The Immolation first came to me as a bewildering surprise: at a now-relocated bookshop in Singapore, the book once caught the eyes of the 17-year-old me. It was not so much the cover’s pale blue background, or the expression of ennui on the author’s post-impressionist portrait, but rather its dealing with the American War. After all, the title directly referenced the iconic protest by the Buddhist monk Thích Quảng Đức, who set himself on fire on the street of Saigon.

Written by Chinese Singaporean writer Goh Poh Seng, The Immolation was first published in 1977, and republished in 2011 by Epigram Books. A note on the its setting: even though the country name is never mentioned once across the book, the proper nouns’ orthography, as well as mentionings of US presence amidst jungle battlefields and bars in the city-capital, etc. are ostensible nods to real-life Vietnam as the novel’s (unnamed) Southeast Asian country setting.

Francis Khoo (left), a lawyer, was among 150 people who staged a demonstration outside the US Embassy at Hill Street, Singapore in 1973. Together with Professor Daniel Green (hidden) from Nanyang University and Lap Choo Lin (center), a University of Singapore graduate, they presented individual petitions to US President Nixon. They were protesting against the bombing of North Vietnam by the US. Image via National Archive Singapore.

The Immolation centers around Thanh, a doctor-turned-wannabe-poet who returns to Saigon after having studied abroad in Paris. He joins the guerilla National Liberation Front (NLF) with his diverse cast of peers, while being haunted by the sight of a monk smiling as he sets himself ablaze, and his relationships with friends, particularly his love interest, My. Through the course of the story, Thanh questions on what it means to live, and die, for a political cause. Henceforth, the novel is a bildungsroman — a literary work focusing on a character’s journey to maturity, and an ambitious one at that — as it demonstrates Goh’s attempt at tackling postcolonial issues set in a country different from his own, while also articulating existential concerns through the eyes of relatively young, idealistic people.

Sensitivity to Vietnamese culture and historical details

I am pleasantly surprised to see Goh approaching Vietnamese culture and historical details with much sensitivity, amidst the host of English-language media at the time centering the western perspectives towards the American War. One might also can’t help but wonder what specific research processes Goh has taken to write a novel with empathetic engagements with Vietnamese elements.

Through his characters, Goh waxes lyrical about tangerines in the Central Market evoking the festivities of an incoming Lunar New Year, “black, broad-backed” water buffaloes having a bath alongside squealing children in the countryside, or fish sauce: “its heavy, tangy taste was something so age-old, so familiar as to be part of the people of his country […] Without it, no local meal could be considered complete.” He focuses on the struggles of the Vietnamese in wartime, writing about simple spears and booby traps, but also the Vietnamese landscape. “We sometimes forget how beautiful our country is,” My comments. “[We] only remember the fighting ; we only see the suffering, […] the beastliness and the evil. [Some] day, after the victory, our people will inherit peace and this beautiful country again.”

Thích Quảng Đức self-immolates in Saigon to protest religious discrimination in 1963. Photo by Malcolm Browne.

A number of historical details are further thoughtfully inspired and embedded into the novel. History lovers might recognize Goh’s vivid references to the 1960s student demonstrations against the regime’s dictatorship and US interventions, the 1968 Tet Offensive that includes a brief attack on the Presidential Palace in Saigon, and of course the Buddhist crisis that peaks at abbott Thích Quảng Đức’s self-immolation. Particularly memorable is a scene where the characters hide inside a bomb shelter: “Thanh huddled in the darkness, his body flexed, his chin resting on his knees, foetal in the womb of earth. The earth smelt of dampness. Even with all that noise, he thought he could hear water trickling, like lilliputian drumming.”

“Thanh huddled in the darkness, his body flexed, his chin resting on his knees, foetal in the womb of earth. The earth smelt of dampness. Even with all that noise, he thought he could hear water trickling, like lilliputian drumming.”

Some historical facts, and names of certain characters and locations, are, however, imperfect. For instance, it can’t be fully verified if NLF fighters ever conducted espionage in bars, nor the extent to which some of them would elope from their missions. One also wonders whether the spellings are changed in service of Singaporean readers more familiar with the Latin orthography of English and Malay; some names are spelled “Kao” and “Thing Hoai Pagoda,” words that don't exist in Vietnamese. These inaccuracies nevertheless should be interpreted less as defects in and of themselves. Instead, taken as a whole, I recognize Goh’s respect for and desire to understand more about Vietnamese people and happenings. It seems that his characters, especially Thanh, act as vessels for Goh himself, or any non-Vietnamese readers, to acculturate into the Vietnamese setting — observing first-hand, being amazed by the Vietnamese scenes, while empathizing with Vietnamese guerilla fighters’ experiences.

Nuanced characterizations, and the irony of ideological wars

Literature professor Dr. Ismail S. Talib, who wrote the preface to the edition, discusses Vietnam’s geo-political importance as an iconic battleground for post-colonial ideologies and its relative distance from Singapore, and how they are possible reasons why Goh decided to implicitly set his novel there, while exploring themes concerning post-colonial Southeast Asia at large. His cast of Vietnamese characters are diverse and nuanced, exemplifying the different kinds of people with their own reactions and rationalizations to war-time political causes.

Goh Poh Seng was a Singaporean novelist and physician. Photo via Wordpress.

In contrast to Thanh’s brooding uncertainty, his best friend Quang Tuyen is a pragmatic and optimistic journalist with a c’est la vie attitude towards wars and its dilemmas. Meanwhile, his love interest My is a fellow student whose personal sufferings become the catalyst for her idealistic and dogged support for the guerilla’s efforts — she even often chastises Thanh for his constant doubts. It is lovely to read about the cheeky and sincere dynamic between the two friends, and, likewise, the lovers’ earnest yet tricky relationship from Goh’s beautifully crafted dialogues. There are also those like Kao, a peer whose words twisted ideologies in his selfish favors against Thanh himself; Thanh’s father Monsieur Vo, who wanted to shelter his son from joining the guerrilla despite being aware of the government’s corruption; or fellow sympathizer Xuan, who's facing doubts on whether to support the cause fully or protect his family. By constructing characters as diverse individuals across backgrounds, characteristics, and degrees of involvement in a political cause, he rebukes views of revolutionaries as one fanatical monolith blindly devoting to a movement, or those harboring doubts towards it as cowards. Ultimately, perhaps Quang Tuyen said it best: “Just because I am joining the Cause, doesn't mean that I agree with everything […] One reason I'm fighting is that I want the right afterwards for more of our people to be human beings.”

Students march to decry US involvement in Vietnam in 1965. Photo by AP.

It then might be difficult to classify the book as in support or against communist guerrilla warfare in Vietnam. Vietnamese readers should not be expected to find a concrete unwavering message of devotion, from frustratingly transient character arcs to an ending that leaves them at an ambiguous cliffhanger with none of the senses of triumph, and a reflective yet indecisive main character with arguably bourgeois and defeatist tendencies: “After the bloodshed, would anything be written on that page?” Thanh ponders. “No, there will be nothing. […] This battle would not even make it to the footnotes of any future history written about their time. No one would know. Probably no one would care either…”

Nonetheless, a great number of examples of Vietnam’s war literature, notably those produced post-reunification, are not too different. From Lê Lựu’s satirical A Time Far Past to the famous The Sorrow of War by Bảo Ninh, these works, while different in their tonalities, strip away the need to reinforce reunification’s feelings of triumph, and instead focus on war traumas, and systemic post-war struggles. The Immolation exemplifies Goh’s sensitive foresight to the human condition, acknowledging the desolation of war, but also larger existential themes, such as the ironic freewill that might liberate us from one suffering… to another, yet remains the part and parcel of life.

The Immolation exemplifies Goh’s sensitive foresight to the human condition, acknowledging the desolation of war, but also larger existential themes, such as the ironic freewill that might liberate us from one suffering… to another.

All in all, with such ambivalence and bittersweetness, The Immolation will not attempt to offer readers a definite view of the American War nor a solution through a tumultuous socio-political landscape. “Words. They do not expiate. Nothing can do that,” Goh wrote self-insertingly. “But they make you a little healed, whatever you’re suffering from, or rather the real thing you’re suffering from: man disease.” At this point, it has been my second time reading the novel. Compared to his previous debut novel If we dream too long, The Immolation has unfortunately not garnered much attention since in Singapore or Vietnam.

