonier. In his volume on Khánh Hoà, published in 1885, Aymonier wrote:

It is difficult to gauge just how much of this frantic response was real or exaggerated; however, the panic is not unimaginable given the intensity of the sounds. According to Richard Strachey’s report, in Singapore, there was no way to talk on the telephone line until 3pm; by shouting at the top of their lungs, both ends could hear each other, but “not one single sentence was understood.” More than 2,000 km west, in the landlocked Sri Lankan town of Bogawantalawa, the sounds “were like blasting [from the northeast] and kept on all day, from 7:30 a.m. till 4 p.m.” And far down south, in Western Australia, a local newspaper wrote that people were startled by a series of loud, artillery-like sounds, which continued “at irregular intervals till about 4 p.m. on Monday [August 27].” Sometimes, noted the newspaper, there were as many as three explosions in a minute, but “generally there was a few minutes’ interval.” With this context, we can infer that people not just in Bình Thuận, but all over Vietnam could have heard the eruption, and with the bombardment of Thuận An still fresh in their minds, many were driven to panic.

Then, two weeks later, came the strangely colored sun. An entry in the official chronicle Đại Nam thực lục (Veritable Records of Đại Nam) described that baleful day as follows:

Let us pause to situate the three mandarins’ appeal in their political lives. Tôn Thất Thuyết, Nguyễn Văn Tường, and Trần Tiễn Thành were all regents appointed by the late Tự Đức, who died without an heir. At first, they picked his 30-something adopted son, but to Thành’s horror, Thuyết and Tường teamed up to depose the new monarch after only three days for improper conduct. On July 30, the three regents crowned Hiệp Hoà, Tự Đức’s younger brother. Fearful for both his throne and his life, Hiệp Hoà quickly sought to make peace with the French, which also enraged the patriotic Thuyết and Tường.

After Hiệp Hoà approved the treaty of August 25 with Thành’s support, Thuyết and Tường devised a plot to remove Hiệp Hoà too. Seeing their conduct as a flagrant abuse of power, Thành retired to his manor north of the Perfume River. On November 28, while the French representative was away from Huế, Tường arrested Hiệp Hoà on charges of collaborationism, put him in jail, and poisoned him to death. On the night of November 30, Thành was murdered at home by unknown burglars; later historians suspected it was an assassination orchestrated by Tường and Thuyết themselves.

Tôn Thất Thuyết (left) and Nguyễn Văn Tường (right). Images via Wikimedia.

With such contexts, it is surprising that Tôn Thất Thuyết, Nguyễn Văn Tường, and Trần Tiễn Thành were appealing to Hiệp Hoà together, as noted by the official historical record Đại Nam thực lục, in response to the Krakatoa sun. Did it alarm them so much that they set aside their differences and rushed to warn the Emperor? Could there also be hidden motives for Thuyết and Tường, who already disliked Hiệp Hoà anyway? For although courtiers often saw astronomical phenomena as signs for their kingdom, they may also exploit these to their advantage.

In the 1430s, Bùi Thì Hanh rose to prominence for his forecasting; he would use this knack for astronomy to gain favors from Emperor Lê Thái Tông, becoming chief of the Bureau of Astronomy (Thái sử viện 太史院) until he was exposed for a false lunar eclipse prediction. Combing through Đại Việt sử ký toàn thư, historian Ho Peng Yoke also found that some eclipses had no match in the records of neighboring countries, and may have been invented by later compilers to condemn the kings during whose reigns they occurred, which in fact was a practice among other East Asian dynasties too. In a similar vein, Thuyết and Tường could have seized the rare opportunity of a blue-green sun to strike fear into Hiệp Hoà’s heart. Whether or not they had such motives, their appeal worked, based on Hiệp Hoà’s reaction. Unfortunately, this was not enough to prevent his fall three months later.

An illustration by William Ashcroft of a typical dramatic sunset after Krakatoa, as seen from London in 1883. Image via Bodleian Libraries/University of Oxford.

