Education is a lifelong journey, so it’s no surprise that some parts of learning require a trip away from the familiar. Within the rolling hills of Lào Cai stands Ardingly College Vietnam (ACVN), an institution dedicated to providing a space and community that nurtures not only students from Vietnam, but also from across the globe.

Saigoneer’s visit to ACVN last month was particularly illuminating because when deciding where to send my daughter for school, I hadn't considered a boarding school, in part because Vietnam didn't offer one at the time. Saigoneer’s time in Lào Cai thus provided an introduction to boarding schools broadly, as well as the unique pastoral atmosphere carefully cultivated amongst a stunning natural environment.

Parents of children who attend schools in Saigon or Hanoi may often reflect mournfully on the cement, construction, traffic, and chaos that surrounds a daily commute to classes. Arriving at ACVN was the complete opposite. Against a constant backdrop of lush mountains, greenery occupied every direction I looked; the fresh air was palpable, as was the sheer space to move and think. More than providing merely pretty scenery, the setting has a profound impact on the ACVN experience.

“It’s really about that outdoor experiential learning, being able to take students outside into the environment a lot more,” explained Craig Lewis, the school’s headmaster. Because of its rural setting, ACVN enjoys possibly the largest plot size for an international school. This translates into lovely areas for sporting events and indoor swimming pools but also excellent facilities. From state-of-the-art science laboratories to libraries and art rooms, these facilities rival those of the urban international schools many will be familiar with. During my tour, I was particularly impressed with the art exhibitions, which not only reveal the excellence of the facilities, but the school’s emphasis on holistic skills and the curation of individual creativity.

“We talk about holistic development of a child, but we really want that,” Lewis said when I visited for a chat in his office. He stressed that the school aims to develop students “who have respect, have resilience, have compassion, are service-oriented and are globally aware. We also want our students to come out having done a lot more than just academics.” A makerspace, lab system, library with 6,000 books, music room, auditorium, and sports fields all contribute to the goal of nurturing students beyond academics.

The school’s House System, a core tenet of authentic British boarding schools, also plays a major role in fostering well-rounded young adults. My daughter’s school in Saigon uses a house system, so I am familiar with how their healthy competitions and challenges not just teach teamwork and leadership, but are also a great source of fun and excitement. "The kids love it because it breaks up what they think of as the academic day at school,” Lewis confirmed before explaining the character traits students gain amidst the fun. “When you have these house events, we talk about winning, but how do you lose with integrity? That’s just as important as learning how to win: to lose with integrity, or to learn how to be better, without it being someone else’s fault and without having a negative impact on your community; working out how to positively work together.”

While familiar with top-tier facilities and the house system, I arrived at ACVN completely ignorant of how the “boarding” part of a boarding school operates and had many questions that Lewis patiently answered. First off, he noted that students cannot board until secondary school at age 12, when they are mature enough to thrive in the environment. And there are multiple boarding options available, including partial boarding wherein students spend weekdays at the school but return to their families on weekends. Both options are “based around safety, support and pastoral care. It’s based around extra tutoring support to help academic growth.”

When observing some of these boarding students, I was struck by not only how content they looked, but how mature and independent they behaved. This, Lewis said, is by design. “It’s learning how to take care of themselves; just everyday things like doing their own laundry. Even though we have staff dedicated to helping and supporting them to get up and have meals, they still have to learn to develop that themselves.”

This balance of supervised support and freedom that boarding students experience extends beyond routine daily tasks like ironing clothes and cleaning their rooms to academic, co-curricular and social development. “It’s about creating independent, globally well-rounded students who have the chance to interact with other international students while living together.” The impact of these social opportunities is profound, he said, noting, “They start to support and interact with each other and actually follow each other’s passions and start to work together and enjoy each other’s things, things they wouldn’t have thought of before. It’s exposure to it, and it’s wonderful to see.”

Such support and interaction is embedded in the daily schedule which begins on weekdays at 6:30 wakeup and progresses to breakfast at 7:10 followed by homeroom tutor time from 7:45 until 8:00 when regular academic classes with breaks continues until 15:30. The rest of the afternoon is occupied by extracurricular activities and sports until dinner at 18:00 followed by study hall and preperations from 18:40 until 20:10 after which students are free for relaxing and snacks until handheld devices are turned in during a house meeting at 21:00 followed by lights off before 22:00. Weekends are more flexible with free time, optional trips and and organized activities.

Throughout the entire week teachers, of course, play an important role. Lewis said that the system is also “about the support and care that we give these students …. the opportunities that we give to students outside of academic curriculum time, where we can actually individualize their passions in a way that we may not be able to with a day student.”

ACVN seems particularly able to provide this personalized attention because of the diverse and committed staff. I observed a close-knit group of international teachers not only smiling together during meals but then working with students after dinner. Because the teachers also live on campus, there are significant opportunities for pastoral care after classes and on weekends that would not be available were it not a boarding school.

Of course, parents will have concerns about being away from their children. Lewis and the entire team make great efforts to educate parents on the benefits and logistics of the boarding school system and ensure families stay in touch via scheduled calls and frequent communication. “Usually, by the time students come home for their first break or holiday and say how much they love boarding and how they’ve made friends, the parents tend to feel better. The children then tend to be able to express themselves to their family more, so it’s actually quite a positive experience,” he said with satisfaction.

By the end of my conversation and tour, I was imagining if the fates had shifted and I had sent my daughter to ACVN. Learning about the school’s values, aims and operations gave me confidence that she would thrive here. I think she would be included in Lewis’ description of his favorite response from students: “‘God, we were happy here. We had a great time. We made friends, we supported each other, and we got great results.’”

“Tombe la merde; tu ne viendras pas ce soir [Shit is falling; you’re not coming tonight]”: an outburst of laughter and applause would inevitably fill the room as my dad, in his deep, mellifluous voice, put his own profane twist on Salvatore Adamo’s ‘Tombe la neige.’ This track, like ‘Paroles… Paroles…’ by Dalida or Christophe’s ‘Aline,’ are widely known and adored in both France and my family in Vietnam. My childhood unfolded against these rhythms, melodies, and lyrics, whose origins were so far removed from me, both temporally and geographically.

After my 15 years in French school in both Hanoi and Saigon, French, alongside English, gradually became the primary vehicle of my thoughts and interactions, in and outside of school. Only recently did I discover that my family’s entanglement with French music dates back four generations, and that it is embedded within a much larger context of French instrumentalization of music as a colonial tool in Vietnam.   

