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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A love of maps

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

A screenshot of VMA in action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A matter of bodies and souls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free knowledge with no limitations

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

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

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

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

The VMA landing page.

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

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

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

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

March 16, 1982

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Construction workers building a road in Hanoi.

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

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

Street kids on Tràng Tiền.

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

Xích lô drivers in Hanoi.

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

Crossing Vietnam in seven years

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

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

A H'Mông man in Đồng Văn, Hà Giang.

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

A coal mine in Cẩm Phả, Quảng Ninh.

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

A wedding of Tay Đăm ethnic minority in Sơn La.

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

Dung, a newborn at the Huế Central Hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

Workers at the Chiến Thắng Textile Factory.

Reunions after 30 years

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

Nguyễn Văn Sơn in Đồng Kỳ.

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

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

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

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

Y Von in Kon Tum.

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

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

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

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

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

The journey continues

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

Andy Soloman and his wife.

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

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

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

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

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

Garment factories produced clothing for export.

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

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

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

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

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

Students preparing to cycle home after classes.

A xích lô driver reads the paper between customers. 

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

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

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

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

Children employed at a garment factory in Saigon. 

Doing homework has never been fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it about coming across old photos that tugs on our heartstrings so much, even when they depict a time when some of us weren’t alive yet?

It’s no secret that we’re huge fans of nostalgia at Saigoneer — so much so that we created this whole category of articles for it — and we have seen and featured a myriad of vintage images. This collection of Vietnam shots by Stefan Hajdu, a German traveler who visited the country in 1989, is one of the most outstanding sets of old Vietnam photos we have come across in recent memory.

Hajdu has kindly allowed us to share his album of travel photos, which he scanned from slides. In these captures, some fascinating scenes emerge, like passengers sleeping on hammocks inside the North-South train, or Hanoi’s rickety red tram chugging its last service days — 1989 was also the last year that Hanoians could ride on these vehicles.

Have a closer look at these scenes of Vietnam in 1989 below:

An impromptu Honda Cub (and Vespa) "race" in front of Bến Thành.

Bicycles were still a crucial part of personal transportation.

The Bạch Đằng promenade from the Hotel Majestic. In the distance on the water is the Saigon Floating Hotel — an Australian hotel that was repurposed by a Japanese company for use in Saigon. 1989 was the first year that this luxurious behemoth was docked in Saigon.

A picnic in front of City Hall.

Đoàn Văn Bơ Street in District 4 was still a dirt road.

A collection of portraits of Saigoneers.

An interprovince bus stops on the Hải Vân Pass.

The scenic view from the North-South Train.

Sleeping inside the train is not for everyone.

A misty vista on the train tracks.

The Hiển Nhơn Gate on the eastern side of the Imperial City.

Floating homes in Huế.

A chicken vendor in Huế.

Another entrance to the Imperial City.

Riding a bike with a poncho is a great way to relish the local scenery.

The coolest bike gang in Huế.

Fancy a chicken?

The badassery of Huế residents.

A family on the way to Quảng Trị.

Standout fashion from a Hanoian man and two young boys near Quảng Trị.

Young children with their female guardians on the way to Quảng Trị.

The essence of old Hanoi in one shot.

Inside Hanoi's now-defunct tram.

A tram car on its way in Hanoi. In the 1980s, the capital's tramway network had deteriorated to the point that the government had to start shutting it down. In 1989, the only route remaining was Line 2, which eventually went out of commission by 1990.

Photos courtesy of Stefan Hajdu via Flickr.

As part of a plan to build a dedicated space to commemorate victims of the COVID-19 pandemic, Saigon authorities recently demolished several heritage buildings from the 1950s, sparking concerns about the city’s loss of architectural heritage.

Plans to establish a physical space in Hồ Chí Minh City to honor pandemic victims started brewing back in October, with a proposed location based in the vicinity of the Bạch Đằng Wharf at the borders of District 1 and 4, VnEconomy reports.