Krakatoa was not the Nguyễn’s first rodeo with volcanoes. In 1815, Mount Tambora erupted, causing a drop in global temperatures and adverse weather effects for years to come. In Europe, the cold, stormy summer simply inspired Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein, but in Vietnam, it led to a widespread famine and a Bengal-born cholera outbreak that killed hundreds of thousands of people, including the great poet Nguyễn Du. Still, the regime was able to pull through, thanks in part to Minh Mạng’s quick reactions by relieving taxes, distributing monetary aid, and supplying medicine to localities despite not fully understanding the disease himself.

Krakatoa, conversely, found the dynasty in a critical spot, with an ineffectual ruler, a domineering pair of regents, and an impending foreign conquest. Thus, although Krakatoa did not seem to take a heavy material toll on the dynasty like Tambora, it still left both the court and the commoners shaken. Whether the residents of Bình Thuận did flee en masse after hearing the explosions as Aymonier described, whether Tôn Thất Thuyết and Nguyễn Văn Tường had hidden motives in addressing the blue-green sun to the Emperor, the reality was all the same. The kingdom was no longer as it was under Minh Mạng; if anything, with the treaty signed just days before, it seemed that the kingdom was slouching towards doom.

Tôn Thất Thuyết and Nguyễn Văn Tường, the dynamic duo that they were, would go on to enthrone and dethrone another emperor, before settling with the 12-year-old Hàm Nghi. The French would maintain an arrogant, aggressive attitude, convincing the duo of imminent war. On the night of July 4, 1885, Thuyết launched a preemptive attack on the French, who quickly overpowered his forces and burned the citadel. Thuyết got away with the young Emperor and issued the Cần Vương (Aid the King) edict, exhorting patriots nationwide to rise up.

Meanwhile, Nguyễn Văn Tường stayed behind, and was arrested and exiled to Tahiti, ironically a volcanic island itself. He would live here for a year before dying of illness in 1886. That same year, Mount Tarawera erupted in New Zealand, the closest large landmass to Tahiti. It is tempting to wonder if Tường had lived to witness the effects, and if for a moment, far away in exile, he was reminded of that blue-green sun.

After his Saigon trip in 1972, famed French photographer Raymond Depardon returned in 1992 to traverse the length of Vietnam.

Depardon’s 1992 visit yielded many incredible photos with people as the main subject. There isn’t one photo in the extensive collection that doesn’t feature a local in one way or another, be it a gaggle of laughing children in Hanoi or a pensive young teenager in Lâm Đồng province.

Through the French photojournalist’s lens, 1992 Hanoi doesn't appear that different than in 2017, at least when it comes to buildings and famous landmarks such as the Hoàn Kiếm Lake or the Old Quarter.

Have a gander at Raymond Depardon’s perspectives below:

Outside the general store on Tràng Tiền, Hanoi.

Two Hanoian friends at the Thủy Tạ ice cream shop, Hanoi.

At a coal mine in Quảng Ninh.

Two ladies wearing different styles of clothing in downtown Saigon.

Children play on top a tank carcass in Đông Hà, Quảng Trị.

The Đồng Khởi-Lê Lợi intersection from the Continental Hotel Saigon.

Trying to take a nap on the North-South train.

Outside the police kiosk at the Saigon Train Station.

Parked vehicles on the street.

The exterior of Vinh Quang Cineplex on Pasteur Street.

Posing for a shot in Nha Trang.

Vacationers in Hạ Long. 

Hàng Bông, Hanoi.

A street guitar shop in Hanoi.

Hanoi children in Lenin Park.

A paper shop on Lương Văn Can Street, Hanoi.

A beach dip in Nha Trang.

Locals in Nha Trang have a picnic by the sea.

Hàm Long, Hanoi.

Vendors run after a train to sell refreshments.

A xích lô man reads while waiting for customers.

A gas station in Xuân Lộc, Đồng Nai.

A cafe and makeup parlor in Lâm Đồng.

At 30/4 Park in Saigon.

A fruit vendor in Lâm Đồng.

An entire family squeezing into their seats on the cross-country train.

A port in Hải Phòng.

Hàng Mã, Hanoi.

Soon after its completion, Saigon’s iconic Notre Dame Cathedral developed an embarrassing tilt.