Maybe I’ve been waxing poetic over this book. I am aware that I might have put the book on a pedestal as a Vietnamese person residing in Singapore, a country already without much overt historical or cultural relations with where I originally come from, compared to its more immediate neighbors. The Immolation, as a novel dealing with political strifes that come with nation-building in Southeast Asia at the time, now becomes, to this reader, a sentimental emblem of shared regional concerns, characterized by empathetic appreciation, and a vision towards an inter-connected and, even if idealistic, universal human experience. Perhaps by writing with each other, and reading for each other, a book is no longer a Singaporean novel, nor a Vietnamese one, but a novel we can call ours.

“These years of my life are very important, they shape the person I'm going to be in the future,” said Danko, a student who just finished Grade 9 at International School Ho Chi Minh City (ISHCMC).

While reflecting on his past five years at the school, Danko explained: “A lot of what I’ve learned is going to stick with me forever. ISHCMC was a place where I was able to learn more about math, English and the obvious school subjects, but also a place where I learned more about myself. It's a place where I've learned how to interact with other people and develop interpersonal communication, leadership, and collaboration skills.”

Classroom opportunities to explore real-world activities related to Danko’s academic interests, as well as his formal and informal leadership roles, exemplify the ISHCMC education. Supported by fantastic facilities and expert educators, the school provides opportunities to grow intellectually and socially, so students become well-rounded, globally-minded, self-motivated lifelong learners ready to thrive in the world. 

Before arriving at ISHCMC five years ago, Danko had attended other international schools, including most recently in Kenya. On his very first day, he witnessed ISHCMC’s inviting and supportive culture. “The most important thing is the people that are around you, and as soon as you get here, you get a buddy that will take you around; that will show you everything at the school, and help you integrate.” This uplifting community has allowed him to thrive academically, extracurricularly, and socially during the past five years.

Learning That Applies Beyond the Classroom

Career decisions remain far in the future for Danko, though he is already thinking that he might want to enter the finance field, or something to do with astronomy and aerospace engineering, because he loves mathematics. The International Baccalaureate Programme (IB) relies on inquiry-based, cross-disciplinary activities and applied engagements to foster learning and help him prepare for whatever ambitious goals he sets for himself. 

For Danko, the International Baccalaureate Programme Middle Years Program (IB MYP) at ISHCMC allowed him to explore his interest in mathematics via engaging, diverse projects, as compared to the textbooks and problem sets of more traditional educational approaches. For example, all grade 9 students worked together on the Chance carnival. In groups of three to four, they designed original games involving complex probability that were then physically constructed for students in younger grades to test. Danko and his peers then analyzed the actual probabilistic values observed compared to the theoretical ones they had calculated. Danko also noted that the activity was enjoyable and a great opportunity to work collaboratively with his peers.  

The Chance carnival assignment reveals how the IB MYP supports students in honing inquiry-based approaches to problems and interests in meaningful ways. While the program expects a lot of the students, ISHCMC’s teachers provide the support needed for them to rise to the challenge. As Danko explained: “It's very rigorous; It really pushes me to try my best … the program here has been curated in a way where it brings the best out of me."

In addition to the expert and experienced staff, students fully benefit from the IB program in all grades thanks to the school’s world-class facilities which include a media center, professional theater, recording studios, design suites, music practice rooms, NBA-size basketball court, rooftop sports field, 25m 8-lane pool, food tech and science labs. These spaces and technologies further diversify the options for students to explore their interests while gaining real-world skills.

Endless Opportunities to Learn and Grow Outside the Classroom

A school is more than its physical space, of course. As Danko explained: “Although the facilities here are top-notch, what really sets ISHCMC apart from other schools is the atmosphere itself... There's definitely a liveliness and energeticness.”

This lively atmosphere is perhaps best observed within the school’s extracurriculars. Students grow and learn in significant ways at ISHCMC thanks to the vast number of clubs, teams, groups, and activities available to students of all ages. Spread across athletics, performing arts, academic, and community involvement disciplines, the voluntary activities give students more chances to discover what they enjoy while cultivating collaborative skills.

Danko offered his philosophy on the availability of activities: “There are a lot of opportunities at ISHCMC, and I personally believe that if you're given an opportunity, then you should take it. Why not? That's how I look at life, and that's something ISHCMC does well: gives you the opportunities, and then you get to make the decision on what you want to do.” Such an outlook led him to take on a leadership role in the Model United Nations (MUN), participate in a Youth Peace and Justice Conference, serve on ISHCMC’s Student Executive Team, and play various sports such as badminton, football, and cross country.

When explaining his involvement in many extracurricular activities, Danko shared a Michaelangelo quote that resonates deeply with him: "The greatest danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it."

Building Leadership Through Groups, Sports and Clubs

Through roles like football captain and MUN secretariat, Danko says leadership has been his most meaningful area of growth. As his football team’s captain and a leader in the MUN, he has not only been able to develop leadership skills, but also reflect on their value. He admits that the roles are good for his resume, but more so, they are learning opportunities. “Leadership is something you can learn and develop. You can get better at,” he said.

Leadership isn’t just taught, it’s lived at ISHCMC, as Marco Longmore, the Head of School, stressed earlier this year. The tangible effect of a school of leaders means classrooms, clubs, sports fields, and stages are all filled with individuals eager to support one another to succeed. As Danko said, “You can learn leadership from a certain role, which allows you to apply leadership on a team, in an organization, and even in a classroom. For example, in class, if somebody doesn't understand the concept, you can be someone who goes out of their way to give them a hand and explain it to them, visualize it for them.” 

Holistic Development of Life Skills and Global Mindedness

The many extracurricular opportunities available to ISHCMC students, in addition to the rigorous academic expectations, encourage the development of time management and organizational skills. With the support of teachers, peers, and their families, students come to understand how to recognize what they are realistically capable of doing and the most effective way to accomplish the tasks. “It's the idea of prioritizing time and prioritizing what you do,” Danko said. “Sometimes I have too much on my plate to the point where I'm not doing everything perfectly, but I understand I have only this much time, so I have to plan it out, I have to schedule it.”

In the same way that class activities prepare students for real-world projects and extracurricular organizations allow them to practice the collaborative roles they will need to take on in future relationships, workplaces, and groups, exposure to the need for balancing tasks, choosing interests, and managing deadlines prepares them for adult scheduling and accountability. 

Meanwhile, having a global mindset is not just a core value at ISHCMC but a philosophy holistically embedded across the school. The IB curriculum fully embraces it, using diverse examples, experience,s and perspectives for its materials and projects. Meanwhile, many of the extracurriculars concern themselves with global connectivity, be it the MUN’s focus on how national governments cooperate, theatre productions that look to scripts from around the world, or athletics with particular cultural roots like yoga and kungfu. 

Students develop a global mindedness without even needing to seek it out because of the school’s inherent diversity. With students and faculty reflecting more than 60 nationalities,  working with and learning from people with different backgrounds, experiences, cultures and outlooks is guaranteed. ISHCMC underscores to students how this is a core strength of the education. As Danko said: "I truly enjoy learning from various cultures and individuals, seeing how different people approach not only learning, but also how they behave and interact in everyday life and activities."

As Danko looks ahead, he noted plans to continue developing his leadership skills while becoming more experienced and invested in his interests as they become clearer. Over the last five years, he has grown and matured immensely, which also allowed him to look back and put himself in the shoes of a child just arriving at the school. Danko is now leaving the school, however, mentions how he does not regret the choices he has made over his years at ISHCMC. His biggest piece of advice for such a student involves recognizing the strength and warmth of the school community and everyone’s desire to work together to ensure success. "It's easy to get carried away with work, but sometimes you need to take a moment to understand what's happening around you to see how many people are helping you,” he said. 

If one were to see the streets of Vietnam as a tangled network of people whose names they took, every city would resemble a messy collection of historical fragments.

Saigon's streets occasionally remind one that to ride around a city is also to move within a nation's history, to engage with a geographical past and glide through the events of collective memory. In Saigon, the Trưng sisters, Võ Thị Sáu, Phạm Ngọc Thạch and Sương Nguyệt Anh all take residence at a certain location perceived to be part of modern-day Vietnam. The history behind the namesake of Nguyễn Thái Bình streets in District 1 and Tân Bình District, however, takes place on a whole different continent.

