Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Cold War History With a Side of Nem Rán in Prague's Little Hanoi

2024-11-20T17:00:00+07:00

Across English-speaking countries the US and Australia, the Vietnamese diaspora established close-knit “Little Saigon” towns whenever they settle down, founding large markets, starting financial services, and introducing southern fares like gỏi cuốn and bánh mì to the local population. Elsewhere in Europe, however, the Vietnamese community is often known as “Little Hanoi,” due to the regional makeup of the first wave of immigrants. Some, like Prague’s Little Hanoi, have flourished to the point of being a “city within a city,” boasting its own self-sufficient administrative services, schools, and housing.

Sapa Market, the city's largest Asian neighborhood and the core of Little Hanoi, is just around 15 kilometers from central Prague.

Much of Vietnam’s initial relationship with Czechia started in the late 1940s and 1950s, when it was still part of Czechoslovakia (Tiệp Khắc in Vietnamese) — a segment of the Eastern Bloc under the influence of communism, following a planned economy. As part of this bedrock of diplomacy between communist nations, Vietnam started sending well-performing students to Tiệp Khắc for higher education.

Restaurants here seem frozen in time.

In 1955, the first-ever batch of Vietnamese students arrived in Czechoslovakia, comprising 16 delegates, all high school students from northern provinces like Phú Thọ, Thái Nguyên, Tuyên Quang, Bắc Ninh, Nghệ An, etc. The exchange program also sent students to neighboring nations like the USSR and Poland. They carried with them the hopes from the northern government that the graduates would return home later to contribute to the development of their hometowns. Many did, but some decided to make a home in Europe.

Bún chả is a star dish and the biggest signifier that this is a northern Vietnamese enclave.

The program went swimmingly for the next three decades until the dissolution of the Eastern Bloc, but the Vietnamese diaspora in European countries had grown so much and assimilated to the local societies, giving rise to the existence of Little Hanoi towns. Today, Vietnamese remains the most populous non-European demographic in the Czech Republic and Poland, with populations of dozens of thousands people. The descendants of those who decided to stay decades ago grew up ethnically Vietnamese but fully integrated into the local society.

Signs with prominent Vietnamese-language texts are everywhere.

Visiting Prague’s Little Hanoi, officially known as Sapa Market, a feeling of strangeness and surprise will hit your mind first, as the Vietnamese language is everywhere. The entrance gate is bilingual, and a few signs might have minimal Czech, but the majority of signage is only in Vietnamese, promoting homemade bún cá, haircuts, leather goods, famous Czech crystals, and a slew of other Vietnamese-specific products that one might assume to be elusive this far from home.

Markets are often the heart of diasporic communities.

Sapa, as local media reports, is autonomous to the point of having its own “police” patrolling streets and clamping illegally parked cars. It also features a kindergarten, accepting kids as young as one year old, so their parents can go about their business in many of the compound’s Vietnamese-run enterprises, like financial services facilitating money repatriation back to Vietnam. But for anyone growing tired of the austerity of Eastern European food, Sapa Market is a welcoming salve, offering a dose (or many) of tropical freshness and well-seasoned noodle broths to bread-saturated palates.

That gourd sure is a show-er not grow-er.

Fish sauce, rice paper, tea and coffee from Vietnam are a given, but a wide range of fresh produce from home will surely brighten up one’s dreary day: herbs, dragon fruits, mangosteens, and surprisingly not wilted rambutans are abundant. And even if you’re not in the mood to shop for groceries, perhaps a glass of freshly pressed sugarcane juice is just the treat you need to quench nostalgic thirst — cô Mía not present, alas.

Fresh tropical produce on sale.

Elsewhere in metropolitan Prague, trendy Vietnamese restaurants run by second- or third-generation Vietnamese might offer diners a range of pan-Vietnam dishes like bánh mì, bánh xèo or gỏi cuốn, but at Sapa Market, the menus stay decidedly northern. It’s understandable, given their proprietors’ regional roots, but what’s astounding is the fact that the wealth of northern cuisine here might rival even Saigon’s culinary diversity.

Uncommon northern delicacies, like bún cá Hải Dương and ngan nướng, are on offer here.

Bún cá Hải Dương, for example, is few and far between in Saigon, while ngan — a type of Muscovy duck popular in northern Vietnam — is a less common poultry in southern provinces. Both are on offer here in Sapa Market. Those familiar with Hanoi eateries’ naming convention of putting together the owner’s name and a word describing their appearance will feel right at home with Chè Tuyết Béo.

Every diasporic community comes with its own quirks and issues, a fact to which any Vietnamese who’s studied or lived abroad can attest. Pressures to survive, to assimilate and even to succeed can and will bring out the darker side of human dynamics. Whether one enjoys or feels disillusioned by the existence of Little Saigons and Little Hanois, it’s at least comforting to know that the phở will probably be great. If all else fails, bet on phở, always.

To Appreciate Tao Đàn More, Study the Park's Past, Present, and Future

2024-11-20T09:00:00+07:00

Shallow shrub and fern roots tussle to send shoots, tendrils and stalks up and outwards, sprawling across uneven ground and grasping at patches of light. A musky, funky, fetid soil stink emanates from crooks, crevices, and holes ungoverned by grubs, spiders, snails, beetles, and flies. Flowers bloom in vibrant bursts of color amongst vines, the collapsing pulp of decomposing logs and uncompromising boulders; birds trill, cicadas whine, and the air offers its inexhaustible exhale of droplet-rich molecules. We live in the tropics. Often, we forget this. Tao Đàn Park allows us to remember.

Everyone knows what and where Tao Đàn is. The city’s largest downtown park has been a green oasis for longer than any living resident can remember. But despite its size and centrality, I was shocked to discover via informal discussions with friends and co-workers that most people spend very little time there. Some have never even stepped foot inside.

Colonial plans for Tao Đàn (left) and scenes from the park of decades past (right). Photos via Chuyện Xưa.

When the French began their long-lasting Saigon subjugation process and started constructing the Norodom Palace in 1868 in what was then the city outskirts, the massive expanse of open land behind it was cultivated as the palace orchard. When the French opened Miss Clavell Street (now Huyền Trân Công Chúa), the garden was separated from the palace and renamed “Jardin de la ville” (city flower garden), but it remained a place of pleasure primarily intended for the colonialists and their rich associates. Once the French withdrew in 1955, it was given its current name. From then until 1976, Tao Đàn was home to a primary school and hosted a variety of leisure and educational activities. It gradually evolved into what we know it as today.

Tao Đàn in 1976. Photo via Đỡ Buồn.

But the park’s history is not what first interested me in Tao Đàn. I began spending time there out of pure convenience: it was merely the fastest route from the Saigoneer office to my apartment. Cutting through it every morning and evening not only provided a pleasant dose of shade and reprieve from dodging sidewalk-hoping motorbike hooligans, but it also allowed me to notice the park’s charming, at times baffling, elements and characters.

Tao Đàn's collection of curios

In particular, Tao Đàn’s strange assemblage of unmarked statues first aroused my curiosity. A thumbs up slammed through a wall, a child reading a book on the back of a modernist buffalo, a bust of Beethoven with his name misspelled beneath the title of one of his most famous piano sonatas, what appears to be a giant tailpipe beside a doorstop and the silhouette of a nun impaled by spikes. The statues have no accompanying information such as title or artist name. Packed together towards the southern end of the park, they are an incongruous mix of styles and motifs. Where did they come from? Why are they here?