However, towards the end of the month, it was finalized that the project will be a memorial park based on an unused plot in at 1 Lý Thái Tổ Street in District 10, previously owned by the family of legendary Saigon entrepreneur Hui Bon Hoa.

The triangular plot spans 44,312 square meters, bordering three streets, Lý Thái Tổ, Hùng Vương, and Trần Bình Trọng. It’s currently under the governance of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as, after 1975, the villas in the plot were used as accommodations for visiting dignitaries; however, this function stopped years ago, so the land and buildings here have been abandoned since.

The 1 Lý Thái Tổ plot in the 1970s. Photo via VnExpress.

According to the current plan, Sun Group will be in charge of the creation of the COVID-19 victim memorial park, which includes green spaces, a playground, and other amenities for community activities. Many architectural experts and historians have stressed the importance of preserving the Hui Bon Hoa villas, which account for 7,101 square meters of the plot, as historic structures representing local culture from the 1950s.

This made it all the more devastating when news came out that, on November 17, as site clearance commenced, workers started demolishing three out of the seven villas on the plot. Assessment reports from the municipal Department of Construction noted that all seven villas are classified as Group 2, comprising old structures that can be renovated inside while preserving the exterior. 

Still, according to Saigon authorities, site inspections showed that villas No. 2, 3, and 4 have significant cracks in their load-bearing structures, in addition to waterlogged concrete and damage caused by moss and molds. Thus, these were earmarked to be destroyed, while villas No. 1, 5, 6, and 7 are still structurally sound and will be kept to be renovated.

Regardless of which villas remain and which are removed, their current state of disrepair — the inevitable consequence of a long time spent in neglect — is yet another piece of evidence of the fraught relationship between Saigon’s quest for development and its corroding heritage.

Years of disrepair threw the villas into a state of dilapidation.

The plot was the former estate of Hui Bon Hua, a real estate tycoon living in late-19^th century Saigon and the owner of numerous buildings across the city. The Hui Bon Hua family was also well-known for their generous spirit, as they donated a plethora of land plots to the city to build hospitals, schools, guild halls. One of their most prominent properties was the family residence at 97 Phó Đức Chính Street, which now houses the HCMC Museum of Fine Arts.

Lý Thái Tổ Street was previously named Hui Bon Hua Boulevard, as a nod from the former government to acknowledge the family’s contributions to the development of the city. In the 1950s, the family built a family compound on the boulevard, comprising eight villas intended to be a place to unwind. The number 8 was chosen due to its auspicious meaning in Hoa Vietnamese beliefs.

Each villa had two stories, designed by French architect Paul Veysseyre, who also designed the Bảo Đại Palace in Đà Lạt, with a blend of eastern and western elements and constructed using imported materials. Even though the influence of Art Deco was present, the villas also incorporated adaptations to fit Vietnam’s tropical climate.

Have a closer look at some of the villas at 1 Lý Thái Tổ via these shots by Saigon-based French photographer Alexandre Garel. He took the images circa 2017–2018, though it is unclear which of the villas depicted were demolished for the memorial park project. More photos are available in his book projects Saigon Portrait of a City and Modernist Architecture in Vietnam.

Much like their descendants today, schoolchildren of 1930s Vietnam also took art classes as part of their syllabus. In this rare collection of what was essentially our grandparents’ homework, we can surprisingly learn a lot about the daily life of Mekong Delta residents from nearly 100 years ago.

Art is a crucial subject in assisting the development of a young child’s sense of aesthetics, even though not every pupil is excited by drawing lessons. During these hands-on hours, students not only learn how to record what they observe on paper, but also how to appreciate art and life.

Just by flicking through these intricate art assignments by students of the École Primaire de Long Xuyên in 1930, one can feel the pulse of life imbued in every household object and scene portrayed. The scans were archived by the French National Museum of Education.

École Primaire de Long Xuyên, 1920.