Born in Cần Giuộc, Long An Province in 1948 to Lê Thị Anh and Nguyễn Văn Hai, Nguyễn Thái Bình had eight siblings and moved to Saigon after finishing primary school to attend secondary school at Petrus Ký, today's Lê Hồng Phong High School For The Gifted. In March 1968, not long after the Tet Offensive began, Bình got a scholarship from the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) to go to the US for his undergraduate studies at the University of Washington in Seattle.

Vietnamese Students' Revolts

Established in 1961 by John F. Kennedy and a successor of the Development Loan Fund and the International Cooperation Administration, USAID oversees all American aid programs, including technical, economic and military training, in foreign countries, including Vietnam. USAID’s main role during the American War, according to a report from the agency, was to aid US counterinsurgency efforts and later the Vietnamization policy while developing a nation-building program in the country.

Besides military training and economic assistance, the agency also sponsors grants and scholarships. According to Ngô Thanh Nhàn, who received a scholarship at the same time as Bình and is now a professor at New York University, there were several USAID student groups who came for different purposes and lengths of time.

The first group (USAID Group I) mostly included personnel from the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, although there were some exceptions. Bình and Nhàn were part of USAID Group II whose members were selected based on exemplary academic achievement and involvement in extracurricular activities. Bình studied at the University of Washington's Department of Fisheries.

According to an article on the experience of Vietnamese students in the US published in the Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars in 1971, Ngô Vinh Long notes that when one accepted a USAID scholarship, there was an obligation that lasted from about five to ten years requiring the student to work in positions sponsored by the American government after they graduate. On top of these requirements, Vietnamese studying at American universities received very limited academic freedom or freedom of speech, as they were subject to deportation if they expressed opinions that were deemed against the “national interest.”

This particular circumstance didn’t stop these students from expressing their voices against the war, Washington’s policies and the nature of USAID itself. Nhàn notes in “Many Bridges, One River: Organizing for Justice in Vietnamese American communities”: “By the time we got to the United States, we started to oppose the war, immediately after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. We participated in antiwar activities locally, and exchanged ideas through zines in Vietnamese.”

Nguyễn Thái Bình was no exception. While he didn’t express political opinions while still in Saigon, Bình became more frustrated and anguished at what the American government was doing in Vietnam after his arrival in the US. In an open letter addressing his resistance, Bình wrote that during his time in the country, he had studied the damage the war was having on the people of Vietnam. In the summer of 1970, Bình took an opportunity to travel across southern Vietnam, and what he witnessed had strengthened his antiwar stance.

Nguyễn Thái Bình. Photo via University of Washington.

On February 10, 1972, Bình participated in an antiwar protest with nine other Vietnamese students, a majority of whom were also on the USAID scholarship. The sit-in lasted for three hours, and every member of the group was later arrested on charges of criminal trespassing. In the following months, Bình gave a series of speeches in an auditorium, federal court, churches, halls and coffee houses.

A flyer for an event in February organized by Bình and friends and a list of Bình's activities from February to April in 1972. Photos via University of Washington.

In the process of learning more about the role of US imperialism, Bình had also realized the nature of the very program that had brought him to the country in the first place. On April 24 of the same year, Bình, together with 15 other Vietnamese, staged a “Vietnamese Invasion of Carbondale” at Southern Illinois University (SIU) to protest against the policies of Saigon and Washington, USAID and the Vietnam Studies Center at SIU. The establishment of the center was funded by USAID to provide consultant and training services to US corporations and government agencies, and offer technical assistance and support in postwar reconstruction projects.

SIU’s involvement in the war had become a controversial issue within Asian academic circles, such as the Committee of Concerned Asian Scholars (CCAS) and Association for Asian Studies (AAS), for its complicity in Washington’s neocolonial efforts and resemblance to the earlier Vietnam Advisory Group project at Michigan State University (MSU) when Diệm was still in power. The MSU advisory helped build the then-puppet government police force and trained secret police for political policing.

Poster for the event. Photo replicated from the Douglas Allen article “Universities and the Vietnam War: a Case Study of a Successful Struggle.”

Douglas Allen, a member of the CCAS, wrote in an article that, while resistance among academics helped shut down the center, it was this group of Vietnamese and local antiwar activists that played the most important role in making “the issues of neocolonial technical assistance and postwar reconstruction projects moot.” These Vietnamese include “Nguyen Thai Binh, Le Anh Tu, Nguyen Huu An, Tran Khanh Tuyet, David Truong, Doan Hong Hai, Tran Vu Dung, Ngo Vinh Long, Vu Ngoc Con, Vu Quang Viet, Do Hoang Khanh and Nguyen Trieu Phu.”

“The Vietnamese, most of whom were in the U.S. on AID scholarships, came at great personal risk; several were visited by immigration officials shortly before their trip to Carbondale,” writes Allen in “Universities and the Vietnam War: a Case Study of a Successful Struggle.”

The event at Carbondale was led by Ngo Vinh Long, who was among the USAID Group I students and was a major Vietnamese anti-imperialist radical and activist. Both Long and Bình are the co-founders of Thời Báo Gà, a monthly newsletter that published analysis, literature and essays on the peace movement. The Vietnam Studies Center at Carbondale ended up closing for three days during the sit-in.

Deportation, Death and Legacy

Bình planned future activism, though he was aware of the risks he was facing and even predicted his own death in four letters: one addressed to the “peace and justice-loving people in the world,” another to US President Richard Nixon, one to his friend Nguyen Hữu An and the last to his family.

In June 10, 1972, Bình officially graduated from the University of Washington, Seattle with honors. At the ceremony, he turned his graduation into a one-man protest by handing out leaflets and attempting to grab the microphone to speak. On Bình's graduation gown, white tape spelled out “Blood Debts” and “US in Vietnam Immoral.” On the skull of his academic mortarboard, “Viet Nam” was written.

Nguyễn Thái Bình at his graduation. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

Three days before his graduation, the New York Times reported, Bình and three other USAID scholarship Vietnamese students received phone calls from the aid agency to inform them of the termination of their program under USAID sponsorship, and that their tickets to return to Vietnam were available. The students included Nguyễn Tăng Huyền from the University of California, Berkeley and Nguyễn Hữu An and Vũ Ngọc Côn from the Northrop Institute of Technology. The latter two also participated in the Carbondale incident and all three students, including Huyền, were among those arrested at the consulate sit-in back in February. However, the students refused to go home, fearing that the Thiệu-led government would prosecute and torture them for their views.

Bình’s visa was also revoked on that day and his flight home was scheduled for July 2, 1972 on Pan Am flight 841 departing from San Francisco for Saigon through stops in Honolulu, Guam and Manila. After the aircraft took off from Manila, Bình, carrying a knife and a package that he claimed contain bombs, took stewardess May Yuen hostage.

Through her, he passed a note to Captain Gene Vaughn demanding that the plane fly to Hanoi instead, where it would be shot down, according to the New York Times. When the captain didn’t comply, Bình passed up another note, this time written in his blood, emphasizing how serious he was about being taken to Hanoi. Vaughn then went to meet Bình after the plane touched down at Tân Sơn Nhứt Airport. Bình threatened the captain with his “bombs,” which were later found to be two lemons. Vaughn had guessed that Bình was bluffing, so he told Bình to come closer and found an opportunity to grab him and pin him down, with the help of several passengers.

The captain then shouted “Kill that son of a bitch!” to a passenger on the plane who was believed to be an ex-cop flying to Saigon for a security guard position and had a gun. Bình was then shot five times while Vaughn held him by the throat, according to Vaughn’s statements. The captain then threw Bình’s body out of the plane.

A snippet of reports on Bình's death in the Bangor Daily News. Photo replicated from Bangor Daily News.

“A lot of time and effort has been spent on trying to prevent hijackings, but the only thing that will be effective is a mandatory death penalty, without any loopholes,” said Vaughn at an event honoring him for killing the unarmed hijacker. The shooter, who was never publicly identified, even gave Vaughn the cartridge from the gun used to kill Bình as “souvenir,” and Vaughn showed it to reporters from the Bangor Daily News like it was a trophy.

May Yuen, the stewardess who was taken hostage, didn’t share this celebratory spirit. In an interview with the Bangor Daily News, she said she felt “sorry for him [Bình] because he ended in such a disastrous way” and that “he was very nice to me and he did not mean to do anything rough.”