It turns out that the artworks were produced during a month-long sculpture creation camp in 2005 that focused on beautifying the park. Artists from around the country were invited to create pieces without any requirements or directions for subject matter. Such activities have occurred in other parts of the country as well, including Huế and An Giang. While such attention to supporting art and making public spaces more visually appealing is admirable, there could have been greater thought behind the presentation of what would become a permanent installation. Speaking in Vietnamese about the camps in general, sculptor Lê Xuân Tiên noted: “The way of displaying and preserving works in each camp is not scientific or artistic. Such a display method not only fails to honor the works but also makes them look more miserable, in a cramped environment lacking landscape, space, and perspective.”

Indeed, many of the individual works have merits that would benefit from more respectful installation, including basic details about the artist and consideration for how they capture sunlight and occupy space. As they currently stand, they remind one of the stock photos hotels hang to cover bare walls without the intention of inviting much thought or emotion. Or perhaps the sculpture garden as a whole can be likened to a fashion designer presenting a new collection by hanging the clothing on a balcony laundry line.

Other statues in Tao Đàn are more clear in their origins and intent. A bust of Mahatma Gandhi, for example, comes with an inspiring quote and details of the sculptor and the Indian Council for Relations that provided for it. A small-scale replica of the Po Nagar Chăm Tower in Nha Trang was built several decades ago as a pleasant monument that nods to the history of the thalassocratic Champa in Vietnam. The original was crushed by falling trees during a heavy 2021 storm, but a new one was quickly erected, underscoring its assumed value to the park.

The Lâm burial complex across the park, at least, has some brief identifying material that offers context. A plaque notes that it was built by Lâm Tam Lang, an immigrant from Guangdong, and his wife, Mai Thị Xã. The Chinese text on the tomb walls indicates he died in 1795, during the tumultuous period in southern Vietnam when the Tây Sơn toppled the first reign of the Nguyễn lords in the south. The Inventory List of Historical-Cultural Relics in Ho Chi Minh City claims that the ancient tomb was built in 1895, when southern Vietnam’s brief independence was coming to a close. The monument’s construction materials — quicklime, fine sand, shell powder mixed with molasses, and sticky jungle tree sap — denote the family to have been wealthy. In 2014, it was recognized as a city-level architectural and artistic relic. I have never seen anyone visit it or leave offerings, suggesting familial duty and legacy can only extend so many decades. Perhaps, we should take advice from renowned pugilist, Mike Tyson, who said this week, after one dies: “We're just dead. We're dust, we're absolutely nothing. Our legacy is nothing.”

Compared to the Lâm tomb, a far more frequently visited structure in Tao Đàn is the Hùng King Shrine which was built in 2012 and refurbished a decade later. I’ve frequently observed park visitors stopping at it to light incense, offer respects, and make prayers. Modeled after the much larger temple in Phú Thọ, the shrine’s ridged, upturned roof, stone lions at the entrance, and plants contained in attention-drawing ceramics all reflect Chinese influence as reinforced by the Chinese script on its pillars. These are contrasted by the Đông Sơn drum at the top entrance flanked by a familiar chim Lạc. These images, attributed to the Đông Sơn culture in the Red River Delta over 2,000 years ago, are cited as one of the few uniquely Vietnamese ancient aesthetics remaining today.

Before my last visit to the park, I'd just finished reading Architects of Dignity, a book that examines early and mid 20^th century debates about Vietnamese independence and identity including the role of outside influences. This no doubt led me ruminate on the structures in Tao Đàn in the context of how they reflect the challenges of separating uniquely Vietnamese culture from that of the many nations that have ruled Vietnam over the centuries. In addition to the park’s very existence, many of its gargantuan trees are not native to the area. Rather, the French transplanted them from the highlands and elsewhere per their cultural understanding of shade, city use, and urban development.

So where does the French end and the Vietnamese start in Tao Đàn? Is the Chăm sculpture an example of appropriation or does thinking of it as such ignore the fact that Kinh is not synonymous with Vietnamese identity? What should we say of public parks and many of the activities they allow for being foreign concepts?

Such overwrought topics slipped from my mind when I reached the cactus garden. Cactus, a species not even native to Asia in general, let alone Saigon, throw up their spiky arms with no regard for our notions of nationhood. To tell the history of Tao Đàn requires Vietnamese, French, English and a bit of Chinese. Cacti have their own language; one with no past or future tenses. Cacti only speak of now.

Tao Đàn in use today

Enough static ruminations on what Tao Đàn is; let's turn to what Tao Đàn is used for. If you venture there early in the morning, before the city lathers itself up in layers of smog and humidity, you’ll find people exercising. Walkers and joggers weave around organized dancing, aerobic and yoga groups. While their competing music, which varies from modern global pop hits to classic Vietnamese slow jams, can be a bit jarring, it's an overwhelmingly peaceful atmosphere. Aunties and uncles use the workout equipment and strike slow-mo martial arts poses. Badminton players block off stretches of the sidewalk to nearly no one’s concern. Kids climb and clamber on playground equipment. These people focusing on mental and physical wellness seem calm and happy. It’s a scene that repeats itself in the evening and stands in stark contrast to the agitated motorists that snarl the city’s boulevards, honking and huffing like caged ferrets.

Sports have a long history in Tao Đàn, dating back to when the French first developed it. In the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, they built numerous athletic facilities, including what is thought to be the nation’s first football field. Because the sport was unknown amongst locals at the time, it hosted games between mostly foreign soldiers and port workers. Tao Đàn was also a major site for bicycle integration into Vietnam. In 1896, Tao Đàn held what was possibly Vietnam’s first bicycle race and organized classes to teach people how to use what was at the time a new and strange invention. Back then, the colonial administration had already taken a liking to horse racing, so the space on an adjacent plot on Nguyễn Du was devoted to the Horse Riding Association which raised and trained horses for the racetrack elsewhere in the city.

Tao Đàn’s tennis courts as photographed in 1948 by Jack Birns of TIME and LIFE magazines.

Imagining what Tao Đàn’s sporting scene must have been like back then conjures images straight from Vũ Trọng Phụng’s satirical epic Dumb Luck which lambastes 1930s Hanoi bourgeois society and their pursuit of what they considered “civilized society” as mimicked from the French. Tennis plays a central role in the work, with the pomp, circumstance, and politics surrounding the game exposing the flawed logic and immoral behavior employed by the elite to gain and maintain power. Or as its main character experiences it: “Red-Haired Xuân felt the road to fame and success opening wide before him. The driveway was full of beautiful cars. Elegantly clad Vietnamese and French men entered and exited along with fashionable Vietnamese ladies and French madames. They all exuded the luxurious air of the upper classes. Xuân knew that he had truly arrived. Oh, sports! Glorious sports! What can't you accomplish? Hip hip hooray!”