Long Xuyên County (as it was then called) received its first administrative designation in the 1860s–1870s. In 1900, Long Xuyên became a province, consisting of three districts: Châu Thành, Thốt Nốt, and Chợ Mới. In 1917, Governor-General Albert Sarraut issued the General Regulation of Education in January 1917, allowing Long Xuyên as a province to establish public schools — which led to the birth of École primaire de Long Xuyên, or Long Xuyên Primary School.

In this artwork collection from 1930, students commonly opted for household items in their still life sketches, like areca nut trays, vases, and even one ghe hầu — an ornate pleasure barge used by members of the upper echelons on vacations. One student chose to draw a pair of geckos, which, as thằn lằn fans at Saigoneer, we feel should deserve more than a 7/10 grade.

It does come as a surprise when we marvel at these sketches because the level of attention to detail was remarkable. From the vases’ elegant inlaid mother of pearl to regal dragon patterns on trays, the students did a sterling job at capturing the artisanship of past craftsmen in their work. Moreover, by looking at these artworks, we can have a glimpse into the range of home items of past Vietnamese that might longer be in use today, such as the areca nut sets.

A noticeable motif present in the decorative items that were portrayed by students was the “lotus and duck” subject or liên áp in Vietnamese. The character for áp (鴨), meaning “duck,” has an element of giáp (甲), meaning “first.” This signifies an aspiration to attain high achievement in academic pursuits. Liên (蓮), meaning “lotus,” is a homophone of liên (連), meaning “continuous.” Depictions of “lotus and duck” reflect people’s desire to have good luck in their studies and future career.

Interestingly, one of the most popular subjects is the areca nut and betel leaf kit used by past generations. A set usually has a tray or lidded pot, a pitcher of lime powder, a cutter, a mixing spoon, dried thuốc xỉa leaves, and a spitting bottle.

In three works by the authors Sư, Huỳnh Văn Mới and Kỳ, we can identify some of these instruments in three different styles, all beautifully crafted to showcase their owners’ financial station. In the set drawn by Sư, the exterior of the box is lacquered and embellished with a “lotus and duck” scene. For the sets owned by Mới and Kỳ’s families, the receptacles were made of bronze.

Three sets of different trầu cau utensils show us the diversity and complexity of our ancestors' areca nut-chewing pastime.

An areca nut box, or cơi trầu, is a multi-component container with a lid, used to store the various tools needed in the consumption of areca nut and betel leaf mixture. Ô trầu, on the other hand, is simply a hollow cylindrical container where everything is kept. According to Trọng Tính, a co-founder of history forum Đại Nam Hội Quán, these setups were usually displayed by wealthy households back then in their living room to flaunt their social status.

Commenting on this set of artworks, Tính also noted that the opulent boat drawn by Trần Tấn Tước isn’t just any mode of transportation commonly seen now. It’s a ghe hầu, a leisure vehicle reserved for river cruise and is decorated with festive flags, a prominent rudder, and other amenities. Today, not many have survived, though two are still kicking around, including the Sáu Bổ owned by Trần Văn Thành, and the Sấm owned by Lê Văn Mưu, also known as Ông Trần.

Marveling at these art assignments by students in the 1930s Mekong Delta, we get to know a delightful facet of the life of past Vietnamese. Areca nut boxes have largely disappeared from our daily routine, and now mostly exist as artifacts in museums. If you’re lucky, there might be one lurking in a corner of the family living room, waiting to be rediscovered. If not, then you’ll probably have to settle for digital images or one of these detailed sketches by students of the Long Xuyên Primary School.

Images courtesy of Trọng Tính.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Digging into one’s collection of old mementos can be a thrilling experience. From antique watches to tattered letters, these trinkets serve as a remembrance of a period of time in our past. For Kyle Nunas, Saigon’s former Consul General of Canada (2017–2020), his connection with the bustling metropolis began with this collection of old photos captured during a trip to Vietnam over 20 years ago.