“Bình's death hit the front pages of all major newspapers. The clips were a startling contrast to how his friends describe him. His college professors and friends knew Bình as a peace activist. He was the one always seen on campus carrying a ‘Stop the War’ sign. An honors student at the College of Fisheries, he wrote poetry, but he could also box and play soccer,” wrote Lily Eng in the Seattle Times in 1992.

A report by the Airport Security Committee was filed and led to a preliminary investigation by the local authorities. According to a Tuổi Trẻ article series investigating the files of the incident in the National Archive in Saigon, both reports from the Airport Security Committee and the police conclude that Bình didn't intend to blow up the plane, and further investigation should be conducted to determine whether it was illegal or just to apply deadly force in such a situation.

Report from the Airport Security Com (top) and the police report. Photos via Tuổi Trẻ.

However, the investigation mysteriously ended and the shooter immediately returned to the US and canceled his plans to work in Saigon. Though never publicly identified, according to the confidential documents that Tuổi Trẻ gathered, he was revealed to be William H. Mills, an ex-cop in California who was flying to Saigon to work for the Federal Electric Corporation.

The ambiguity surrounding the investigation also led Bình’s mother, Lê Thị Anh, to write a letter to the US president, to no avail.

To read the letter in full, visit the University of Washington.

Among activists, Bình’s death led to anger and mourning. Ngô Thanh Nhàn writes in the book Many Bridges, One River that the assassination prompted the formation of the first leftist union of Vietnamese in the US: “As soon as we learned Nguyễn Thái Bình was secretly extradited and later on killed on the tarmac of Tân Sơn Nhất airport, all the groups joined together to form the Union of Vietnamese in the United States.”

This group started out with 2,000 to 3,000 people, who were mostly from USAID group II, and were later joined by more members from more backgrounds and perspectives, such as the anti-colonial Vietnamese refugees who arrived in New York in the 1940s as French “coolies” during the World War II, as well as anti-war wives of GI and army trainees.

The union’s first joint action was a memorial for Bình, conducted with the help of the Black Panther Party in Oakland. From that point on, the group formed alliances with other activist groups in different communities, such as Asian Americans, African Americans, Iranians, Palestinians and Latinos.

Photo via Many Bridges, One River (top) and the University of Washington (bottom).

Bình’s name was also taken to name the Thái Bình Brigade that marched in Nisei Week, an annual Japanese American cultural festival, to oppose Japan’s militarism and advocate for peace. One month after Bình’s death, the Thái Bình Brigade, along with the Văn Trỗi Brigade, took to the streets where Nisei Week was held and burned the Rising Sun flag as a demonstration against militarism and Japanese corporations profiting from the war.

The brigades in Gidra, a revolutionary Asian-American newspaper-magazine. Photo via Densho Digital Collection.

In his letter to “the peace and justice loving people around the world,” Bình writes:

This article was originally published in 2020.

Whenever I come back to Vietnam, it is a personal ritual of mine to visit locales of the past. As clichéd as it sounds, as I have been abroad in Singapore for six years, returning to Vietnam is almost synonymous with returning to places that once shaped my past selves, whose presence has been fading in my mind.

As I walk along Nguyễn Thái Bình Street of Saigon in the evening, the rain and the yellow lights of bistros I never remember existed bundle up my nostalgia with warmth. Catching sight of the Parish Church of The Lady of Peace, as humble and still as its bilingual signage, I know I have reached Chè Lâm Vinh Mậu, the Hẻm Gems for this week, across the street.

Chè Lâm Vinh Mậu has a handful of counter spaces and a few extra chairs.

It is just the same as I remember amidst the city’s changing landscape. Fluorescent tube lights illuminate a single wooden cart, typically seen at Hoa Vietnamese mobile stalls, complete with fitted reverse glass paintings featuring the name Lâm Vinh Mậu and illustrations of episodes from Chinese literary classics. Below, its built-in sections are filled with various chè soup bases and glass bowls displaying add-on ingredients. Apart from myself, there are only two other customers, who nonetheless are about to leave. Sitting down on one of the few tall plastic stools, I order my favorites. This time, chú Sơn mans the stall. He shares how, for the past few decades, he and his brother have been taking turns running the business, setting up the cart right in front of their shophouse. They took up the business after their uncle Lâm Vinh Mậu decided to settle abroad. Mậu was also the cart's namesake, though he recently passed away.

Colorful tranh kiếng works, a traditional Chinese art form, line the upper portion of the cart.

The stall serves a wide variety of chè, from classics such as sâm bổ lượng or chè đậu đỏ, but there are two particular dishes I’d always come back to. First is the chè hạnh nhân, whose central ingredient is almond tofu. A dish served cold with chopped ice, it comprises a clear sweet soup base, with morsels of soft white almond tofu. Against the sweet soup’s canvas, the tofu’s creamy and herbal notes shimmer with a subtle delicacy.

From top to bottom, clockwise: sâm bổ lượng, almond tofu, tea egg, and egg soup with sago.

The other dish is chè trứng bột báng, an egg dessert with sago. From its appearance, one is easily forgiven for thinking it is anything but chè, particularly because the hard-boiled egg and wispy beaten yolks included inside are more evocative of egg drop soup. Yet, despite being a strange combination, the egg ingredients and soup base make for a fascinating taste combination. The viscous chè filled with sago balls provides a textured sweetness to the savory hard-boiled egg. I split the egg open with a two-pronged fork and notice the yolk crumbles into yellow powder swirling within the clear soup. Eating the two chè dishes again from their little porcelain cups after such a long hiatus, I am comforted by the fact that they taste no different from how I remember them six-odd years ago, when I ate at the stall before I left for Singapore.

Apart from special dishes like tea egg, most toppings are eaten with a jasmine sweet syrup.

I give my compliments regarding the chè to Sơn as he wipes off condensed rings of water on the bumpy metallic table with his rag. The night air remains damp, and there are only two of us at the stall. We thus have a brief chat, and he asks me about my university academic journey, and whether I was on vacation. After I tell him of my return to Vietnam for a long break from Singapore, he shares how his son was also a media and communications graduate, and Singapore was also the first country he traveled to with his family overseas back in the 2010s. “Universal Studios [Singapore] was fun,” he recalls, handing me a shot glass of chopped ice and light tea, a palate cleanser.

As I sip the tea, I ask him about his business and regular clientele. According to Sơn, most of them are returning customers, many of whom are also overseas Vietnamese revisiting Saigon. He also bemoans the dwindling Hoa Vietnamese customer base and community in the neighborhood. “Most of them have already migrated abroad. A lot of them have family members who sponsored them,” he says. “Many current residents come from other regions of the country.” He reverts back to talking about Singapore, sharing how his son visited there recently for Lady Gaga’s “Lion City Mayhem” concert.

Simmered fruits and nuts make up most of the chè toppings.

Rain rustling on the corrugated iron roof fills the empty silence. Uncle Sơn stares out at the rain. Apart from the Parish Church of The Lady of Peace from across the street, there is also Khai Minh Secondary School, the vestige of a former Chinese guild-established school; and various communal housing blocks where small food businesses operated by Hoa uncles and aunties within the neighbourhood. As much as they are at risk of disappearing as the Hoa population in District 1 gets older, they are the little gems, tucked away within this corner of the city, waiting to be discovered.

Lâm Vinh Mậu was the name of the original owner, the late uncle of the brothers who currently run the stall.

I don’t think our brief interactions were enough for me to know much about the uncle, let alone the Nguyễn Thái Bình Neighborhood, his home turf, or the complexities behind the Hoa Vietnamese community in Saigon. Nevertheless, the encounter reminds me of a concern plaguing contemporary urban spaces, to which this city is no exception. The concept of a palimpsest has been used to describe the layered nature of a city’s history, whereby traces of the past are left behind or hidden beneath modern establishments.

Stainless steel sections divide the cart.

There are trade-offs to be made, and there are tensions between urbanization and heritage preservation in Saigon that need to be resolved. There is something bittersweet about this whole ordeal: with the continuous migration of people to and away from the city, the presence of heritage — whether it's a chè bowl or the presence of the Cantonese language — becomes as ephemeral as its people who once thought they would make a home there.

Most patrons are regulars, though the Hoa community in the neighborhood is dwindling every year.