Saigon Cathedral was built in 1877–1879 to a design by Jules Bourard, as a replacement for the ill-fated 1863 Église Sainte-Marie-Immaculée, which stood on the site of the modern Sun Wah Tower (Nguyễn Huệ) until it became infested by termites and had to be demolished — see Icons of Old Saigon: the Eglise Sainte-Marie-Immaculee. The first stone of the new cathedral was laid on October 7, 1877 by Admiral-Governor Victor Duperré, in the presence of Bishop Isidore Colombert.

The ill-fated Église Sainte-Marie-Immaculée (1863).

At the time of construction, the problem of supplying fresh water to city residents had reached crisis point. It was therefore seen by many as an “act of God” that in 1877, while the foundations of the cathedral were being laid, workers chanced upon a deep underground aquifer. Later that year, the first Château d’eau (water tower) was built on the junction of rue Sohier and rue Catinat prolongée (the modern Turtle Lake roundabout), to supply drinking water to city residents via a network of underground conduits and street pumps.

In his feature “Monumental Saigon – streets and boulevards,” published in the July-December 1893 edition of the geographical adventure magazine Tour du Monde, Pierre Barrelon commented: “That great underground aquifer now amply feeds Saigon with water which many cities in France would be envious of. The flow of this underground lake is inexhaustible, and during the dry season, as during wintertime, public fountains and private pipes never dry up.”

Saigon's first Château d’eau (water tower) was built on the junction of rue Sohier and rue Catinat prolongée (the modern Turtle Lake roundabout).

However, as Barrelon went on to explain, the discovery of this aquifer was not welcomed by the cathedral construction team.“The sandy soil, which forms a natural filter for this beneficial lake, created a thousand problems for the builders of this heavy construction, making it necessary for them to lengthen their initial works in order to find a very deep resistant layer.” Eventually a solution was found, construction resumed, and three years later on April 11, 1880 (Easter Sunday), Cochinchina Governor Charles Le Myre de Vilers and Bishop Isidore presided over the inauguration of the new cathedral.

The cathedral construction site is visible in the background of this picture of the Cercle des Officiers building (1876).

In the years which followed, this “beautiful monument of brick and stone” became “dear to many Saigonnais…” until one day, someone noticed that the cathedral had begun to tilt over on one side. “The mass gained the upper hand,” explained Barrelon, “and one of the towers began to sink! Quite lightly, but nonetheless in an observable way, so that, like Notre Dame in Paris, the cathedral of Saigon now has towers of unequal height, which displease those in favour of irreproachable symmetry.”

Urgent remedial work was done to prevent further subsidence, but the embarrassing tilt remained. Finally, in 1892, it was decided that two cast iron spires should be added, at a cost of 66,500 francs. Albert Butin's article “Les Flêches métalliques de la Cathédrale de Saigon” (The metallic spires of Saigon Cathedral), published in the May 1896 edition of Le Génie civil: revue générale des industries françaises et étrangères, describes in detail the construction of the spires, which was entrusted to M Michelin, “Ingénieur des Arts et Manufacture,” and got underway on December 26, 1894.

The Saigon Cathedral spires under construction in 1895.

In the original specifications, the spires took the form of 27m high octagonal pyramids with unequal sides, placed directly on the top of each tower and sealed into the masonry by means of brackets extending 3m inside the towers. Each spire was topped by a cross and incorporated four skylights order to provide ventilation to the upper parts of the building. However, during construction, a decision was made to increase the height of the west spire slightly, making it taller than the east spire, in order to restore symmetry. The spires were completed on February 28, 1895.

Saigon Cathedral in the early 1900s.

The addition of those spires seems to have solved the problem of the “Leaning Cathedral of Saigon,” but it seems that that not everyone was convinced: for many years afterwards, it was said that if you stood at the top of rue Catinat (modern Đồng Khởi street), the difference in height between the two towers was still clearly visible!

Cathedral square with Saigoneers coming out of mass.

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.

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

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

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

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

A CTEH Line 1 tram passes the Petit Lac.

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

A CTEH Line 3 tram at Hà Đông.

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

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

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

13 CTEH Line 3 tram at Place Neyret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In 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.

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):

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:

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 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:

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hạ Long.

A Citroen in Mỹ Tho.

Phú Quốc.

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

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:

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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.