It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that 1997 was over 20 years ago. Vietnam, and especially Saigon, has started to rapidly transform into the dynamic and robust economy we know today in the last five years or so. Saigon today still retains some vestiges of its past self in the form of heritage buildings and winding alleys, though that is changing thanks to a new crop of real estate projects looming on the horizon.

Despite these inevitable growing pains, the city has also started to carve out a contemporary identity, as evidenced through its collection of snazzy businesses, shops and hip cafés that are taking shelter in Saigon’s old apartment buildings.

The year 1997, however, belonged to a completely different era. If 1975 was the golden age of Saigon’s role as the region’s cultural hub, the decades after that until the late 2000s were like its awkward pubescent phase, when both the city and its residents struggled to figure out a path for themselves.

Nunas’ Vietnam visit bore witness to the changes that were taking place, a few glimpses of which can be spotted in the film snapshots: Honda Cubs had started to replace rickety bicycles while small shops selling knick-knacks occupied local thoroughfares.

He set foot in the country for the first time in January of that year with a city tour through Saigon and a brief visit to Mỹ Tho in the Mekong Delta. At the end of the same year, in December, Nunas returned to hit Hội An, Huế, Hanoi and Hạ Long Bay. However, it wasn't until August 2017 that the diplomat had a chance to come back.

“It has long been my hope to be able to return to a city I enjoyed visiting as a backpacker in January 1997,” Nunas told Saigoneer via email. “I never did manage to visit again until I arrived this August with my family. I always meant to but only now have I had the opportunity.”

Kyle Nunas during his visit to Saigon 20 years ago. This photo was taken by Tom Wallis, his travel companion at the time.

All of the shots in the photo archive were taken with a Minolta XD-11, thus giving the photos a faded, distinctly 1997 look. Through Nunas’ lens, everything was rendered with an under-saturated tinge, from the orange nightscapes of Saigon to a foggy morning over Hanoi’s Hoàn Kiếm Lake.

“I found myself always feeling cheated for time. There were little gems everywhere. One thing that jumps out was the drive from Hội An to Huế,” he reminisced about his time on the road. “The Hải Vân Pass was breathtaking, after going through winding roads, looking down the plunging terrain into the ocean way below.”

Judging from his set of travel photos, Nunas had a knack for capturing human-interest portraits. He also spoke of a few memorable encounters as he traversed Vietnam’s length in between places of interest.

He explained: “There is a cathedral outside Huế where I was provided a tour from a very old priest. He spoke French and was delighted to speak French with a Canadian as the sisters who helped found the church were from Montreal.”

Take a look at some other shots of Vietnam in 1997 by Kyle Nunas below:

Kyle Nunas was the Consul General of Canada in Hồ Chí Minh City from 2017 to 2020. He moved to the city in August 2017 with his wife Jenna, son Grey and their dog, Pawsley.

This article was originally published in 2017.

Before the motorbikes invaded all aspects of modern Vietnam, Saigon streets were all bicycles, vintage cars and xích lô.

At Saigoneer, we’ve amassed a collections of hundreds of Saigon xưa photo archives over the years. Most of these are rare scans of film photos as personal mementos from tourists, foreign soldiers and even photojournalists. With the exception of professional photographers who came to the country with a specific story to seek, the rest took a “shoot whatever interests you” approach to photography.

Therefore, these image collages usually don’t encompass a clear direction, agenda or message: they’re purely a celebration of the city’s vivacious street life. In this particular set of shots, taken by an anonymous photographer, we get a chance to relive the years right after the country’s turmoil in 1975.

Did you know that Đặng Thị Nhu Street — which currently houses a host of restaurants and fashion emporia — used to be a bustling book street? The pavement of Lê Lợi, now widened but empty, doubled as a quirky makeshift bazaar for knick-knacks and knock-offs.

Find out more about our city through this set of photos, taken in 1975–1980, below:

A footwear shop on Đồng Khởi Street.

Old cars and xích lô.

A wedding "carriage" on Lê Duẩn Street.

A makeshift bazaar on the pavement of Lê Lợi.