As I savor those sweet, carefully curated bowls of Chè Lâm Vinh Mậu, I think about the knife slicing through the almond tofu block, the delicate ladle lifting, the sugary water seeping through its holes, and that rag at rest after a rough run across the table’s rim. I think about chú Sơn’s hands. A crumbly old shophouse with its peeling walls is never just a lifeless building when the hands that cook those morsels have been the scaffolds that keep it standing, but so are the customers, old and new, coming to relish its food. Representatives of our intangible cultural heritage, like cuisines are often inextricably linked to tangible spaces, and the people inhabiting them both. Perhaps people’s nostalgic memories and the desire to rediscover their roots are the greatest catalysts that will ultimately keep these delicious artifacts alive.

To sum up

• Opening time: 7pm–11pm
• Parking: By the stall (bike only)
• Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash
• Delivery App: None

During a new decade when architecture projects in Vietnam are increasingly looking towards the future and influences outside the national boundaries for inspirations, Memories House decided to do the opposite by integrating old heirloom furniture and elements from the past into the living space.

Designed by Saigon-based Risou Architects, the Memories House project was completed in 2021 on a 250-square-meter plot of land in District 7. The residence features a living room and kitchen overlooking the garden on the ground floor, in addition to four bedrooms, and two dedicated spaces for reading and working.

According to the architects, Memories House was meant to be the nest for a three-generation family including the owners, their parents, and their children. To maximize the ease of movement for senior members of the households, their room is based on the ground floor with a door linking right into the kitchen and living area.

Natural lighting is also a prized resource that was consciously built into the blueprint. A series of windows, some spanning two floors, are in place to channel sunlight down the living area and into the reading nooks.

Across the interior design, sparks of modernism dot the overall nostalgic atmosphere brought about by extensive use of dark-toned wood that might bring to mind Indochinese architecture. The connection to past decades of Vietnamese traditional homes also comes in the little details, such as the poster bed in the grandparents’ chamber, complete with a mosquito net; or the curvaceous details on the balustrade; and the motifs featured on the kitchen tiles.

Another standout aspect of the house’s interior is its eclectic trove of vintage furniture, all of which were collected by the owners in the past decade. Their presence is an important part of Memories House and the architects made sure to seamlessly incorporate them into the abode’s space — it is a very thematic treatment as, after all, vintage furniture carries with it all the memories of past usage and previous owners.

Have a closer look at Memories House via the photos below:

Stone and wooden textures are employed throughout the inside spaces.

The kitchen and dining area overlooks the inner courtyard.

Modernist elements on the kitchen tiles.

The living room and small pond.

The bedroom for the senior family members evokes the charms of traditional homes.

A corner for audio enjoyment.

The corridor on the upper floor receives lots of natural sunlight.

The master bedroom.

The office.

A small reading corner overlooking the courtyard below.

Photos by Quang Trần via Risou Architects.

Whether we choose to participate or not, most of us are fascinated by Vietnam’s motorbike culture.

The pace, the innovative spirit, and the casualness of people who perform in each day’s tightly choreographed traffic dances make for a thrilling phenomenon. So you can imagine my enchantment when I discovered what motorbike culture looks like on Tà Năng Mountain and the hills of Lâm Đồng Province. It takes about a six-hour drive and half a day’s hike from Saigon to reach the entrance to this other “planet.” It’s a place that makes me feel a million miles away from any city, and comfortably isolated from the rest of the world. And once you’re there, it’s easy to see why the people that know it are always going back.

The men and motos of Tà Năng

The complete Tà Năng-Phan Dũng trail stretches more than 55 kilometers across the hilltops and valleys of three provinces: Lâm Đồng, Ninh Thuận, and Bình Thuận. People have been walking these ridges forever, so it was inevitable that eventually Vietnam’s famous motorbikes would make it to the mountains too.

Xe độ are often needed to scale the rough textures of Tà Năng.

The unique machines that ride over these ridges are called xe đi rừng, meaning “motorbikes used in the forest,” or xe độ, which translates to “motorbike that’s been changed from the manufacturer version,” a hint at their distinguishable nature. The young men who drive them are known as người khuân vác or “porters,” with their custom rigs doubling as convenient — and, might I add, super slick — nicknames for the exclusive group.

As with so many good things, the longer you peer at these amazing machines, the more you see. Some of my favorite features were the free and detached stick-for-kick-stand strategy that seemed to be invariably adopted, the custom welded made-to-size holders and racks that carry bottles of engine fluids and extra gas, and the complete (although initially subtle) and utter lack of foot...anything. Eventually you’ll notice the chain on the rear wheel and the extra sets of shocks. After having the pleasure of riding as the third of three passengers on one of these skeleton rigs as it ripped over a flat portion of trail, I surmise they “beefed up” the engines as well. 

One of the handful of trail vendors, a lovely man named Anh Heo, shared that anyone could buy a basic version of one of the bikes for a reasonable price, but the porters mostly build and customize their own. One bike had a variety of its parts painted green to match its green shocks, while another had the skinniest exhaust pipe I have ever seen; no more than a couple centimeters wide all the way down. 

As it turns out, not all porters are transporting camping supplies — consider the cooler that resembles the ones you see all over Saigon, containing cold soda, water, and beer strapped to the back of Anh Heo’s rather simple-looking bike. He drives 40 kilometers a day to sell cold beverages to weary hikers along the trail.

Yes, that’s right! That means, as you trek into this magical land, around each bend or at the top of a long climb, there very well may be ice-cold beer waiting for purchase. As soon as the initial excitement wore off, I giggled that I could be shocked at all. We are in Vietnam after all, “cold beer can be delivered anywhere,” my friend graciously reminded me. I should have been shocked he hadn’t found us sooner.

Another whole new world

As you trek deeper down the Tà Năng-Phan Dũng trail, the landscape starts to unwrap itself. Lowlands become sparsely covered hilltops covered in patches of young forest or dotted with a lone tree. Eventually, the route took us through a bamboo forest and up the back of a long, last, steep hill. And as we cleared the treeline and came around the side of the giant bulbous mound of earth we had just scaled, the scene and sky grew before our eyes. We had arrived, safely transported to another world. 

Boldly and graciously, the landscape evolves with the seasons here. The sparsely camouflaged ridges are sometimes covered in patches of dense, deep green, and sometimes they are bald. Underneath the ground growth, the hills are covered in a type of basaltic soil that, when pounded by Vietnam’s iconic rains, turns a vibrant orangey-tan, gets thick and slick and dries like potter’s clay. 

By the time you come up to your second or third incline, you would notice the deep grooves the machines cut into the side of each pitch, and it becomes clear why the bikes are as rugged and souped-up as they are. Their revving motors and altered anatomies produce a loud chug-chug-chug that announces their arrival before they can be seen. And then watching them is a joy: chain suddenly crucial, power plainly obvious, operator’s command of the situation — relaxed and masterful. Sometimes an extra passenger sits atop the cargo, sometimes three men straddle the long frame, but they always smiles; half-smoked cigarettes occupy the corners of their mouths. 

Chang Adventure

Both of my trips were made possible through the guidance and support of the enthusiastic trekking group, Chang Adventure, a team of young, local nature lovers who have made a business out of taking fellow hikers on unique, remote adventures throughout the central and southern regions of Vietnam. With an everything-included model, they make it easy for hikers to sign up and go; no equipment or extensive preparation necessary.

Chang Adventure's commitment to sustainability further sets them apart. Each customer who signs up for one of their treks donates five trees to the Forest Garden Project, a project dedicated to respecting, reforesting, and educating about Vietnam’s Central Highlands, in partnership with local farmers. 

Since the organizers opt to keep group numbers small and treat all their guests as old friends, they are able to create an instant and intimate comradery within their teams, an aspect that makes it hard not to fall into new, fast friendships. The hike will get you on your first trip, but the people and the moments this experience fosters will keep you coming back. 

A sunrise worth going back for

I woke up as the sky was already changing. My body was moving before my brain caught up. I crawled out of my tent, put on my shoes, and roused my friends. As I pulled myself up and out into the dawn air, the scene beyond our little mound of planet gobbled me up from the top down. I closed my eyes and let myself to be taken away by the beauty of what was unfolding before me. Behind my lids lay a background of dusty, lavender blue, streaked with neon pink and fire bursts of orange.

The air was cool but not cold, the best word for it is probably “fresh,” a word we rarely get to use when describing the weather in southern Vietnam. With my eyes shut, I allowed myself to tune into the gentle choir of different songs — monkeys, cicadas, and a chorus of bird calls. Each note was unique and vibrant against the soft quiet of dawn. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It brought me back to my feet, bare on the wild grass, still dewy from the night.