Tao Đàn’s role as an athletic center continues today in a more democratized form that no longer resembles that of Red-Haired Xuân’s. In addition to the previously mentioned dancers, aerobic enthusiasts and badminton players, the park caters to residents via the Ammite Sports Club which includes football fields, a swimming pool, basketball courts, an archery range, and tennis courts. While not as fancy as other facilities in the city, the shade offered by enormous trees, the central location, and the time-worn details including frayed nets, wonky unlicenced Donald Duck advertisements, downtrodden canteen, and faded paint all contribute to a feeling of connection with a messy, dynamic city and corresponding civil society. Strolling into the space without the need for a pass or security check imparts the idea that you are welcome, you belong, you are part of the human apparatus that constructed, maintains and is expected to appreciate the communal space.

Such freedom of movement allows one to poke around in the nooks and corners of this area of the park, including the back of the Golden Dragon Water Puppet Theatre. The traditional art form which dates back hundreds of years has long been relegated to primarily a tourism oddity. And even in that context, it is best known in the north where it originated. Therefore, it's of little surprise that few international tourist itineraries include a stop here, to say nothing of domestic guests or Saigon residents. Still, it's well worth wandering around behind the building to observe the puppets in various states of repair and replacement. Streaked by shadows falling from the colonial structure’s stately shutters and pillars, the wooden dragons, phoenixes and villagers rest amongst disheveled shelves of glues, paints, glitter, unmarked goop, naked mannequins and cast-off construction pieces. The blank stare of miniature farmers with wires protruding from their bellies and warped back pieces split by the elements would fit perfectly in a horror movie if a director ever took notice.

But even if you are not one for exercise and don’t even appreciate a bench with some shade in the outdoors to read a book or scroll a phone, the park has one last use: toilets! On its north side, near the children’s playground equipment is a clean and inviting public bathroom. The city features far too few such amenities, so it's great to know where they are. It can save one from having to purchase a coffee to use a shop bathroom, let alone consider peeing along the side of the road. The value of an available public restroom should not be understated when listing Tao Đàn’s merits.

The future of Tao Đàn

So if all that helps us understand what Tao Đàn was and is, let us consider what Tao Đàn will be. Like so many elements of Saigon, the park is at the mercy of modern values and blunt realities. Simply, the city is getting more crowded, and green spaces seem to be among its least respected elements. The people will not allow it to be destroyed all at once, so it gets chipped away, piece by piece; scraped, chunked, and fissured. It’s already well underway.

By 7am, the park’s quiet is fractured and with it the illusion of solitude. In 2003, two periphery roads were connected to become the park-bisecting Trương Định Street. Like a pinhole pierced into a satchel of soup that spills broth into a takeaway bag of dinner, the road has ushered in the city’s noises and chaos. Traffic fumes and engine discord leak across the serene atmosphere. The space cannot be both a thoroughfare and an oasis. One of my friends who remembers visiting the park long ago, decades before the road, claims it has now been ruined. A younger friend argues the road was necessary to make traversing the city convenient. Who’s correct? So it is with matters of public space; the public is always divided.

A similar piecemeal removal of the park occurred just a few years ago. On the western edge, a longstanding bird cafe was demolished to work on an underground portion of a woefully delayed Saigon Metro Line. Transplanted on a busy road, the new bird cafe is a sad facsimile of its former self, welcoming few bird enthusiasts who must struggle to hear the trills of their bulbuls over the dyspeptic groans of unrepentant capitalism careening along the street. The section devoted to metro construction access is a filthy, puddle-strewn stretch of gravel marred by potholes, corrugated sheet metal, and spray-painted cement blocks.

Smaller incursions into the park's natural beauty are ongoing too. Earlier this year, a tree branch fell, killing two people and injuring three. The city rightfully used it as an opportunity to trim other limbs to guard against similar tragedies. This balancing of safety and wild splendor will continue, with errors certainly made on the side of keeping people free from harm. In a perfect world, Saigon would be so filled with parks it wouldn’t have to compromise and could devote itself fully to being a place to savor the city’s tropical botany, or be a mecca for physical fitness, or serve as a showcase for art projects, or a keeper of cultural destinations or space for holding events. Alas, it must be all of these as well as a means for reducing traffic.

Maybe such an understanding of shared use allows us to see the park as a metaphor for public spaces as a whole. They will never please anyone fully. Micro and macro elements will always upset us as we each could offer a different vision better suited to our particular preferences. And yet, this is certainly preferable to the space being held in private hands, be it a wealthy individual or a greedy government. Instead, Tao Đàn is a site to witness and appreciate compromise; an act our species will need to perform with increasing regularity to survive.

The City That Never Sits Still: Traffic in 1994 Saigon via Photos by Ed Kashi

2024-11-19T10:00:00+07:00

In Saigon on Wheels, American photojournalist Ed Kashi managed to capture the pulse of a simpler Saigon.

It’s hard to remember a time when the southern hub wasn't flooded with motorbikes. Nowadays, with 8,000 new bikes and 750 cars hitting the street every day, the city is awash with vehicles, not to mention the noise and pollution which accompany this rapid growth.

Rush hour in Saigon in the era before the helmet mandate.

The photo essay was taken in 1994, when helmets weren’t a thing and cyclos still roamed the streets en masse. Ed Kashi is one of the most prolific photographers from New York, known for his coverage on sociopolitical issues, such as the hardships of Kurdish people and the consequences of the oil industry on the life of people in the Niger Delta.

The photo collection in Saigon was processed completely in black and white, stripping away the city’s usual vibrancy but also shifting the audience’s focus to the movements and rhythms of Saigon, a city that has never been content with sitting still.

Take the trip down the memory lane, courtesy of Flickr user manhhai, below:

The Saigon Bridge seemed immense without cars and trucks.

Is there anything as distinctively Saigon as áo dài on a Honda Cub?

Swag can be taught at a young age.

Without taxis or ride-share apps, xích lô was once a common mode of transport.

Catching up on a children's magazine article after class.

Fallen Angels, but make it Cầu Kiệu.

The film camera's slow speed makes for ethereal shots filled with lighting artefacts.

Dressed to the nines on the way to the club.

Intricately decorated funeral hearses have not changed at all over decades.

Racing against time before the goods disappear in the sun.

On Mondays, we wear áo dài.

Resilience, Resistance Reflected in Propaganda Art Exhibition ‘Crafting a Message’

2024-11-18T15:00:00+07:00

How did daily life on the battlefield look from the perspective of first-generation Vietnamese photojournalists? Why did colorful stamps and propaganda posters play such a significant role in the war and nation-building? Other than their original roles in communication, these historical artifacts tell us a bigger story: of long, turbulent, and resilient histories, and the birth of a nation.

“Crafting a Message: A Permanent Collection Exhibition” by Dogma Collection features a large collection of posters, photographs, newspapers, and stamps, with a range of mediums and artistic techniques used in Vietnamese socialist and anti-imperial cultural production between 1945 and 1985. Messages of unity, empowerment, and resistance throughout the wartime period and nation-building progress were reflected through selected works of woodcut, paint and photography. Other than showcasing the political campaigns and reflecting social changes at that time, the exhibition also aims to highlight artistic craftsmanship through each historical artifact and work of art.