Four generations ago, my ancestors — like many Vietnamese households under French rule — spoke the imposed language of administration, business, and higher education, fluently. In the mid 19^th century, my paternal great-grandfather served as Minister of Education under Emperor Bảo Đại. The ministry operated on a bilingual basis, with French dominating as the language of official communications and decrees. He was also a scholar who worked closely with French texts. My maternal great-grandfather translated and interpreted for the French administration, while his wife sold silk to French buyers. Outside of work, French culture followed my great-grandparents home primarily through classical romantic compositions unaccompanied by lyrics. I’ve always assumed that the presence of French music in Vietnam was an organic cultural residue from colonization, but the discovery that French musical education in Vietnam was a colonial strategy came as quite a shock. 

My paternal great-grandparents, Phạm Quỳnh and Lê Thị Vân

My maternal great-grandmother who did business with French textile buyers

French music as a “civilizing” tool

The genesis of French music in Vietnam can be traced back to the early 20^th century. French musical performances began as early as 1883, shortly after the conquest of Hanoi. Military troops sought entertainment in impromptu musical shows, which eventually became more formal musical and theatrical concerts. At the time, only private instruction of western music was available to residents of Hanoi. It was not until the 1920s that official calls for a music school intended to instruct locals were made. The colonial administration realized something crucial: it would be impossible to foster a new generation of Vietnamese — a class of “Francais de couleur,” or Frenchmen of color — without French-organized and -operated schools. This context favored the implementation of French musical pedagogy, set to accompany French academic training, in Hanoi.

The “mission civilisatrice,” the narrative that masks exploitation of colonies as the humanitarian and ethical duty of imperial powers, was the chief justification of French colonization. If the construction of urban infrastructure — buildings, bridges, transportation networks — is often cited as successful “civilizing” efforts, France quickly saw that material embellishments alone failed at molding Vietnamese “with French tastes and habits[,] whose success would encourage the rest of the Vietnamese public to assimilate.”

An excerpt of L’Avenir du Tonkin from April 25, 1925 includes a review of a music recital performed by the pupils of “l’Institut Musical de Hanoi.” Albert Poincignon opened the Institute in 1913 before opening the Conservatory of the Far East in 1927. This review contains the names of (some) participants of the recital: no Vietnamese names appear in the review, which suggests that there might not have been any Vietnamese students.

In 1927, efforts to establish a rigorous and formalized French/Western musical education in Hanoi amounted to the creation of the French Conservatory of the Far East by Albert Poincignon, a customs official for the colonial administration and private music instructor. Its explicit purpose was “to alter the sensibilities and tastes of the Vietnamese.” Although some colonialists believed Vietnamese to be “unmusical and incapable of appreciating western aesthetic traditions,” others saw in Vietnamese an “innate musicality” and instrumentalized this as a means for drawing the Vietnamese majority closer to the French. Thus, formalized French musical pedagogy began in Hanoi with rigorous piano lessons accompanied by intensive training in western musical history and theory.

Initially, the conservatory taught French pupils and a minority of wealthy Vietnamese students; by 1930, the latter had outnumbered the former. It was a short-lived institution, but ultimately achieved its goals with the help of societal forces: knowledge of western classical music became not only trendy, but a marker of belonging to an elite class. My great-grandparents did not have to be enrolled at the conservatory to experience this phenomenon firsthand: their musical taste and sensibilities had indeed been altered, and would be passed down to my grandparents.

My grandparents were born in Hanoi in the 1930s, when French music was just growing in popularity across the country. My maternal grandmother grew up taking private piano lessons and learning western musical theory before becoming a pianist and teaching the curriculum herself after 1954. In the 1930s–1940s, French music maintained a strong presence within urban culture in both North and South Vietnam, particularly amongst the elites and bourgeoisie. At the same time, Vietnamese musicians and composers began embedding French and other western musical elements into tân nhạc, or “new music.” It was in this musical context that my paternal grandfather was completing his study of Medicine in French, before joining the revolution as a military doctor shortly after 1945. In his adolescence, he enjoyed western classical music, which continued playing in his house long after independence, throughout my dad’s childhood.

My maternal grandmother playing the piano (she was in band practice).

When French melodies took on Vietnamese identities

In 1954, Vietnam was officially divided into North and South Vietnam, and a musical split followed. During the 1950s and 1960s, Saigon became a cosmopolitan musical hub where French, American, and Vietnamese musical cultures intermingled and flourished. By the mid 1960s, French artists such as Dalida, Christophe, and Françoise Hardy were well-known amongst the youths of Saigon, far from my family. This decade was also considered to be the golden age of Vietnamese adaptations of French songs: ‘Tombe la neige,’ ‘Histoire d’un amour,’ ‘Viens m’embrasser,’ ‘Bang Bang’ all took on new local lives, respectively becoming ‘Tuyết rơi,’ ‘Chuyện Tình Yêu,’ ‘Lại gần hôn anh’ and ‘Khi xưa ta bé.’ The lyrics of these French-language classics were all rewritten in Vietnamese by Phạm Duy, who is regarded as “the most prolific, varied, and influential of all the tân nhạc composers.” Decades later, I would rediscover these songs, first in French, then in Vietnamese, but more on that later.

These French singers have all had their songs refashioned into Vietnamese tân nhạc hits.

Meanwhile, Hanoi saw French popular music, and some of the Vietnamese tân nhạc that it influenced, gradually succumb to heavy censorship. In the north, the Vietnamese government promoted revolutionary and patriotic music to boost morale during the war — a genre often known as nhạc đỏ (red music). Simultaneously, tân nhạc, deemed a threat to public morale due to its sentimental and nostalgic qualities, was restricted. Surprisingly, French and western music survived the restrictions through conservatory training: classical music continued to be taught and performed, while Vietnamese composers incorporated western compositional techniques into revolutionary songs.

It was during this great musical split that my maternal grandfather served as head of the Cinematography Department, under the Ministry of Culture. His job granted him frequent trips to both Saigon and international destinations. My mom recalls how more often than not, my grandfather returned with CDs of French medleys he either purchased abroad or smuggled in from the south. Thus, my mom grew up to the notes of classical French music and the voice of Dalida, a voice I would grow up to know all too well.