Voices and the sounds of breakfast started to fade in against the jungle’s pleasant cacophony. I opened my eyes and in front of me was an expansive valley of receding hills smothered in layers of whipped, white morning mist. Each row a deeper shade of blue-ish gray; each row an extra barrier between us and the real world. It took us both an extra beat before we bid adieu to the moment and turned back towards the smell of fresh campfire-brewed coffee. 

If this moment appeals to you, find Chang Adventure and sign up for their next trek. Hồng Trang, who often uses the English name Kate, one of the founding members, and the rest of the crew are even greater gems than the utterly breathtaking vistas they will lead you too. It doesn’t happen often that you stumble upon one of those great fleeting things — be it a place, a group, or a tradition — before it becomes a “was.” And in my humble opinion, hiking Tà Năng is one of those very rare things. Don’t wait, because as we all know, a thing so great surely doesn’t last forever.

This article was originally published in 2022.

A 3,000-kilometer coastline is one of nature’s best gifts to Vietnam, bringing about not just ample seafood, but also a motherlode of sea salt.

Salt fields in Cà Ná, Ninh Thuận, whose salinity is highest in Vietnam.

For centuries, salt has entered Vietnam’s collective memory as a cultural symbol that’s both familiar and profound. In our folklore, salt often represents deep affection: “Muối ba năm muối đang còn mặn / Gừng chín tháng gừng hãy còn cay” (The salt remains salty even after three years / Gingers are just as spicy nine months later). Besides, “đầu năm mua muối, cuối năm mua vôi” (buy salt when the year begins, buy lime when the year ends) is a tradition that reflects ancient Vietnamese’s belief in salt as a token of luck, because the pureness of salt can dispel the bad mojo of an unfortunate year.

Vietnam’s coastal communities have made full use of seawater to produce salt for hundreds of years. Along the length of the country, salt farming exists in 19 provinces across all three regions. Amongst those, Ninh Thuận is the “salt capital” of the central region thanks to ideal geographical conditions allowing it to put out nearly 50% of the national yield.

Salt is an indispensable part of life and a symbolic icon in Vietnamese culture.

Mother Nature bestowed on Ninh Thuận breathtaking landscapes, but also a type of acrid climate that will deter even the most enduring visitors. Luckily, it is this constantly dry and hot weather with low humidity and precipitation that makes the province the holy ground for salt farming. Moreover, Ninh Thuận’s 100-kilometer long coastline gives it ample access to saltwater to produce tasty salt grains. Here, salt production concentrates in communes like Phương Hải, Tri Hải, Nhơn Hải (Ninh Hải District) and Cà Ná, Phước Diêm, and Phước Minh (Thuận Nam District). Salt farms, in total, account for almost 3,000 hectares of the province’s area.

Harvesting salt in Tri Hải.

Only by driving past Ninh Thuận during July and August did I finally understand why this place is nicknamed the land of razor-sharp wind and blistering sun. Spectacular hills flow through the foreground while in the distance, mountain ranges stretch straight into the emerald ocean. Each blow of the wind carries that distinctive maritime brackish taste. Once the hills are gone, you’ll immediately be greeted by patches of fields full of mounds of stark white salt. Some squares have been irrigated recently, looking like a placid lake. Others are sparkling with salt crystals, as white as fresh snow. Here and there, conical hats bobble as farmers move about to rake in salt. A sense of urgency lingers in the hot air of August. The more intense the sun is, the more evaporation takes place, so working outdoors in extreme heat is a built-in part of the job. The hotter the day, the busier the work.

Bùi Trọng Hòa, a salt farmer in Phương Cựu, rakes salt into a mound.

I dropped by a salt farm in Phương Cựu, Ninh Hải District, one of the central region’s oldest and largest salt co-opts. I met Bùi Trọng Hòa as he was collecting salt crystals. “The salt trade is mainly active from December to August of the next year. July and August are peak months as the heat is the strongest in the year. It rains very rarely in Ninh Thuận, but when it does, it can destroy an entire [salt] field that’s drying,” the uncle told me as he continued raking. Hòa shared that, if weather permits, his two sào (500 square meters each) of farmland can produce 4 tons of salt after one harvest. Usually, salt crystals will form after 7–10 days of drying. If the sun is consistent and there’s no rain, it only takes 5–6 days from when the field is irrigated with seawater until the first batch can be collected.

Under the searing summer sun, Hòa’s shirt was soaked with sweat. His hands gripped the rake tightly. He deftly moved the salt from one field to another. Pyramids of salt started piling up on the water surface in neat rows. The field surface became a giant mirror reflecting the scenery; the symmetry was astounding. In the middle of everything, salt farmers were like artists painting white brushstrokes on the canvas of Ninh Thuận.

Võ Văn Lâu, another farmer in Phương Cựu, harvests salt.

On the field, everyone has their own task. One rakes salt into mounds while another shovels the final product onto wheelbarrows, each transporting outside into a larger pile. Võ Văn Lâu couldn’t give me the exact number of trips he takes every day because there were just so many: “Salt farmers like me sell our bodies to the trade. If nature blesses us, we have salt. When it’s time to harvest, we rake and transport countless fields until there’s no more salt to collect. There are times in the middle of the day when dark clouds start forming everywhere. We’re very nervous because if it rains, the past few days of waiting are wasted.” He then slowly pushed the heavy wheelbarrow down the field paths to a gathering point just outside. From there, wholesalers will take the salt to distributors and refiners.

The collected salt is moved from the fields to a central gathering point.

Salt farming requires not just strength, health, and endurance, but also ample folk knowledge and experience, as farmers need to observe the working conditions and make adjustments accordingly. The process might involve several steps, but overall, the two main ones are prepping the field surface and salt crystallization. 

According to Hòa, around the lunar October every year, farmers will begin treating the field surface before irrigation takes place. The fields are cleaned to remove trash, weeds, and moss, then the ground surface is flattened. After that, farmers form the raised edges of the fields before drying out the earth's surface in the sun to minimize water seepage. Long before, salt production followed the sand-drying method, but over time, this has shifted to industrial-scale methods. Farmers also make use of tarps to cover the field surface to retain seawater. Salt created this way is cleaner and purer, containing fewer contaminants. At the moment, around 2,400 hectares of fields in Ninh Thuận use tarps and around 630 hectares follow the naked ground method.

There are two main ways to produce salt: sand-drying and tarp-drying.

Once the field surface has been treated, farmers irrigate the fields using seawater through a custom system of pipes. In the first stage, the fields are referred to as “ruộng phơi” (drying field). After some of the water has evaporated, the remaining saltwater is channeled to another field, “ruộng ăn,” to promote crystallization. Whether evaporation is fast or slow depends on several factors such as field surface area, the ground’s thermal absorption, and weather conditions. After 7–10 days, white salt crystals would appear like snow.

The rate of crystallization depends on field surface area, the ground’s thermal absorption, and weather conditions.

Salt-making is a physically demanding job that hinges a lot of weather patterns. During wetter months, the salt fields must rest. But as the farmers told me, “each trade has its own joys.” If fishermen are delighted to see boatloads of fish every morning, the happiness of salt farmers lies in the white flakes of salt that glimmer in the sunlight. Thanks to the tireless work of farmers in Ninh Thuận, the distinctive flavors of the central ocean are enjoyed by Vietnamese from every corner of the country, encapsulated in tiny grains of sparkling salt.

Why am I so obsessed with chè bột lọc heo quay?

Bột lọc heo quay is a fairly straightforward concept, as its name already tells you everything you need to know. A tiny cube of pork (heo quay) is covered in a coating of tapioca dough (bột lọc), formed into a sizable pearl much like those found in bubble tea, and then eaten with a simple ginger syrup and ice. Finding out about its existence the first time often elicits two types of reactions in people: disbelief or delighted curiosity. Meat? In my dessert? Well, it’s more common than you think.

My initial response somewhat leaned towards the latter, and upon discovering a restaurant in Saigon that serves it, the Saigoneer team made a beeline at the door. This iteration, which we’ll refer to as 001, is the most visual appealing bột lọc heo quay I’ve had: it comes in an aquamarine glazed ceramic bowl, surrounded by julienned strips of ginger and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds. The tapioca dough is pliable and well-cooked, but the nub of roast pork inside is underseasoned and lean, and thus, dry and fibrous. It is certainly photogenic and shows a level of care from the restaurant kitchen in the way it was assembled.