A glimpse of wartime journalism was revealed through photographs and newspaper clippings by first-generation photojournalists of Vietnam News Agency (VNA), which was founded by Hồ Chí Minh on 15 September 1945. In contrast to the typical tragic images of violence and death from western mass media during the Vietnam War, VNA journalists portrayed a completely different mindset with headlines like “The new spirit of production,” or “The Heroic North Defeating the US on the Transportation Front.” Main subjects in their photographs included trucks running through the Hồ Chí Minh Trail, agricultural laborers and factory workers working hard to reinstate the economy, etc. Despite the lack of resources of camera equipment during the war, journalists still managed to capture the essence of daily life and the unbeatable spirit of the citizens and soldiers.

Moving upstairs, we encounter an impressive stamp collection from 1946 to 1976, which includes detailed research materials and historical background. Flipping through each page, we travel back in time with some of the earliest hand-painted stamps, old over-printed Indochina stamps, stamps that highlight anniversary dates and friendships with other communist countries. The hand-painted stamps are presented together with short bios and autographs of some renowned artists; such as Trần Huy Khánh, Đỗ Việt Tuấn, etc.

According to the curatorial text, most issued stamps were only valid in North Vietnam and only in some parts of the South, which was dominantly occupied by the French. In 1945, the North Vietnamese government issued overprints on remaining stocks of old Indochina stamps, which were not valid in the international postal system because Hồ Chí Minh’s government had no international recognition. However, the act of issuing stamps was a significant move of self-declaration towards independence. The first original design was created by artist Nguyễn Sáng and features a full-face portrait of Hồ Chí Minh. The production of stamps mostly occurred within the country, but some were also occasionally printed by the Litho State Printing Works in Havana, Cuba to highlight the Cuban-North Vietnamese friendship.

Postal stamps are often regarded as a necessity for mail and documents, and sometimes as souvenirs when one travels abroad. Stamps also play an important role as cultural and historical artifacts that represent a country’s identity and values. In the context of Vietnamese history, they also serve propaganda purposes and reflect its changing social and political climate. Other than images of the national leader, other main subjects reflect propaganda images, such as soldiers holding rifles, celebrating the shooting down of American planes, words of encouragement on expelling invaders and unifying the nation, with agricultural and economic development, local specialties and the diversity of ethnic minorities.

Towards the end of the exhibitions, a collection of colorful and lively propaganda posters is on display, featuring some of the most renowned propaganda artists: Minh Phương and Sỹ Thiết (former Indochina College of Fine Arts graduates), and Dương Ánh from the Central Workshop for Propaganda Paintings (established in 1966). Propaganda posters were considered a powerful weapon that reflected the resilience of the Vietnamese people: from ideas on anti-imperialism and resistance against invaders during wartime, to ideas on collectivity, equality, labor, and agricultural and economic reforms in the postwar period.

Despite the shortage of conventional materials during the war; such as paper, colors, canvas and silk, artists still managed to actively create propaganda art with any available materials. Instead of mass printing, most of the posters on display were meticulously hand-painted with watercolor and gouache. A few were wood prints. Artists sometimes reused papers from their drawing classes to create posters, which explained the display of double-sided paintings in the exhibition.

Photojournalism, stamps and propaganda posters transcend their original roles in communication, and highlight the significance of craftsmanship in the construction of social and cultural narratives. The exhibition also serves as the intersection between art and history, and represents a sense of unity, national identity and independence during the transformative period of the nation.

“Crafting a Message: A Permanent Collection Exhibition” is open from 10am–6pm every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday until January 10, 2025 at Dogma Collection. More information on the exhibition, reservation and public programs can be found here on the Facebook page.

Exploring the Power of an International Community at International School Ho Chi Minh City

2024-11-16T07:18:00+07:00

Success at the International School Ho Chi Minh City (ISHCMC) can be measured according to many metrics. From IB DP test scores well above the world average to impressive academic careers post-graduation and a strong reputation of sustainability and service, ISHCMC students achieve in a variety of ways. No singular aspect of the school can be credited with empowering this legacy of excellence, but one integral element is certainly the school’s thriving international community.

Celebrating its 31st birthday next month, ISHCMC has proven to be a world-class institution that embraces a culturally diverse group of families and teachers that currently represents more than 60 countries. Strengthened by their respective passions, traditions, experiences, and outlooks, they are united by a common purpose to inspire learning and well-being.

ISHCMC proudly embraces a community of families and teachers from 60+ countries, excelling in classroom diversity and cultural mix.

It takes more than putting students with different passports in the same room to create an international community. ISHCMC takes an active role in establishing and nurturing the community to ensure it thrives. These efforts include hosting cultural and community events and a comprehensive calendar of parent workshops supported by their dedicated Vietnamese, Korean, and Japanese parent liaisons.

Parents of all backgrounds can feel overwhelmed when looking at their child’s daily schedule and annual benchmarks. The many acronyms, foreign terms, and emerging pedagogical concepts can make it difficult for parents to keep up, regardless of their mother tongue. ISHCMC thus schedules over 60 workshops per year for parents to better understand how best to support their children. These workshops, provided in several languages, help parents develop the type of close connection with the school needed to ensure their children get the most from their education.

Senior students in a group study session with their teacher.

Parents also have the opportunity to connect with the school community on a more personal level, developing new skills of their own and making long-lasting friendships in the thriving international community. Rhino Academy is an adult enrichment program that offers classes such as volleyball, languages including Vietnamese and German, and even practical daily tasks like obtaining a legal motorbike license. In addition to giving adults a way to improve themselves, these classes are terrific opportunities for families to meet one another and form friendships that grow off campus.

Rhino Academy offers classes that promote growth and help families build friendships beyond campus.

For families that have recently arrived in Vietnam or don’t have a strong English foundation, perceived language and cultural barriers can be intimidating. But ISHCMC ensures that all families can take an active and comfortable role in their children’s pursuit of an international education while understanding school life and curriculum thanks to established parent liaison groups for Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese families. In addition to helping translate workshops and interpret during teacher conferences, they serve as trusted cultural ambassadors who can help navigate complex situations.

ISHCMC both celebrates its cultural diversity through colorful events such as the World Food Fest and Flag Parade, while also recognizing the importance of being unified under one ISHCMC community. For example, the recent Rhino Family Fun Night had games, art activities and even a special performance by Saigoneer-favorite Saigon Soul Revival, which brought the entire “Rhino” community together.

Various ISHCMC communities come together to celebrate unity and diversity at the annual Flag Parade ceremony.

The school also recognizes the importance of building a community beyond its school walls instilling Global Citizenship through partnerships with Anh Chi Em social enterprise and hosting external events for the wider community such as the upcoming Festive Bazaar.

The partnership with Anh Chi Em Social Enterprise aims to engage the ISHCMC community in projects that improve lives and enrich education.

Drawing guests from local and expatriate communities in Saigon, the November 30th Festive Bazaar will bring together an array of vendors, activity providers, and organizations to create a festive experience for families in the city that engages everyone with different cultures and traditions. Delicious local and international food will be served alongside seasonal treats from around the world while a festive market sells toys and gifts. Performances, games, and activities will abound including a scavenger hunt, family yoga, roller disco, arts and crafts, and a giant advent calendar raffle. A highlight will be the ISHCMC heritage exhibition, celebrating the school’s 31st birthday with video footage, photography, and memorabilia dating back to the 90s. The entire experience is a favorite time for current ISHCMC community members to enjoy each other’s company as well as a great introduction to newcomers interested in learning just how strong the community is. Get your free admission ticket here.