French language skills were not passed down from my grandmother to her daughter, except musically. With no knowledge of the language, my mom knows all of the words to her favorite French pop songs; still today, she sings them, in near perfect pronunciation, instinctively. In comparison, my dad’s childhood saw significantly less French influence. It wasn’t until 1973 that he truly encountered French music, playing on the TV in the Soviet Union, where he studied. When he came home in 1979, western music, and French music in particular, was widely accessible across the country. His homecoming, as is true for his contact with French music in Vietnam, was brief. In 1982, my dad taught himself French while interning in Strasbourg. There, his encounters with French songs multiplied, deepening his connection to and appreciation for them. When he returned home for good, he continued listening to those songs and eventually passed them down to me.

Christophe, Don Hồ, and Thế Sơn perform Christophe’s ‘Aline’ in French and Vietnamese (Paris by Night, Volume 54).

Fast forward to the 2010s, the years of my childhood. Before the age of MTV and the hegemony of American pop princesses, my musical consciousness was largely dominated by Paris by Night. Specifically, the voices of Bằng Kiều, Elvis Phương, Tuấn Ngọc, Thanh Lan left a lasting impression on me, or rather, were insisted upon me. Whenever they came onto the TV screen, my parents would praise not just their voice, but their skillful rendition of French songs. I grew up with these songs in both languages, then quickly forgot about them until my high school years. During this period, my household saw a renaissance of French music, but this time with the original French lyrics. One sunny afternoon, I was passionately screaming “Et j’ai crié, crié, Aline!” with my parents in the car when something strange occurred: I began to remember distant Vietnamese words being sung to this same melody. Where are these songs from? Are they French or Vietnamese? My parents' inconsistent answers fueled my confusion.

Thanh Lan and Elvis Phương performing a medley of French songs (Paris by Night, Volume 50).

As it turns out, they’re both. Many Vietnamese adaptations of French melodies have become so popular in Vietnam that they have taken on lives of their own, almost entirely distinct from their French blueprints. In the couple of decades before and after 1975, the distinction between French pop classics and their Vietnamese adaptations might have been very clear in people’s minds. But today, decades after the golden age of tân nhạc, these Vietnamese adaptations no longer exist strictly as a version of pre-existing French songs, but as staples in their own right. Thus, one would be correct in referring to ‘Aline’ as Christphophe’s song, and also as Phạm Duy’s ‘Gọi Tên Người Yêu.’ Perhaps it is for this reason that I feel rather awkward when receiving comments such as “You must be at least half French” or “You’re as French as our kids,” when I revealed my familiarity with classic French pop. The French adults in my life understood this fluency, in addition to my command of the language, as marks of some “Frenchness” that 15 years of French education must have instilled in me. 

The excessively congratulatory tone of the remarks felt misplaced. Their speakers conditioned me to subconsciously view knowing these French songs as a testament to my achievement of becoming “French” in their eyes; I was proud because it seemed like the only appropriate reaction to such praise. Today, my feelings about the same compliments are much clearer: I do not view my perceived fluency in French culture as any achievement, for I never aspired to it. I recognize the history of the songs that my family and I cherish and acknowledge the French influence on those melodies, but I refuse the narrative that they signal any “Frenchness” in me.

In my mind, these tracks’ Vietnamese identities far predate my awareness that they had originated elsewhere. I inherited them as artifacts of both Vietnamese culture and my own family history, so these “compliments” deceived me into thinking that these songs were merely remnants of French culture. This narrative underplays my relationship with these songs as a Vietnamese person; more crucially, it ignores that these songs have Vietnamese lives. These melodies have travelled far and wide; they began as pieces of inherited culture, and eventually underwent significant transformations by Vietnamese talents who made them their own.

Does a house need walls?

That's not a rhetorical question. And the answer is no. This Saigon house, designed by CTA Creative Architects, lacks a single door frame, making use of elevation shifts and natural elements to separate rooms and signify disparate spaces.

Constructed as a second home next to the owner's main dwelling, it is situated in a typical city area which presents familiar problems of space, light and airflow. The architects responded to the challenges by rejecting urban topographies and elements, instead embracing free-flowing movement more frequently associated with the countryside. 

The home's most overt departure from norms is seen in its lack of doors, including one's absence at a front entrance. Instead, between the street front and the home's entry with garage rests a fish-filled body of water that could rightly be called a moat, were one keen on calling to mind a castle. No drawbridge exists; however, the stepping stones across the water are easily navigated. A fence in the front and a vegetable garden at the rear provide security and shield from noise and leering eyes, while the far-reaching roof slopes low over the front and back to provide shade. The bathroom doesn't even have a door, with the floor plan relying on hallways and angles to provide privacy.

In addition to the garden at the rear and row of vegetation between the front fence and pond, patches of plants occupy various points throughout the home. The greenery serves to separate the activities in the house: a quiet zone for working and relaxing in a jacuzzi in the rear and a more active front area consisting of the kitchen and living room. Sleeping quarters are tucked off to the side. 

The lack of front and back walls allows for ample airflow and natural light, which is enhanced thanks to a central skylight. Z-shaped louvers beneath the glass draw warm air up out of the home while allowing in fresh light for the plants and people below. Carefully constructed mesh casts captivating shadows throughout the interior. The sense of nature's intrusion on the domestic sphere is further established via the rustic building materials which include exposed stone, brick and wood and overall warm, muted tones.

Young people today fantasize about finally owning a set of keys to their own home, but perhaps really making it means owning a home that doesn't even have a door to unlock. 

Take a peek at more photos and the floor plan of this envy-worthy abode below:

Photos by Hiroyuki Oki via ArchDaily.

For those condemned to a long daily commute along that busiest of city arteries, Điện Biên Phủ Street, the clean, elegant lines of the Hồ Chí Minh City Eye Hospital offer a refreshing contrast to the surrounding urban clutter. The compound was formerly known as Clinique Saint-Paul, so many older Saigoneers still refer to it by the name Bệnh viện Xanh-Pôn.

Funded and operated by the Sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres, the Clinique Saint-Paul was built in 1936–1937 at the junction of rue Legrand de la Liraye and rue Pierre Flandin (modern Điện Biên Phủ and Bà Huyện Thanh Quan streets) to replace their earlier Clinique du Docteur Angier (1908), which had stood at 1 rue Docteur Angier (now Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm street), immediately behind the St Paul’s Convent.

The Clinique Saint-Paul pictured in the early 1950s.