001: Chè bột lọc heo quay at Góc Huế, Saigon. Photos by Cao Nhân.

Bột lọc heo quay originates from Huế, the old imperial city in Central Vietnam, and according to our guide, it was once a privileged treat reserved for the imperial court due to the level of intricacy involved in its preparation. During a recent trip to Huế, it was natural that we sought out some popular local versions.

002 came from Chè Hẻm, the city’s most popular dessert spot, though it was clear that most patrons were tourists. The operation here is rather hectic but efficient; gaggles of tourists speaking all sorts of Vietnamese dialects swoop in and out like termites. Chè Hẻm’s bộc lọc heo quay is the largest, with a thick, opaque tapioca skin that was unfortunately as tough as rubber. The filling was a surprise: a mixture of peppery minced pork with bits of wood-ear mushroom that was no different than the filling of bao buns in Saigon. The syrup was rather boringly sweet. Though the seasoning and pepper were interesting, I couldn’t help but notice that it wasn’t roast pork.

002: Chè Hẻm, Huế. Photos by Khôi Phạm.

Last but certainly not least, 003 was the offering from Chè Mợ Tôn Đích, a highly sought-after destination for locals and tourists alike, judging by the full house of people waiting patiently 15 minutes before opening time. Here, bột lọc heo quay is served in a tall glass in a subtly gingery syrup. The tapioca dough’s texture balances between chewy and elasticity in a pleasant way, but the headliner of the show was undoubtedly what it enveloped: shredded pork that was caramelized in soy sauce, sugar, and five spice — like a sweeter thịt kho or carnitas. To me, this was the best interpretation of the famous dessert, even though, once again, this was not heo quay. But does it even matter at this point?

003 Chè Mợ Tôn Đích, Huế. Photos by Khôi Phạm.

As much as it is polarizing, the savory bột lọc heo quay is a quirky outlier in a sea of often cloyingly sweet, pasty Vietnamese chè, and I realized that a part of me, perhaps, was hoping that, by being able to appreciate its whimsy, I myself could be quirky too. Judging by how wildly different all three versions are, even within Huế itself, I’m happy to report that there might be room for everyone to be quirky after all.

Addresses
001 Góc Huế / 41 Kỳ Đồng, Ward 9, D3, HCMC
002 Chè Hẻm / 1 Kiệt, 29 Hùng Vương, Phú Hội Ward, Huế
003 Chè Mợ Tôn Đích / 20 Đinh Tiên Hoàng, Phú Hoà Ward, Huế

You first know she’s approaching by the sound of her wings; her broad shadow flashing across the forest floor. Even from far below, her body looks enormous. At half a meter long, she is roughly five times the size of the woodpeckers seen in the gardens of Europe or North America. She is the largest woodpecker left in the world, and the jewel of Yok Đôn National Park.

A great slaty woodpecker. Photo by Md Shahanshah Bappy

This April, I traveled to Đắk Lắk to search for the great slaty woodpecker (gõ kiến xám), a rarely seen species native to the dryer forests of Southeast Asia. In Vietnam, the best chance of spotting this magnificent bird is Yok Đôn National Park. Snug up against the Cambodian border, Yok Đôn offers over 1,000 square kilometers of broadleaved dipterocarp forest. It is the largest national park in Vietnam and was among the first to be founded. But despite its size, beauty and relative accessibility — the park is flat, walkable, and well-maintained — Yok Đôn sees few visitors. The main draw of the park is a population of domesticated Asiatic elephants, another charismatic gray giant.

Yok Đôn's towering dipterocarp trees. Photo by Thomas Mourez.

But we weren’t here for elephants. We were a small party of dedicated birdwatchers, led by Bùi Đức Tiến, vice-president of the Vietnam Bird Conservation Society and a contributor to the recently released Các Loài Chim Việt Nam (The Birds of Vietnam, Thế Giới Publishers). This is the definitive Vietnamese-language photographic guide to the over 800 species of bird that can be found in Vietnam, and it has no equal in English. Which is all to say that Tiến knows his stuff — he’s familiar with the various habitats of the park, and was reasonably sure that we could find one of these gray giants. Still, a birdwatcher knows better than to make promises. The great slaty woodpecker is a threatened species. Previous visitors to the park have come up empty-handed.

Left: Bùi Đức Tiến, vice-president of the Vietnam Bird Conservation Society, during the trip. Right: The road leading into the forest. Photos by Thomas Mourez.

The great slaty woodpecker is not the only giant to be pushed towards extinction by human activity. That caveat, “largest woodpecker left in the world,” is only because the larger ivory-billed and imperial woodpeckers of North America were recently considered to be certainly extinct, though back in the United States there remains a devoted cohort of unicorn-chasers who insist that the ivory-billed is alive, poring over pixelated photos that are roughly as compelling as evidence of bigfoot. For the time being, there is no question that a healthy population of great slaty woodpeckers remains in Yok Đôn. But given their listing in 2010 as “Vulnerable” on the IUCN Red List, their future is not guaranteed.

Tiến explained that the greatest threats to the bird life of Yok Đôn come, predictably, from humans. Cattle grazing within the park boundary, as well as poaching and trapping for the caged bird trade all take their toll. Within minutes of entering the park, we saw evidence of this activity. Herds of cows wandered beneath the broadleaved trees, their bells the only sound in the silence. On our second day, we encountered and destroyed a large mist net, over two meters high and four meters across, meant to snare birds as they passed through. But the bird life in the park remains abundant. We saw 111 species in just four days, 11 of those being different kinds of woodpecker, with gõ kiến xám taking the place of honor atop our list.

It is difficult to describe the sensation of spotting a rare and beautiful bird in the wild. Imagine four people hooting and leaping while trying to make as little noise as possible. Our first of two sightings happened suddenly, a bird bursting across treetops and flying directly over our heads. Its silhouette is that of a pterodactyl — thin neck and oversized head, great dipping wingbeats. The woodpecker landed on an exposed patch of tree trunk just long enough for a few passable photographs, and after that abundant courtesy, it was gone.

Gõ kiến xám seen from a distance. Photo by Thomas Mourez.

We are not alone in this passion, us four lunatics all celebrating as though we’d each just scored the winning goal in a World Cup match. According to the Center for Responsible Travel, birdwatching is a multi-billion dollar industry, with over 3 million international trips taken every year with the primary purpose of birdwatching. As a safe country with outstanding bird diversity, Vietnam stands to benefit from a boom in low-impact, high-spend birdwatchers. Indeed, Tiến sees forest preservation and anti-poaching efforts as working hand-in-hand with efforts to increase domestic interest in Vietnam’s amazing birdlife, and improving accommodations and other tourist infrastructure.

A pair of black-headed woodpeckers (gõ kiến xanh hông đỏ) seen during the trip. Photo by Alexander Yates.

Until that boom comes, gõ kiến xám remains in the forests of Yok Đôn, raising chicks on meals of fat termites. Anyone looking to see them, or the many other stunning falcons, parakeets, owls and woodpeckers that inhabit Yok Đôn, need only step into the woods, look up, and hope.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Being born at the cusp of the Year of the Rabbit (cat) and the Year of the Tiger offers the literal meaning for Hoàng Phúc's artist name, thố đầu • hổ vĩ, but he hopes it carries a metaphorical one, as well: “a humble beginning but a positive end,” he explained to Saigoneer. thố đầu • hổ vĩ’s origins may be humble — he started seriously focusing on illustrations just four years ago when he started university — but he has already reached remarkable achievements, as evidenced by three projects he shared with us.

‘Chapter 4: Chaos’ from the “Trăm hoa đua sắc” project.

“Vô công,” “Hội,” and “Trăm hoa đua sắc” each reveal Hoàng Phúc’s unique style that blends cultural materials, images, and indigenous symbols from Vietnam and East Asia to tell contemporary stories concerned with existential issues, including freedom, loneliness, and feelings of uselessness. Notably, he concerns himself with multi-piece projects as opposed to one-off illustrations, due to his belief that artwork operates best when several images come together to tell a concise, if not always obvious, story. Whether his own work or that of others, he explained: “Many single paintings with the same concept that complete a story together satisfy me more.”

‘Chapter 1: Leisured’ from the “Trăm hoa đua sắc” project.

“Trăm hoa đua sắc,” (100 Blooming Flowers), for example, is a 2023 project that captures his experience of visiting art exhibitions and museums. He observed that other patrons were not there to enjoy the art, but rather to take photos and videos of themselves for social media, with the artwork simply serving as a trendy backdrop.