ISHCMC's website

+84 (28) 3898 9100

Primary Campus | 28 Vo Truong Toan Street, D.2, Ho Chi Minh City

Secondary Campus | 1 Xuan Thuy Street, D.2, Ho Chi Minh City

With Unchecked Destruction, Saigon's Heritage Shophouse Architecture Is in Danger

2024-11-15T10:00:00+07:00

The colonial shophouse, one of Saigon’s most iconic forms of architecture, is in imminent danger of extinction.

The shophouse is a hybrid style of traditional architecture found widely throughout Southeast Asia, most notably in Cambodia, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia and Vietnam. It derives from traditional Asian house architecture, yet displays strong European colonial influences.

Historically, because buildings were taxed according to street frontage rather than total area, many shophouses are long and narrow in shape, similar to the vernacular “tube house.” Like the latter, they sometimes incorporate an internal courtyard or rear yard for relaxation, drying laundry or other household activities.

Shophouses are generally found grouped together in long terraces, separated from each other by masonry walls. The roofs are tiled, mostly in western but occasionally in oriental style. Façade ornamentation is varied and draws inspiration from both the eastern and western traditions.

Three-story colonial shophouse at 93-99 Lương Nhữ Học, District 5. Photo by Tim Doling.

Here in Saigon-Chợ Lớn, the earliest surviving shophouse is the one-story type with a shop at the front and a residential space at the rear. Dating back to the 1860s, the few surviving examples seem to be basic brick-built versions of an earlier local design, in contrast to the elaborate one-story colonial terraces which have survived in Hội An.

The commonest shophouse design in Saigon-Chợ Lớn is the two-story type, which also made its first appearance in the 1860s and featured a shop and storage facilities on the ground floor and residential spaces on the upper floor. Surviving examples include intact and partially intact terraces on Võ Văn Kiệt, Pasteur, Hàm Nghi, Nguyễn Huệ, Huỳnh Thúc Kháng and Đinh Tiên Hoàng streets in District 1, and Trần Hưng Đạo, Triệu Quang Phục and Hồng Bàng streets in District 5.

Two-story colonial shophouses at 26-56 Võ Văn Kiệt, District 1. Photo by Tim Doling.

As merchant communities grew in prosperity, much larger three-story shophouse buildings began to appear in clusters, with sizeable commercial spaces on the ground floor and spacious residential apartments on the upper levels. Several ornately-decorated examples from the 1890s have survived on Hải Thượng Lãn Ông Street in District 5, including the former headquarters of millionaire businessman Quách Đàm's Thông Hiệp company at 45 Hải Thượng Lãn Ông.

Three-story colonial shophouse at 43-49 Hải Thượng Lãn Ông, District 5. Photo by Tim Doling.

After the departure of the French, new shophouse buildings were constructed which combined the layout of the earlier colonial-era terraces with a wide range of modern designs.

Over the past decade, lacking in maintenance and recognition as built heritage, a very large number of old shophouse buildings have been destroyed or modified beyond recognition. Perhaps the biggest loss of all was the series of elegant terraces which once lined the south bank of the Bến Nghé Creek in District 4. Sadly, the destruction is still ongoing; in recent months, five shophouses on the south side on the newly pedestrianized Nguyễn Huệ boulevard have been demolished to make way for a new shopping centre.

Like Saigon-Chợ Lớn, Singapore once had many shophouses, the majority of which were destroyed in the 1970s as the country embarked on a relentless development and modernisation drive. Not until the publication of the Wong Report of 1984 — which claimed that the disappearance of the country's built heritage was one of the principle causes of a decline in tourist numbers — did the Singapore government begin to reassess the value of its urban heritage. By that time, destruction of familiar urban landscapes, coupled with the stress of everyday life, had left many Singaporeans feeling that they had lost their roots. The government subsequently acknowledged the important role of history, memory and heritage in the making of the city, and launched a major programme to protect and preserve what remained of Singapore’s historic architecture. Today, heritage tourism plays a key role in reinforcing Singapore's image as a vibrant global city.

Singapore shophouse architecture. Photo courtesy of www.shophouses.sg.

In the words of the late first Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew (1995):

“We made our share of mistakes in Singapore. For example, in our rush to rebuild Singapore, we knocked down many old and quaint Singapore buildings. Then we realised that we were destroying a valuable part of our cultural heritage, that we were demolishing what tourists found attractive and unique in Singapore. We halted the demolition. Instead, we undertook extensive conservation and restoration of ethnic districts such as Chinatown, Little India and Kampong Glam and of the civic district, with its colonial era buildings: the Empress Place, old British Secretariat, Parliament House, the Supreme Court, the City Hall, the Anglican Cathedral, and the Singapore Cricket Club. The value of these areas in architectural, cultural and tourism terms cannot be quantified only in dollars and cents. We were a little late, but fortunately we have retained enough of our history to remind ourselves and tourists of our past. We also set out to support these attractions by offering services of the highest standard.”

Among Singapore's many types of built heritage, its shophouses have provided the most flexible and adaptable foundation for repurposing as cultural, recreational and commercial facilities. Restored and renovated according to the principles of “Adaptive re-use” to meet the needs of modern life, they now house a wide range of organisations, including theatres, galleries, offices, hotels, cafés and shops. Crucially, it has been shown that property prices in areas containing refurbished shophouse terraces, such as the historic Boat Quay and Emerald Hill districts, have increased substantially in recent years — see Carl G Larson, Adaptive Re-Use, Singapore River.

In recent years, Malaysia has also sought to “develop understanding of built heritage as an expression of history and identity” (Badan Warisan Malaysia, 2004), and today it, too, encourages heritage tourism as a key component of an economic strategy which extends across the whole service sector. Refurbished shophouses once again play a central role in the lifestyles of local people and in tourism promotion — those in Melaka and Georgetown have been recognised by UNESCO as World Heritage.

Here in Hồ Chí Minh City, a balance between development and conservation has yet to be found; there is still no inventory of colonial-era buildings, let alone regulation or zoning to protect them. Consequently, the future for the city’s few surviving colonial shophouses looks very bleak indeed.

The continuing destruction of Saigon's colonial shophouse heritage: Nos 85-113 Nguyễn Huệ, pictured in March 2015 and in June 2015. To date Nos 89-99 have been demolished and others are expected to follow.

The conservation group Saigon Heritage Observatory has a series of Facebook group pages showcasing specific types of heritage architecture in Saigon-Chợ Lớn. The first of these, Shophouse heritage Saigon Chợ Lớn - Cửa tiệm mặt phố di sản Sài Gòn Chợ Lớn deals with shophouse architecture. You are invited to join this group and upload/share your own images of this rapidly-vanishing heritage.

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.

Ngõ Nooks: Slurping Thick Noodles and Seafood at Bánh Canh Ghẹ Út Còi

2024-11-14T12:00:00+07:00

A whiff of the ocean hits you before you even step foot onto the street. In this curious corner between Quang Trung and Nhà Chung, a new form of restaurant exemplifies the vitality and variety of Hanoi’s street food.