The new Clinique was built by the Société Indochinoise d’Études et de Constructions (SIDEC), one of the leading construction companies in the colony, which was also responsible for the Tân Định Market as well as numerous other civic works in Cambodia.

The Clinique was designed by distinguished Saigon-based architect Louis Chauchon (1878–1945), whose other major works include the Public Library (now the National Library of Cambodia, 1924), the Psah Thmey Central Market (1937) and the Palais du Commissariat de France (1938) in Phnom Penh and the Pavillon de la Cité Universitaire in Hà Nội (1942).

The south and central wings of the former Clinique Saint-Paul. Photo by Tim Doling.

According to the Echo Annamite newspaper, the Clinique was inaugurated on December 19, 1938 in the presence of Cochinchina Governor André Georges Rivoal and several other local dignitaries. Its Director, Dr Roton, treated them to a tour of the state-of-the-art facilities which “made a great impression on the visitors.”

Functional yet elegant, the Clinique is noteworthy for its stylish fusion of art deco curves and traditional four-panel roofs. Truly a sight for sore eyes.

Top image via Wikimedia.

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.

“Expat is a racist as hell term” — this is the take of Misan Harriman on the popular internet show SubwayTakes. The reasoning goes that the term expat, short for expatriate, is racist because it is applied to migrants unevenly. Along this line, Mawuna Remarque Koutonin writes in Silicon Africa: “Africans are immigrants. Arabs are immigrants. Asians are immigrants. However, Europeans are expats because they can’t be at the same level as other ethnicities. They are superior. Immigrants is a term set aside for ‘inferior races.’”

The argument goes that “expat” is designated for white Europeans and westerners and carries a certain kind of prestige and privilege that is made inaccessible to other peoples who are labelled “immigrants.” Similar sentiments can be found surrounding the recent controversy of a Bali-based, Dutch-run run club’s alleged discrimination against locals. As one Instagram comment on an Al Jazeera post reads, “They are not expatriate[s]. They are immigrants. Please don't label people of color as immigrants and call white people as an expatriate.” Or, as Fred Wissenk remarks closer to home in Vietcetera (though he appears to suggest we call all foreigners expats), “If you’re white, people automatically label you as an expat. I disagree with that.”

The Bali run club that allegedly discriminated against locals. Photo via The Guardian.

Yet, to accuse the term expat of racism is much too reductive and obscures nuance, for the simple reason that there exist plenty of non-white expats who are labelled or identify as such. Thus, the assumption that expats are white may itself constitute a kind of whitewashing, not just of the present but also of the past, overlooking, for instance, the history of South Asian expatriates in East Africa whom the British brought for colonial civil service positions. More broadly, it is also worth questioning whether words can ever be inherently racist, for the meaning and significance of words inevitably vary with context. This is to say, of course the term expat can be racist when wielded in racist ways — for instance, when one calls a white person an expat and an Arab person an immigrant, even when they occupy similar class positions and professions — but cannot be seen as an inherently racist term for the fact that “expat” denotes no single stable type of migrant, its use, meaning, and scope dependent on context and geography.

Defining the expat

Indeed, the expat is a notoriously slippery term, not only because there exist discrepancies between formal definitions of the term and everyday usage, but also between those who identify as versus those who are labelled as expats. So, what even is an expat? How should we understand the category in Vietnam? And what distinguishes an expat from an immigrant or a migrant? The Cambridge Dictionary offers the following definitions.

• Expatriate: “someone who does not live in their own country”
• Immigrant: “a person who has come to a different country in order to live there permanently”
• Migrant: “a person that travels to a different country or place, often in order to find work”

Firstly, what differentiates the expatriate from the migrant is that expats move across countries, while the movement of migrants may be either inter- or intra-national. “Migrant” is thus treated as the broadest migration category, hence why academic literature will describe the expatriate as a type of migrant. Yet, in practice, expatriates are often considered not as a subset of migrants, but rather a category separate from migrants, as is made evident when a Việt Nam News columnist follows up his use of the word “migrants” with the parenthetical comment, “sorry, ‘expats,’ this is you.”

On the other hand, the primary differentiating factor between expats and immigrants is presented as the intention of the duration of stay. An immigrant intends permanent residence, while duration of stay is undetermined and unspecified for expats. Yet, common and practical usage of the term, both within general publics and in academia, deviates substantially from such definitions — most often, what is meant by expats are none other than “rich, educated, developed elites,” whereas all other migrants are seen as immigrants. Still, even this definition appears to be imperfect, for as Sarah Kunz explains in her book Expatriate: Following a Migration Category — which has been indispensable in writing this article — those who are labelled and/or identify as expats often vary significantly in socioeconomic class, whose professions range from “diplomats and CEOs, to English teachers, humanitarian volunteers, yoga teachers and unpaid interns further down the socio-economic ladder.” Kunz describes of the expats she met during her fieldwork in Nairobi: “some lived luxurious lives while others barely made ends meet, and yet others relied on support from families ‘back home.’”

A foreign teacher in Hanoi. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

To complicate things further, there is also the fact that the equivalent to the term “expatriate” often does not exist in other languages. For instance, an equivalent to the term “expat” does not really exist in Vietnamese. Arguably, the closest substitutes that exist are “người nước ngoài,” which simply means foreigner, or “người tây,” meaning westerner — though we should note that there also exists a term for migrants, “người di cư.” Neither does a translation for expat exist in Korean: expats residing in Korea are commonly referred to as “oekuk-saram,” which again simply means foreigner. While the French cognate expatrié or expatriée has similar connotations to English, the dominant meaning of the Spanish cognate expatriado or expatriada is one of exile, or those banished from their home country — which is in fact what “expatriate” denoted prior to the 20^th century in English as well.

But even within the English language, the term does not travel the same across geographies. For instance, in the US, one notices that the term expat is rarely used, for which there may be two reasons: one, the country’s dominant narrative of itself as a “land of immigrants,” and two, the fact that the US is much harder to simply come into and stay in the way that many expats do in other countries. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the Gulf states, where all foreign workers, ranging from the heavily exploited construction workers to high-ranking corporate managers, are called expats — arguably in order to restrict a sense of belonging for non-citizens who make up significant portions, or even a majority, of the population. As for Vietnam, it seems that distinctions between expats and immigrants are rarely made — though as we will see, this does not mean that the expat functions neutrally in Vietnam either.

Workers in Dubai. Photo via The New York Times.