‘Chapter 2: Wandering’ (left) and ‘Chapter 3: Witnessing’ (right) from “Trăm hoa đua sắc.”

He proceeded to his experiences with visual references from Vietnamese paintings, photography, architecture and traditional crafts. The small details, such as stone lion statues, lacquer textures, and rounded railing pillars, all connect the works with cherished traditions of visual identity. However, the characters, seen posing and playing but never admiring the work, offer criticism about the younger generation and its relationship to art. “Trăm hoa đua sắc,” was released in 2023, and Phúc said that, on further reflection, he believed “maybe it is a different form of experience for them. They are not really interested in exhibitions, but are spending time to care about themselves in an art space.”

A work from the “Hội” project.

Meanwhile, a newer project takes a more lighthearted tone, underscoring his thematic versatility. “Hội” concerns ítself with moments of childhood play and nostalgic merriments. Vibrant colors and bold lines complement the begone fashions and festival activities.

Two untitled pieces from “Hội.”

In addition to the children occupied with carefree games, “Hội” contains striking depictions of slightly surreal roosters. While not overtly addressing the project’s theme, within the context, the bird’s throat feathers call to mind exuberant confetti or firecrackers, while the looping legs tipped by graceful talons suggest the sleek seriousness of play. But this is just the way it makes me feel. Such room for interpretation is intentional. As thố đầu • hổ vĩ explained: “I often use metaphors and metonymies to develop a story. A second layer of meaning lies beneath the stories, the eye-catching images will always be a gift to me every time I watch and create works.”

Texture, color and details flirt with metaphors in this work from “Hội.”

“Hội” suggests a sense of lurking danger amidst the play.

Select teaser images from Hội have been appearing on his social media alongside some from “Vô Công” (No Work), another project set for release soon. The series of illustrations seeks to capture the feeling of helplessness and emptiness a person feels when unemployed, when the world’s economy is struggling or more broadly when a person simply feels useless in their lives, the artist explains.

Modern emotional states acquire traditional aesthetics in “Vô Công.”

Taken side-by-side, these sister images from “Vô Công” reveal Thọ đầu Hổ Vĩ's interest in textures and patterns.

This story, perhaps immediate and relatable to many people in 2025, borrows imagery from the past. Ceramic pots, imperial-era headware, a pagoda, and a quang gánh carrying an individual remind viewers that ennui is a timeless element of the human experience. One of thố đầu • hổ vĩ's favorite works to date, it serves as a good introduction to his work and his overarching interest in works that contain “a realistic theme expressed in a romantic form.”

Internal turmoil seems to create a setting of celestial lastitude.

thố đầu • hổ vĩ. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Only 26 years old, Phúc likely has a long career ahead that will be filled with surprising developments and beautiful fascinations. Pressed about his future plans, he told us: “Right now I'm interested in telling a long stories with concepts (courage, love, adulthood, etc.) and specific, touching stories the way [a] mangaka does; not exactly manga-like artwork, but maybe a more narrative and long-term project.” Regardless of what lies ahead, his work will be very worth keeping an eye on.

Altered colors and textures for the same images result in radically different moods.

Perhaps there is jubilation to be felt in the absence of work.

To view more artworks by Phúc, visit his Instagram account @thodauhovi.

[Top image: An untitled work from “Hội”]

More often than not, a country’s independence is won with guns. The location where the first shots were fired for Vietnam is memorialized to this day.

Tucked at the end of a small alleyway, Pháo đài Láng, or Fort of Láng, is surrounded by houses and apartment buildings. With no venerable battlement, the only structures here are a small memorial hall and a nondescript artillery mount.

The artillery, a 75mm anti-aircraft gun, is set in concrete at the center of a hollow mount where a stone plaque reads: “At 20:03 on December 19, 1946, Pháo đài Láng fired the first shots at the French army in the Hanoi Imperial Citadel, beginning the nationwide Resistance War. This was one of the two guns of the fort back then — a memorial for the ‘Brave Death for the survival of the Fatherland’ spirit of the people of Hanoi.”  

The last gun at Pháo đài Láng. Photo by Linh Phạm.

The place that heralded Vietnam’s Resistance War was built by the French in 1940. Upon taking the land from the people of Láng Trung Village (now Láng Thượng, Đống Đa District), they erected the pháo đài to ward off Japanese air attacks. After the August Revolution in 1945, the Việt Minh, or League for the Independence of Vietnam, claimed the fort.

On June 29, 1946, the Pháo đài Láng platoon was formed, led by Nguyễn Ứng Gia. However, they lacked equipment. Though a place meant to specialize in long-range artillery, they did not have a sighting device, binoculars, or even a radio. Gia had to borrow things like a tapeline from a tailor and a compass from a geomancer.

The compass used at the fort. Photo by Linh Phạm.

One day, General Võ Nguyên Giáp came to visit the fort. Lieutenant Gia reported: “Without sighting equipment, we drew a circle on cardboard and marked the degrees. Then we put the cardboard on a map to find firing directions.” General Giáp replied, “Comrades, you must be more creative. When needed, you can lower the barrel and fire directly at the incoming enemies. But always remember to maintain and protect the weapon.”

Between 1945 and 1946, Vietnam and France struggled to redefine their relationship. The former wanted its independence recognized, while the latter wanted to protect its interests in Indochina. Tensions built with events like the Hải Phòng incident, which left 6,000 Vietnamese civilians dead and eventually, all negotiations failed, leading to the inevitable war.

On the morning of December 19, 1946, France's General Morlière issued an ultimatum — the third one within two days — demanding Vietnamese forces disarm and concede Hanoi. The Vietnamese rejected the ultimatum and decided that the time had come for open conflict. That afternoon, the fort received the order: “Tonight, Pháo đài Láng will fire first. Order from above: at 20:00, our forces will bomb the Yên Phụ power plant, lights will go out in the city.”

Caption: Artillery formation in Láng, Hanoi ready to fire on French troops. Photo by Linh Phạm.

In an interview with An Ninh Thủ Đô, Đỗ Văn Đa, a member of the Pháo đài Láng platoon, reminisced about that day when the war began. “I still remember clearly, the afternoon of December 19, 1946, Gia told us, ‘Comrades, have early dinner tonight, afterward, get to your positions and await orders.’ It was a freezing winter night. We, the village boys from outside of Hanoi, more used to planting rice than holding guns, were so nervous. We could not imagine what battle would be like. At 20:03, the city plunged into darkness, Gia commanded: ‘Fire!’ For the first time, I got to hear the furious roar of ông Voi (Mr. Elephant, the gun’s nickname). My ears were numb but I didn’t stop reloading. Three bouts, six rounds, soared away. It was so cold but we sweated like pigs.”

The fort’s target was the French command complex in the Hanoi Imperial Citadel. But without a radio, they didn’t know if their rounds found their mark or not. It wasn’t until noon the next day that reports came in. “We were like kids,” Đa said. “Overwhelmed with joy when the scouts reported that we hit the targets in the citadel. The mothers and sisters bringing us food were also happy.”

“The next night, the French fired at us,” Đa continued. “Shells hit the village, houses were burnt, people died and were wounded. But the supply squad still brought food to the fort. The steaming rice was warm with the love of the people. On December 21, we shot down a plane. Comrade Võ Nguyên Giáp sent a letter of compliment: ‘To praise the spirit of the soldiers at the fort.’ Contributing to the feat of ông Voi are the people of Láng Trung Village, feeding us and maintaining the guns.”

People of Láng Trung supporting Pháo đài Láng, oil on canvas. Photo by Linh Phạm.

The conflict that Mr. Elephant started would become known as the Battle of Hanoi, the opening salvo of the anti-French Resistance War. This battle would also be his last. After 60 days of fighting, the Việt Minh withdrew from the city and prepared for a prolonged war. On January 11, 1947, Đa’s platoon received orders to disable the guns and retreat to Hà Đông.

More than 70 years have passed since those days of smoke and shells. Now, the only things falling on Pháo đài Láng are autumn leaves. Đỗ Đức Thành, the caretaker, tells Saigoneer that sometimes he has to sweep 40 kilograms of leaves a day. And in this time of peace, the fort faces a new kind of foe: poor urban planning. A road construction project is threatening to cut this national historic site in half. Hopefully, ông Voi will be protected this time.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2020.