Street food enthusiasts might be a little disconcerted at first by the setting of Bánh Canh Ghẹ Út Còi; it is, essentially, a resourceful hybrid between the usual gritty, humble food vendors and more hygienic, sanitized restaurants. Here, you get the best of both worlds: the thrill of squatting and crouching while feasting and watching the street, or, if you feel like it, the quietude of sitting up straight in an air-conditioned space.

Bánh Canh Ghẹ Út Còi has expanded to several different locations.

We near the restaurant and get uncomfortable in the seating of our choice — outside, vendor-style, stooping over plastic stools and tables. A couple of young waiters in brown uniforms approach us and take our order. They move swiftly, even when transferring bulks of hot soup on a flimsy tray. They also carry warm, naive smiles that differ from the reserved and professional tone of a high-end restaurant.

The menu is simple yet broad-ranging. All of the options fit neatly on an oval piece of cardboard with colorful graphics. Their signature is bánh canh ghẹ — thick noodles steeped in crab stock that originates from central Vietnam. For side dishes, there’s also bánh bột lọc, a traditional translucent rice snack filled with shrimp and minced pork, and phở cuốn, sheets of phở noodle wrapped around fresh vegetables and shrimp. We go with the signature dish, the meal that brings the crowds here.

Bánh canh ghẹ is characterized by a thick, intensely seafood-scented broth.

The hardest bit about the entire experience is the wait. The eatery is packed during lunch hours as throngs of office workers from around the area flock to the restaurant. The table next to us ordered first and, naturally, their food arrived before ours. The sweet yet salty, mouth-watering scent of crab gets all the waiting tables craning their necks out to see if it’s their order.

Finally, it arrives. The vibrant, almost brick-red color of the broth marries well with the umami fragrance. Crab meat coats the noodles, two pieces of chả, two quail eggs, and a plump peeled shrimp. And then there’s the broth, which has a pleasing, almost gelatin viscosity, which provides its body and ability to glaze the noodles.

Not for those with lackluster chopstick skills.

It also makes picking up the noodles a struggle. Bánh canh is already a slippery type of noodle. Its thickness only allows you to fish out a couple of lengths at a time, and with silkiness from both their texture and the broth, some of these will fall off. At times, you might be left with no noodles at all on your chopsticks!

But the effort is worth it. The broth has a wholesome sweet-and-salty flavor that lingers in every part of your palate, even after you finish eating. The crab meat almost melts under the warmth of your tongue. The noodles have just the right firmness and bounciness to release the juiciness of the dish. The combination is so hearty and fulfilling that you might even forget about the shrimp, chả and quail eggs.

The silkiness that challenges even veteran eaters.

Bánh Canh Ghẹ Út Còi represents a new wave of street food that’s spreading across Hanoi. It shows how the city’s street food scene is ever-present. Although the original generations of some conventional eateries are fading away, foodies will always find a way to innovate the capital’s cuisine, adapting to new demands while sustaining its essence.

Bánh Canh Ghẹ Út Còi is open from 8.30am to 2.30pm and again from 5pm to 10pm.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2019.

To sum up:

Taste: 5/5
Price: 5/5
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 4/5

Linh is 50% coffee and 50% whatever Hanoian snacks she's able to eat.

Bánh Canh Ghẹ Út Còi

2B Quang Trung, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi

An Argument for Why Võng Should Be a Staple Amenity in Every Home

2024-11-12T13:59:35+07:00

Everyone should have a võng in their home.

I have a lot of contentious opinions — all food is better cold; cash is preferable to digital transfers; film studios should never make a sequel; Saigon’s best feature is its zoo. Most of the time I can understand the perspective of those who disagree; I’m the odd one. Yet, I’m confident about my võng opinion. They are the best home item one can purchase and should be in every living or bedroom.

Depiction of an early American hammock. Photo via Academia Salvadoreña de la Historia Facebook page.

Võng gets the English name hammock from the Spanish hamaca, which, in turn, was appropriated from a Taíno Arawakan word. When Europeans first came to South and Central America, they encountered its widespread use and adapted it as the preferred accommodation for centuries of subsequent naval voyages, because sailors could be cramped into tight spaces while tolerating ocean waves. The first astronauts to walk on the moon even had them in their landing module to rest in between lunar strolls. But hammocks likely evolved independently in Europe centuries earlier as evidenced by old medieval artwork and vague description of “hanging beds.”

Photo of a high-ranking mandarin in a võng-like palaquin. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

In Vietnam, võng’s precise origins are uncertain, though it's known to date back at least as far as the 13^th century. In that era of extreme class distinction, kings and nobles would be carried by servants atop palanquins, which are just sturdy võng; while lower-ranking officials were afforded more rustic versions to save them the labor and indignity of walking.

While folk songs mention võng in the context of babies being lulled to sleep in idyllic countryside scenes, they also have a connection with war. When Nguyễn Huệ and his scurrilous Tây Sơn rabble-rousers took their rebellion on the road and stunned the Trịnh Lords in the north, they are said to have traveled in groups of three without stopping; two men would run while supporting a third who rested in the hammock carried between them.

Photo of a man taking a break in a hammock in decades past. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

Alas, today võng seem mostly associated with old-fashioned, unsophisticated lifestyles and rural poverty. They indeed populate miền Tây with cafe võng lining the dusty roads connecting the outskirts of towns devoid of big city sheen or glamor. If you observe one in the city, it's likely occupied by an auntie, grandfather or blue-collar worker who has strung it up to escape the brutal heat at a construction site. They certainly aren’t offered at trendy coffee shops, bars or high-falutin corporate breakrooms.

For a brief time, I had a võng set up in the Saigoneer office much to the chagrin of my co-workers. When I transferred it to my home, friends similarly scoffed at the concept, suggesting it belonged outside. They said it's unseemly for a man nearing his 40s to have such a piece of furniture in his living room.

But why?

My bedroom hammock (with Mimi for scale).

For pure comfort, few can beat a hammock. The gentle distribution of weight thanks to gravity and cloth caught in delicate balance is as close to floating as one can get outside of water. While the research is incomplete, and it depends on the specific hammock and one’s health, they might actually improve one's back condition and sleep. Moreover, they are cheap and, thanks to sturdy, foldable stands, convenient for just about any location. When reclined in one you can imagine yourself to be a powerful feudal bureaucrat, a mighty Tây Sơn soldier, or even an astronaut. I personally like to daydream about fond memories of taking a break from careening around the delta with my friends to have relaxed conversations with strong coffee. How is that not cool? Besides, it doesn’t matter if someone else thinks it is cool, võng are for people who care about comfort over superficial expectations.

Keeping Cool in Thủ Đức With This Humble Abode’s Well-Ventilated Design

2024-11-12T10:00:00+07:00

Thick multi-layer brick walls, shaded areas, water features, and natural ventilation allow this private home to stay cool amidst the city's stifling heat.

Nam House designed by CTA Architects emphasizes comfortable temperatures over stylistic flourishes or newfangled aesthetics. The result, as reported by Design Boom, is an austere but cozy dwelling that sets a good example for future development in the area.