Because of the term’s polysemy, to call “expat” inherently racist is rather reductive. Alternatively, a better way to understand the category is not as racist per se, but as racialized. To expand upon the notion of racialization, there is an important distinction to be made between describing a concept as racist versus racialized. An imperfect but useful example to think about is that of the concept of the human. Certainly, the human is a racialized concept. Here, we might think about how Leonardo Da Vinci’s drawing, ‘Vitruvian Man’ — which depicts a white, male, able-bodied person — is often invoked as the “classical ideal” or “universal model” of “Man.” And it is, of course, furthermore true that the concept of human is deeply intertwined with racist histories of violence and subjugation in which various colonized peoples were, and continue to be, denied the label of human as rationalization for such violence. But does that mean the concept of the human is itself racist? Debatable, but I think that most people would argue no. It may be useful to think about the term expat along similar lines: not racist per se, but racialized, normatively white — as well as, we should add, classed (obviously) and gendered (as evident in the fact that an “expat wife” is often not herself referred to as simply an “expat”). 

A brief history of the expat

The racialized nature of the expat is rooted in the history of empire and capital of the 20^th century that have shaped the category. We may understand the historical development of the expat in the 20^th century through three paradigms. To start, there was first the colonial expatriate, the likes of British colonial officers in India — or, as Anne-Meike Fetcher more vividly caricatures, “the British gentlemen who, after prolonged exposure to the tropical climates of South or South East Asia, suffer from world-weariness, alienation and alcoholism, as they are portrayed in the novels and short stories of Anthony Burgess, Joseph Conrad and Somerset Maugham.”

Servants around a British general and his guests in Bangalore. Photo via The New Statesman.

But with the wave of successful anti-colonial movements that swept the formerly colonized worlds following the end of World War II, expats came to mean something different. With the fall of European colonial empires rose to power a new global empire, namely that of the US, which dominated and shaped the world through both military and economic dominance. And central to the ascent of the US empire was the rise of US multinational corporations (MNCs), which emerged as powerful actors in the international political economy through their control of the flow of foreign direct investments. The rapid growth of US MNCs increased demand for a “new breed” of expatriate workers that would soon replace their European colonial predecessors: that is, the intracompany assignee transferred abroad for temporary periods of time for purposes of overseas management of operations.

Following the shift from the colonial expatriate to the corporate expatriate, the emergence of the next new model of the expat came in the 1980s and 1990s with the advent of neoliberalism, characterized by, in big-picture terms, minimal government intervention domestically and globalization and free trade internationally — the defining outcomes of which have included worsened inequality, decimation of the public, cuts in welfare, deregulation of worker protections, and the atomization of individuals.

In Vietnam, the neoliberal turn took shape in the form of Đổi Mới, which opened the country up to foreigners. As a precursor to the third type of expat that would follow the corporate expat, it is illuminating to take a look at the example of the multinational oil company Shell and the corporate restructuring they pursued in the 1990s. As Kunz details, with the neoliberal turn, Shell expats “got increased ‘choice’ and ‘flexibility’ but also found themselves more precarious and unequal. Payment structures were increasingly tied to individualised performance, implying greater inequality among expatriates and an emphasis on competition instead of the harmony thus far nurtured and expected.” While since at least the 1950s Shell expats understood themselves as part of and embedded within a larger “Shell family,” in the 1990s, the “company man” was re-fashioned into “individualised and disembedded global ‘expatriates’” — or in other words, neoliberal subjects.

Travel writer Mark Hudson and his friends at the Majestic Hotel in 1992. Photo via Saigoneer.

The new individualized, global expat was to be an early harbinger of the rise of what academics call the “self-initiated expatriate” (SIE) — a globally mobile worker who moves abroad without necessarily being told to, often highly-skilled. This includes, of course, the “digital nomad”-type professional, as well as English-language teachers, travel influencers, freelancers, and more. To clarify, SIEs did not replace corporate expatriates per se, who of course still exist — rather, they displaced the corporate expatriate as the dominant model evoked by the term “expat.” In many ways, SIEs are fundamentally neoliberal subjects in their reproduction of neoliberal ideology, in that their espousal of an international lifestyle often masks and obscures the fact that the feasibility of such internationality is itself ordered in uneven ways globally — dependent on, say, the strength of one’s passport or the feasibility of navigating borders and immigration systems, in addition to access to capital. As Kunz poignantly writes, “The self-styled international person, who possibly even rejects the label expatriate, in their performance of a celebratory and ‘border-blind’ internationalism… arguably has the markers of a tragic figure that is possibly well-intentioned yet hubristic, invested in rereading structural privilege as individual achievement.”

A view of Thảo Điền, a hub for expats in Saigon. Photo via Vinhomes.

Despite the association of the SIE with internationality and thus diversity, the SIE arguably remains racialized as white. For Kunz, this seeming contradiction must be understood via neoliberal ideology. Specifically, she suggests that the category’s “conceptual multiplicity and malleability” — its inclusion of “contingent insiders” of other backgrounds — helps to mask its largely racialized nature and in maintaining “a guise of a borderless internationality” that is in reality asymmetrically structured by persisting colonial and neocolonial relations, as much as the project of neoliberal globalization would want to have us believe otherwise. It is for this reason that criticism of the term expat as designated for white people is so common, despite the fact that non-white expats exist. From this view, the logic of (select) inclusivity of the category of the expat functions in the same way that the neoliberal celebration of “multiculturalism” and “DEI” by corporations functions to mask and obscure the violently racial nature of racial capitalism on a global scale.

The expat in Vietnam

The broad picture of the historical development of the expat from colonial to corporate to self-initiated expats offers a compelling account of the historically racialized nature of the expat, at least globally. But in Vietnam, the expat cannot be seen as racialized straightforwardly as white, given the significant population of East Asian expats. In fact, in 2025, a majority of the country’s officially counted international workforce — which, granted, is not the same as the population of expats, but is nonetheless illuminating — were from either China, South Korea, or Japan. Very tellingly, a Vietcetera article titled “Expats’ View On Working In Vietnam” features six expats, at least five of whom are not white, whose professions range from managers to yoga and ESL instructors. 

The opening ceremony of a Coca-Cola manufacturing plant in Hà Tây Province (now Hanoi) in August 1995. Coca-Cola is one of the earliest American MNCs to arrive in Vietnam following Đổi Mới. Photo by Hoàng Đình Nam via Instagram page @tonkin.jpg.