The Thủ Đức home is divided into three main blocks. The front block containing the garage, bathroom, study, and one bedroom; the back block has two more bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry — both surrounded by a 250-millimeter, three-layer brick shell that absorbs sunlight but allows airflow for heat transfer. The open block between these two contains a dining and relaxation area that is open to sunlight and fresh air. The setup prioritizes privacy thanks to thick walls that shield against sound and conceal the open middle section.

In addition to this basic arrangement, subtle construction choices allow for further climate control. All rooms have at least two windows so cool breeze can replace stagnant warm air. The brick walls rely on raked motor joints that create shade and reduce heat absorption by 14–16% while Z-shaped shades integrated into doors and windows promote airflow to further cut down on thermal drafts during peak hours. Even the seemingly decorative water features contribute to keeping the home cool. A pleasant pond on the northeast side of the home brings average temperatures down from 6 to 8°C.

To casual observers, the house may seem to have been built as cost-efficiently and easily as possible with little concern for appearances. However, understanding the conscious construction choices allows us to admire functionalism as a style in and of itself. Being comfortable without egregious air-conditioning use as supported by humble natural materials is an admirable aesthetic.

Have a look at the photos, taken by Hiroyuki Oki below:

[Photos courtesy of CTA Architects]

5 Albums to Put on While Driving Home at 12am Pretending You're in an MV

2024-11-11T11:46:18+07:00

It’s 12:03am in Saigon. You've just finished a movie at the last screening of the day. The asphalt in the parking lot is coated in a layer of golden light from the streetlight. You walk gingerly to your vehicle. A surprisingly cool breeze meets your skin, and you nearly shiver. It’s time to head home. What music do you put on?

To be honest, you can probably enjoy a ride with any type of music that makes your heart sing, but there’s just something about a night trip that yearns for tunes that are introspective, atmospheric, and a little solitary. Saigon has the reputation of a city that never sleeps, so one is never completely alone at any moment while careening on local streets, but the late hours of the day often peel back the layers of the chaotic metropolis that can be hard to love: bumper-to-bumper congestions, rampant noise and air pollution, and just so many people. A late evening drive, to me, is the ideal time to take a step back, slow down, and appreciate the urban textures of Saigon, those that are usually obscured by clutter during daytime: rows of heritage dipterocarp trees, shophouse architecture, or just the way streets contour along canals and rivers.

Some genres seem tailor-made to be the soundtracks of night drives, like synthwave, lo-fi, R&B, and dream pop as they tend to feature rhythmic beats with understated instrumentation that often aims to evoke a relaxing mood rather than showcasing bombastic vocals. City-pop, in addition, was born in the 1980s from a desire to capture that “urban” feeling of living in Japan’s megalopolises. While these music categories are all foreign-born, in the past half a decade or so, Vietnamese artists have been frequently experimenting with global musical influences, coming up with many records that pair incredibly well with those nights alone on Saigon streets.

CITOPIA (Album) | Phùng Khánh Linh

Phùng Khánh Linh showed that she’s immune to the sophomore slump with the release of CITOPIA in 2022 after a strong debut album, which was even part of Saigoneer’s picks of best music in 2020. Dubbed by fans as “Vietnam’s first city-pop album,” CITOPIA isn’t just a nod to the Japanese genre, it completely leans into the musical style and aesthetics. It’s a gimmick, to be sure, but a fun one that makes for an immersive multimedia experience. The tracks all come with lyric videos showcasing 1980s-inspired anime visuals — think Sailormoon and Ranma, but lo-fi. CITOPIA’s sparkling ambiance and wistful lyrics lend well to any type of night ride, from angsty to jubilant. Hell, even the visuals for ‘năm ngoái giờ này’ already feature a driving protagonist.

Shimmer (Album) | Tuimi

Tuimi’s debut album “softcore | hardshell” was one of my most-played records in 2020, presenting a stylish, self-aware, and observant creative work that demonstrates Tuimi’s talent at writing music. In “Shimmer,” she continues flexing creative muscles in the playground where she’s best at: R&B, trap and soul — all of which are very conducive for an evening ride. ‘Smile,’ for example, is a stripped-back ballad featuring only vocals and tender piano melodies. The many facets (and categories) of relationships are the main subjects for the album’s lyrics, a thematic shift from her previous works, making this the one album to put on if you need some introspective musings.

Read our interview with Tuimi here.

32 (Album) | Thành Luke

Following the disbandment of Cá Hồi Hoang, it’s been a particularly productive year for the band’s former main vocalist Thành Luke: “32” is his second album coming out this year alone. This record has neither the strong aesthetic nor genre tribute of the prior two in this list, as Thành Luke opted to use acoustic and classic rock instrumentations as the base for his storytelling. Thành Luke’s passion for story writing has always been ever-present in his music, be it as part of Cá Hồi Hoang or in solo projects, so much so that it even resulted in a Thành Luke-authored novel, For The Beginning. In “32,” as nightriders, we discover tunes that are soft and healing, encouraging us to slow down and reflect rather than speed home.

After Party (EP) | Vũ Thanh Vân

For anyone in search of the perfect soundtrack to a late-night drive, Vũ Thanh Vân’s “After Party” is an apt addition — the last track is already named ‘Driving Music.’ Known for her ambient pop style, Vân’s music has always leaned into mood over forcefulness, setting a calm atmosphere with narrative-driven lyrics. This EP shifts gears slightly, bringing a touch more tempo without losing her signature introspective sound. Tracks like ‘Hmm..’ blend her hypnotic vocals with producer itsnk’s knack for pacing — each pause and beat feels calculated to pull listeners in just a little deeper, perfect for when the empty road stretches ahead. While previous releases might feel almost too relaxed for cruising "After Party" finds a balance that’s both danceable and immersive, a vibe that hits just right when the city lights blur by.

Read our interview with Vũ Thanh Vân here.

Nghe Tiếng Đêm (Album) | KoQuet

Admittedly, KoQuet’s debut album might be a lesser-known record than the previous selections, but it is the most thematically in-sync with this list — the title literally translates to “listen to the sounds of the night.” In the intro track, the narration murmurs: “Let’s sit down to listen to the sounds of the night and the sounds of our hearts.” These soft-spoken snippets appear across the album in the intro, interludes, and outro, reminding me of the evenings of my childhood listening to the radio. For 45 minutes of the album, KoQuet is often reflective, occasionally passionate, and always earnest. The songs never stray too far from the central nocturnal theme, creating a seamless listening — and evening driving — experience.

Examining the Role of Shame in Building a National Identity via Vietnam's Thinkers

2024-11-11T10:00:00+07:00

“Shame, rather than pride, can be the basis for national identity… individuals may be motivated to move their country in a desirable direction when national shame outweighs pride.”

This theory provides a lens for understanding how some Vietnamese during and in the direct aftermath of colonialism believed they could unite and strengthen themselves and their country. The Architects of Dignity, a recently published book by Kevin D. Pham, examines this idea via six pivotal Vietnamese thinkers active in the early to mid 20^th century.