Yet, this does not mean that the expat in Vietnam is unracialized — it is more so that different types of expats are racialized differently. Here, it is useful to contrast the article cited above with another series of expat profiles, “Expats In Ho Chi Minh City.” While the former features majority Asian expats, the latter features overwhelmingly “western” expats. It is no coincidence that the article that features majority Asian expats focuses on the topic of work, while the profiles that feature majority western expats focus more broadly on the expat experience and lifestyle. This is because, in Vietnam, the two archetypes of “business” expats and “lifestyle” expats are “racialized” differently, as (East) Asian and Western respectively.

As one study of Korean expats in Saigon notes, interviewees often referred to their stay in Vietnam as “a long-term business trip” — which runs counter to what we might expect of “western” expats, by contrast. Thus, it is not exactly that race is irrelevant to the category of expat in Vietnam, but rather that the logic of race operates differently and unevenly, given the huge proportion of FDI from other Asian nations like Korea, Singapore, China, and thus the business-skewed orientation of Asian expats. The so-called “expat community” in Vietnam is thus in fact not singular — as Fred Wissink, the producer of the “Expats In Ho Chi Minh City” series writes of Korean expats, “they’re very closed off. It’s a 100,000-person strong community, but they’re all in District 7… They have their own group and don’t have to deviate outside of it to do business or live comfortably. Outside of the Korean community, there’s an estimated 50,000 expats in Saigon.” In line with our comments above, what we find here also is a kind of inter-expat stereotyping, for of course it is not true that “all” Korean expats live in District 7 nor live secluded from the rest of the city.

View of Phú Mỹ Hưng, often referred to as Saigon’s Koreatown. Photo via VnExpress.

While it may initially seem like, in Vietnam, the term expat is inclusive of all foreigners, two examples make clear that the expat by no means operates as an innocent category in Vietnam either. There are two instances that make this evidently clear.

Firstly, while it is true that the country has long been a country that has exported rather than imported “unskilled” labor, there still exists a notable population of manual laborers from abroad, specifically, from China. As anthropologist Nguyễn Văn Chính explains, while it is unclear what percentage of 33,000 Chinese contracted laborers in Vietnam are manual workers, it is commonplace for Chinese contractors in northern Vietnam to hire workers from China for several reasons, including ease of communication in Chinese and the relative ease of mobilizing workers from cities just across Vietnam’s northern border. Most of these laborers work illegally on short-term contracts, usually between three months to a year, though some stay up to ten years. Surely, according to dictionary definitions, most of these migrant workers should be considered not as immigrants but rather expats. Yet, at several moments in his study, Chính refers to them as “immigrants” — very telling moments of how “expat” remains a category both racialized and classed. 

As much as 90% of thermal power plants in Vietnam are built by Chinese contractors. Photo via UNDP.

Our second example concerns the most prominently covered naturalization of a migrant in Vietnam in the media: specifically, the story of Kenneth Atkinson, a British entrepreneur, who, after three decades of living in Vietnam, finally naturalized to become a Vietnamese citizen in 2025. Interestingly, the media coverage of his naturalization on Tuổi Trẻ and VnExpress does not once mention words like “immigrant” or “immigration.” The former is in fact categorized under the “Expat Life” column and the latter article is tagged with various tags containing the word “expat.” With respect to both Kenneth Atkinson and Chinese manual laborers, the point isn’t that the former is an expat and the latter are immigrants, but to point out “edge” cases in which the terms are not in fact wielded neutrally. 

Naturalized citizen Kenneth Atkinson at the launch of his memoir in September 2025. Photo via VnExpress.

At the end of the day, popular discourse around expats and racism tends to be reductive and obscures a more nuanced understanding of the phenomenon of “expats.” But even with a more nuanced understanding of the category, I think that there is a strong case to be made for the abandonment of the term altogether, given how confused and confusing the term remains. In opposition to abandoning the term, some may feel that the term “expat” may still be salvageable if used as a category to identify those who already possess a certain level of privilege. Yet, the problem with such a proposal is that what is intended as identification of privilege may in reality inadvertently constitute bestowal and/or reproduction of privilege and status, especially given that it is rarely possible to determine someone’s “level” of privilege in any straightforward way. Given this mess, it may be best that we abandon using the term altogether.

Is there a more atmospheric place in Vietnam than Sapa on a misty night?

Sapa needs no introduction. It is one of the country’s most popular tourist destinations thanks to its promise of breathtaking treks among rice terraces, traditional villages and colorful markets.

It is also often synonymous with the thick fog that frequently covers the mountainous town and its surroundings. Unwelcomed by travelers eager for endless landscapes, the mist wraps the city in an otherworldly atmosphere at the end of the day.

Take a walk around Sapa on a moody, low-visibility evening below.

The mist has consumed almost everything in sight. 

The fog adds an eerie cyberpunk hue to central Sapa.

Contrasting styles of light. 

People are little more than dark silhouettes. 

Views similar to trying to recall a dream after waking.

Umbrellas and phones keep passersby dry and entertained.

If all color was drained from it, perhaps this is what the world would look like.

When a friend of mine returned home after living abroad last year, he longed for a bowl of bún cá. I suggested the classic Hanoi dish, with satisfyingly oily deep-fried fish, but he had other ideas — a fresh feast originally from Thai Binh, located almost 100 kilometers from the capital.

We ventured to a narrow, lively alleyway close to Tràng Tiền Plaza. The restaurant is in a dimly lit room in a crumbling old colonial house. I noticed bowls of pickled bamboo shoots on the tables which, it turns out, are prepared specifically to go with the bún cá they serve. That point alone marks a clear departure from the dish’s Hanoian cousin.

When my bowl arrived, I saw how the broth barely covered the bún in my bowl. The noodles were also thicker — more akin to those served with bún bò giò heo — and the soup had a distinctive taste formed from fish stock and a hint of sour tomato. But what really topped it off was the meaty chunks of richly hued snakehead fish.

The fish held firm between my chopsticks yet, as soon as it entered my mouth, its tender flakes fell apart gorgeously. Later, I was told that these plump and juicy pieces were carefully picked from prime cuts and, to achieve their burnt orange color, they were braised in a rich mix of turmeric and cashew powder.

Feasting merely on fish and noodles can be a tad heavy; thankfully they are served with steamed seasonal vegetables such as morning glory, celery or water mimosa (rau rút) to add freshness. And if that wasn't enough, the aforementioned tangy bamboo shoots easily balance out the heartiness of the bowl.