In a recent episode of Kenneth Nguyen’s excellent The Vietnamese Podcast discussing the book, Pham shared that he wrote The Architects of Dignity with an assumed audience of “political theorists who know nothing of Vietnam.” Such a readership is expected considering the general market and reach for academic political theory texts. No doubt Pham, an assistant professor of political theory at the University of Amsterdam and co-host of the highly recommended Nam Phong Dialogues, will contribute much to discussions within political theory circles with the book. However, it is also an excellent read for those outside academia who perhaps shy away from serious nonfiction texts but want to learn more about foundational figures, thinking, and movements in recent Vietnamese history.

Photo via Kevin Pham's personal website.

Architects of Dignity opens with a broad discussion of how shame and dignity form and function in the context of national identity. Drawing on the experiences of numerous countries as interpreted and articulated by political theorists, Pham claims that conventional understanding posits that national identity comes from pride while shame results from actions a nation takes against weaker ones and thus involves a sense of responsibility to the wronged parties. Pham argues that this way of looking at national identity doesn’t apply to Vietnam. As he succinctly puts it: “From the perspective of the Vietnamese and other weaker, historically dominated and colonized nations, these concepts can mean something very different. The six Vietnamese thinkers we will engage show us that national identity can come from shame (rather than pride), that national shame derives from perceived inadequacies (rather than bad actions toward others), and that national responsibility means the duty to create national identity anew (rather than righting the wrongs of bad actions against others).”

Shame as a national force for growth?

In chronological order, the book devotes a chapter each to Phan Bội Châu, Phan Châu Trinh, Nguyễn An Ninh, Phạm Quỳnh, Hồ Chí Minh and Nguyễn Mạnh Tường. General biographical information including summaries of their lives, work, and beliefs allows the book to function as something of a super Wikipedia article. But it’s much more than that. The well-researched and extremely approachable text compares and contrasts their ideas in ways that allow readers to understand the richness and rigor of political thought occurring in early 20^th-century Vietnam.

Phan Bội Châu. Image via Nhân Lực Nhân Tài.

By juxtaposing the six men’s theories, often supported by direct quotes, readers have a better understanding of the problems Vietnam faced at the time and potential remedies being debated. The men are united by a desire to see a strong, independent nation its citizens can be proud of, but disagree on the specific causes and solutions for the contemporary weaknesses. Nguyễn An Ninh, for example, believed Vietnam lacked a cultural tradition of rigorous thought and degraded itself by overreliance on foreign ideas. He wrote: “If we pile up all that we have produced in our country in terms of purely literary and artistic achievements, the intellectual lot that was left to us by our ancestors would certainly be weak compared to the heritages of other peoples... The literary lot that was transmitted to us is thin and, what’s more, exhales a strong breath of decadence, of sickness, lassitude, the taste of an impending agony. This is not the kind of heritage that will help give us more vigor and life to our race in the fight for a place in the world.” His solution, the author explains, was “for the Vietnamese to aim for a kind of originality generated through an energetic, personal, spiritual struggle. Their aim should be to become ‘great men.’” In contrast, Phạm Quỳnh took a more moderate approach, arguing that the Vietnamese should not reject all western ideas but slowly incorporate them under the guidance of Vietnamese elites like himself to strengthen themselves within the context of reforming French structures.

“If we pile up all that we have produced in our country in terms of purely literary and artistic achievements, the intellectual lot that was left to us by our ancestors would certainly be weak compared to the heritages of other peoples... The literary lot that was transmitted to us is thin and, what’s more, exhales a strong breath of decadence, of sickness, lassitude, the taste of an impending agony. This is not the kind of heritage that will help give us more vigor and life to our race in the fight for a place in the world.”
— Nguyễn An Ninh.

Before them, both Phan Bội Châu and Phan Châu Trinh wanted desperately to rid the nation of France’s cruel oppression, but Phan Bội Châu argued for a restoration of the monarchy while the more radical Phan Châu Trinh preferred popular rights supported by a reinvigoration of Confucius teachings. “For Confucius, as for Trinh, the most worthwhile activity one could engage in was to improve one’s own character because doing so would automatically improve one’s family, community, nation, and the world,” the author notes. Meanwhile, the most recent thinker of the book, Nguyễn Mạnh Tường, wrote extensively after Vietnam won its independence and thus commented in the context of how the nation should proceed forward including critiquing what he saw as mistakes and dangers. Specifically, he warned against “the anti-intellectualism, paranoia, logomachy (argument over words), and conformity he considered ‘self-imposed obstacles to their own goal of socialist revolution.’”

Phạm Quỳnh was the editor-in-chief of Nam Phong, a magazine established in the 1910s, leading the quốc ngữ desk. Image via Người Đô Thị.

But for all their differences, the six men are united by the book's core thesis that shame has a role in establishing national dignity. Kevin Pham explained on the podcast that he was surprised in his initial exploration of their work that “all of these thinkers, in their own ways, shamed the Vietnamese” by comparing them to other nations and culture’s achievements, traditions and behavior. “I didn’t expect it… but it was really prominent and what I realized is that they were using shame in a productive way; they were trying to channel this emotion of shame into productive purposes.”

Balancing theory with contemporary contexts

The author’s prose is clear and inviting, avoiding the dense jargon and assumed familiarity with outside work one has good reason to fear from academic works. Thus, if the six thinkers and their theories sound remotely interesting, the book is worth picking up. And beyond its main arguments, it offers countless small morsels and moments to spark ruminations on tangential topics. For example, its inclusion of a broader examination of dignity and shame as concepts will likely lead readers to think about those emotions’ roles in the familial, social and occupational situations around them today. Similarly, the century-old debates about the merging of indigenous and foreign cultures and habits remain relevant in modern discussions about art and society. One wonders, for example, how Nguyễn An Ninh and Phạm Quỳnh would approach the recent rise of hip-hop in Vietnam or what productive shaming Nguyễn Mạnh Tường might offer to TikTok users.

“The book also delivers a number of illuminating allusions and analogs, both historical and contemporary, to situations beyond Vietnam that expand the reader’s greater understanding of national identity, in general.”

The book also delivers a number of illuminating allusions and analogs, both historical and contemporary, to situations beyond Vietnam that expand the reader’s greater understanding of national identity, in general. For example, the author draws numerous comparisons to India’s historic plight as well as the unfolding genocide in Palestine. Having grown up in America and received his PhD from the University of California, Riverside, he has ample knowledge of America to include in his discourse as well. By referencing George Floyd, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., as well as the feelings of perceived shame and indignation amongst a segment of Donald Trump voters, the author not only connects with those “political theorists who know nothing of Vietnam,” but also places the discussion of Vietnamese dignity in larger global conversations, cementing his rhetorical positioning.

Nguyễn An Ninh (left) in France in 1927. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Fun is a word I’ve never used to describe academic texts. And while reading Architects of Dignity probably doesn’t match most people’s definition of fun, one cannot help but feel that the author had fun writing it, and some of that transfers to the reader. And even if it's not fun exactly, it's important for people outside academia. At one point during the Vietnamese Podcast, the host, who has interviewed everyone from Ocean Vuong to Kiều Chinh to Nguyễn Ngọc Giao exclaimed: “This is my fifth year doing this podcast, and in all of the work that I’ve done, I’ve been looking for this conversation; this pinpoint conversation about shame.”