If I had come by a little later in the day, closer to noon, they would have been serving pork rinds with each meal. These crunchy, fatty, deep-fried snacks are a favorite among office workers who regularly swing by.

The restaurant’s owner was born in Thái Bình City but moved to Hanoi years ago. She tried and failed to sell general household goods before eventually offering customers her hometown’s celebrated noodle soup. Initially, only those familiar with the dish came by, but word gradually spread, and these days her restaurant is always brimming at meal times.  

To sum up:

• Opening time: 7am–8pm
• Parking: If you come by motorbike and are unsure of where to park in the tiny lane, keep heading straight past the shop and you’ll see a big yard used by the community there. Parking is free.
• Contact: 0989310749
• Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
• Payment: Cash, Transfer
• Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Hà Tạ absolutely loves food and dreams of selling noodles. 

“Beyond awards or recognition, a restaurant is about welcoming people, creating memories and bringing joy around a table,” explains Chef Thierry Mounon of his decision to expand from French fine dining into comfort food.

Chef Thierry Mounon and the La Fontaine team.

Thierry and his wife, Tina Trang Phạm, spent over 15 years building La Villa into one of Saigon's best-known French fine-dining restaurants. The Micheline-selected restaurant has earned a reputation as a destination to experience classic French cuisine, where exquisite ingredients are meticulously prepared and presented, accompanied by carefully choreographed service. One expects tasting menus with goose foie gras terrine, blue lobster tail, and Dombes barbecued duck, accompanied by an extensive wine list and choreographed service. With such success, one could expect Thierry to open another fine dining concept that builds off his experience. Yet, with La Fontaine, he chose to “return to the roots of hospitality … The heart of French gastronomy is much simpler.”

Locating the heart of French gastronomy

Just down the road from La Villa, La Fontaine takes inspiration from the neighborhood bistrots in the South of France, where Thierry grew up. Compared to fine dining, bistrots are more casual and part of to everyday life as opposed to special occasions. “A bistrot is spontaneous, lively, and accessible,” he says. “It’s where families, friends, neighbours and regular guests gather around honest food.”

Roast chicken, steak frites, and onion soup, all of which are exemplary items on La Fontaine’s menu, appear simple, but they do not require any less skill in the kitchen to prepare, according to Thierry. “I often tell my Chef Thanh that bistrot cooking leaves nowhere to hide,” he says, going on to explain that while fewer techniques are used in homestyle cooking compared to fine dining, there is no less love needed for the preparation or ingredients.

Given that the standards for skill and care in the kitchen are shared by both restaurants, the atmospheres that surround the meals are the biggest differentiators between La Villa and La Fontaine, in addition to price. By offering experiences that people can enjoy casually, without cause, pomp, or circumstance, La Fontaine becomes a member of the neighborhood. Families can rest there after busy days, couples can opt to connect over a bottle, and foodies can taste stellar food without the need to dress up or put on airs. 

A reflection of Saigon’s evolving dining sophistications

With Michelin restaurants, celebrity chefs, and a headfirst dive into global trends, Saigon’s culinary world has changed significantly in the decade and a half since La Villa first opened its doors. Amidst the chase for attention, accolades, and recognition, there has emerged a counterbalancing desire for authenticity. Thierry sees the new bistrot as attending to people uninterested in highfalutin egos and distractions. 

Attuned to classic French and a wide range of global cuisines, alongside Vietnam’s many regional delicacies, diners are skeptical of gimmicks and novelty. “What they appreciate is honesty,” Thierry says. This is achieved by serving staple French comfort foods like Lyonnaise salad, duck leg confit, seared scallops, and beef vegetable soup in a relaxed dining room where comfortable chairs stretch beneath the types of photos, posters, and images one might find in a French countryside home.

La Fontaine has a similarly grounded approach to the role of promotion. “People don’t return because of marketing; they return because a place becomes part of their lives,” Thierry notes. This means frequent guests are greeted by name and brought to their favorite tables, where they can order the same dish as always, prepared precisely as they expect. Meanwhile, seasonal dishes and flavors help keep every visit fresh. 

One can consider La Fontaine a logical step for an esteemed chef with a passion for honoring the nation’s culinary legacy without judging success by accolades and prestige. One can also think of La Fontaine as reflecting Saigon’s ever-maturing dining landscape, which has space for high-quality international food within everyday routines. Or one can simply think of La Fontaine as an ideal place to linger over delicious food with loved ones, ensuring the day contains something exemplary. 

Mỹ Anh has come a long way since becoming the runner-up of The Heroes in 2021. Five years later, now with a full-length album and a spectrum of singles and extended plays under her belt, the Hanoi-based artist has proven to be one of the most dynamic singer-songwriter-producer of her generation.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about Mỹ Anh, to me, is her ability to move seamlessly between Vietnamese and English, no doubt a key characteristic that sets Gen Z apart from Vietnam’s previous generations of musicians. A firm grasp on English allows young Vietnamese to gain much more knowledge of the world, and bring those nuggets of wisdom into their creative works. Similarly, Mỹ Anh’s music, right from her debut single ‘Got You’ (2020), is strongly influenced by R&B, soul, and blues, something she also brought to her latest release, ‘Pieces of Me’ — a collaboration with Japanese soul artist Nao Yoshioka.

‘Pieces of Me’ is a '90s-inspired R&B track that’s mainly driven by keys and percussion, but lifted by the vocal layers of Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh — the former leads the vocals with classic soul techniques while the latter adds an airiness and softness to the lyrics. I find it unexpectedly delightful that Yoshioka’s voice bears some resemblance to Mỹ Anh’s; in a way, a more mature and seasoned version, but they’re singing to each other and reassuring the other self that these “pieces of me” are precious and worth treasuring.

Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh, at a glance, have quite different backgrounds: they belong to different generations; one is Japanese, the other is Vietnamese. Yet, their journeys with music share striking similarities. Yoshioka dropped out of high school and moved to New York alone to chase her dream of being a singer. Mỹ Anh was accepted to the Berklee College of Music in 2020, but, on the cusp of the global pandemic, she decided to remain in Vietnam to develop her own music. Both artists are also pursuing R&B and soul in English, creative choices that often struggle to find footing in the mainstream at home.

It was this sense of isolation that inspired the lyrics of ‘Pieces of Me,’ which express a sense of relief and epiphanous reckoning at finding pieces of self after struggling to live with expectations and seek validation. “I kinda like this so far. Never knew life’s this chill. Feel like I can breathe,” Yoshioka’s verse chants, before she belts out the first line of the chorus. In the chorus, the singers perform alternate lines in succession, as if in conversation — Yoshioka is passionate and empowering, while Mỹ Anh is more grounded.

‘Pieces of Me’ was released in May 2026 as a single, and later included in Nao Yoshioka’s latest album, “self.” The track comes with a visualizer on YouTube featuring the pair’s adventures around Hanoi — sipping phở on the sidewalk and vibing in a coffee shop — it’s like Yoshioka sings: “Never knew life’s this chill.”

To sum up:

• Type: Single
• Lyrics: Simple but empowering
• Danceable: Very
• Cryable: Not really, maybe a single tear of joy
• Karaoke Potential: More for the shower

Score: 75/100

In a secluded corner of Saigon’s Bệnh viện Nhiệt đới, or Hospital for Tropical Diseases, a prison continues its century-long existence hidden from public memory and discourse.

It is uncommon knowledge to most people that the present-day Hospital for Tropical Disease (formerly Nhà Thương Chợ Quán) was once home to a 150-year-old detention camp where revolutionaries such as Trần Phú, Hà Huy Tập, and Nguyễn Văn Trỗi were held captive. According to historical records, the cells were originally built by French colonialists in 1875 as a specialized ward to treat psychiatric patients at Chợ Quán Hospital.

The institution later took on a darker purpose as the regime turned it into a base to confine political prisoners that were being treated at the ward to extract intel on anti-colonial efforts. The encampment went on to be responsible for detaining prisoners of war throughout Vietnam’s decades of conflict with French and American forces.

Chợ Quán Hospital was established in 1982 with donations and support from the local Vietnamese community. Long before the hospital’s founding, its plot was occupied by a French-run first-aid clinic. In 1864, the clinic operation was handed over to the succeeding government. A specialized wing was created to isolate and treat its psychiatric patients.

Despite the changes in the political and cultural landscapes that surround it, the structure retains its colonially inspired architecture. The design of the prison is in a cowbell shape. The front entrance directly overlooks the women’s cell, while the men's cell is on its right. The pitched roofs are covered in double lap tiles supported by fixed iron frames and the floor still has its original terracotta tiles. Under French rule, bunks used to shackle inmates were made of wood, but under American control, they were replaced by cement blocks that were common in the Phú Quốc and Côn Đảo prisons.

A communal cell with double lap tiling where male inmates were held.

Though seemingly cramped, the women’s cell was actually the space that got the most sunlight thanks to the large windows that run along the wall.

The prison’s long and narrow corridors sent a chill down my spine, as the deeper I ventured into these halls, the colder and gloomier the atmosphere became, even though it was midday. Taproots from trees outside were seeping in through cracks in the wall, and in a few cells, shackles remained where they had been for decades. The innermost chambers were impenetrable by sunlight, further adding an air of mystery to the building.

Apart from the regular cells, the French also built solitary confinement quarters to quarantine patients that had infectious diseases that could spread to the rest of the inmates.

The inside of a cell for patients with infectious diseases.

A communal restroom that prisoners shared. 

The stairs in these dimly lit rooms lead to buckets placed underneath that were used as toilet bowls.

Iron shackles are kept intact for display

One of the most historically significant parts of the structure is the cell that held Trần Phú, the first General Secretary of the Indochinese Communist Party, who was still in captivity when he died of tuberculosis on September 6, 1931. His last words to fellow comrades were:

Trần Phú’s portrait and headstone, as well as information plaques detailing his capture and death, are still shown at the cell where he passed away. Here, flowers and wreaths are sometimes placed by visitors to remind current and future generations that this was the final resting place of a nation’s leader and patriot.

On special occasions such as Trần Phú's death anniversary or public holidays, bouquets are often placed by his headstone to commemorate his sacrifice.

In stark contrast to the bleakness that the prison bears within, a lush garden surrounding it has sprouted up to provide shade and comfort to patients receiving treatment at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, who are most likely unaware of the fact that every brick, tile, and frame around them bore witness to a painful scar in the nation's history.

Documents about Trần Phú's life and revolutionary contributions are preserved and exhibited for visitors.

Readers keen on exploring more of the prison in person may easily do so since the site is accessible to the public and located to the right of the hospital's dining hall, which is only 100 meters away from the main gate. But as the prison is under the supervision of the District 5 Cultural Center, be sure to contact them for permission before planning a day trip!

Visit ttvhq5.com.vn or call 028 3855 6161 to learn more about the site or to schedule a visit.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Thom Nguyen utilizes portraiture and depictions of mushrooms and organic objects to explore the concept of limerence in a solo exhibition at Permanently Closed Gallery in Thảo Điền, beginning Friday, August 28.

Limerence describes “an intense psychological state of obsessive longing for another person ... characterised by intrusive thoughts, emotional dependency and a powerful desire for reciprocation. Unlike ordinary attraction or infatuation, limerence involves obsession, emotional volatility and disruption to daily life.”

Thom approaches the term through a distinctly queer lens. The exhibition's works concern themselves with intimacy and imperfection as observed in the moments when longing becomes fixation. His typically colorful and confident oil works depict the beautiful and grotesque results of projection and idealization. Tasteful nude images are not committed to fantasy or reality, while a selection of mushrooms and other organic materials hint at the transformation and decay inherent to an emotion of intense romantic desire and fixation. 

Work from Thom Nguyen's previous exibition, Nước | Water Resistance. Photos via Thom's Instagram.

Born in Saigon and raised in America, Thom held his first solo exhibition in Vietnam, “Nước | Water Resistance,” at A. Farm last year. That collection of oil paintings, sculptures, installations, and fashion works considered queer bodies in the context of water’s ability to shift one’s identity.

Scenes from ACHI's Peach Garden at Permanently Closed. Photos via L'Officiel.

In 2026, Thom expanded his artistic practice to curation and community development with the establishment of Permanently Closed Gallery with his husband, Michael Bell. The gallery space is devoted to providing a platform for emerging queer artists and has presented several projects including Nothing to See Here, Nothing to See There, ACHI's Peach Garden, Lyon Nguyen's performance SWEET, and Yellow Fever's The Scent of Pipe.

The opening reception for LIMERENCE will be held on Friday, August 28 from 5pm to 9pm. The exhibition remains open through September on Friday–Sunday at 1–6pm.