A morning in Quách Thị Trang Square.

The Trần Hưng Đạo-Nguyễn Thái Học intersection.

Traffic on Trần Hưng Đạo.

Looking toward central District 1 from Trần Hưng Đạo.

A view of Lê Lợi Street.

An advertisement for a music class.

School children working on craft projects in school.

A lunch lady working on a large batch of vegetable soup.

Left: a building bearing signage of SINCO, a sewing machine producer, at the corner of Trần Hưng Đạo and Calmette. Right: book vendors on Đặng Thị Nhu Street.

Commercial kitchen inside a school.

Lunchtime banter.

View from the Caravelle Hotel.

An old Lambretta on the street.

A state-owned bus.

A street corner in Đà Nẵng.

Street life in Saigon.

Browsing for books on Đặng Thị Nhu.

The Saigon Opera House.

View from the Caravelle Hotel.

Đồng Khởi Street.

A dining area inside Caravelle.

Đặng Thị Nhu Street.

Photos via Flickr user manhhai.

The 1990s were a time of significant change in Vietnam.

All around the world, technological developments, including computers and the internet, were causing seismic shifts in cultures, lifestyles and surroundings as the century neared its conclusion. In Vietnam, these changes coincided with economic reorientation, opening to global markets, and a general, nationwide financial boom.

Photographer Hoàng Đình Nam, working for AFP, captured photos in 1997 that articulate the unique moment in Vietnam wherein new technologies, fashions, and ideas were being integrated into local livelihoods. While the photos may now conjure a sense of nostalgia, at the time, they would have represented the height of flashy modernity in all its resplendent potential.

Have a look at some of the photos via RedsVN below to compare what was new at the time contrasted with some enduring scenes of past decades.

High-speed internet arrived in Vietnam on December 1, 1997, and this woman checked her connection in the waning days of dial-up.

The late 1990s saw an increase in efforts to curb drug trafficking. Court officials had ordered the burning of 31.5kg of opium and 8.5kg of heroin at this Hanoi stadium on August 28, 1997.

Condoms being inspected in a Saigon factory underscore efforts to promote and provide for safe sex.

Christmas hats sold in Saigon in late December.

A worker attends to a Toyota Corolla in the Vĩnh Phúc factory.

Amidst all the new equipment, items, and technologies, traditional items thrived, including these bamboo fishing baskets in Hưng Yên. 

Hanoi's Opera House was undergoing repairs in 1997, with scaffolding obscuring its facade. 

After an unexpected entry into the 1997 SEA Games' semi-finals, Hanoians naturally đi bão.

Pierre Cardin shirts produced in a local garment factory in collaboration with the namesake French designer sold on Hanoi streets for about US$10 a piece.

These star lanterns for the Mid-Autumn festival would be recognizable to people in decades prior as well as today.

Iconic ward loudspeakers on the move.

[Top image: Coca-Cola's “trade bottle caps for bicycles” promotion offered the allure of finding a complete set of caps that could be traded for a bicycle, but criticisms mounted when no one turned up with the cap bearing a seat.]

An unassuming street named Phan Đình Phùng runs through Saigon’s Phú Nhuận District. It is named after a Vietnamese revolutionary who led rebel armies against French colonial forces in the 1880s and 1890s. He is also my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.

In 2019, while on his deathbed in Nha Trang, my grandpa, Phan Dinh Dien, informed me that we were descendants of Phan Đình Phùng, and we, therefore, needed to do what we could to make Vietnam a better place for all.

I’ll start by making a little bit of history more accessible:

Phùng was descended from 12 generations of bureaucratic scholars, but while no dummy, it was his integrity and uncompromising stance against corruption that he was known for, not his scholarly abilities. He rose through the ranks under Emperor Tự Đức’s reign, calling out many incompetent and corrupt fellow bureaucratic scholars, including the viceroy of northern Vietnam and the foremost scholar of the court, Tôn Thất Thuyết (his street sits in District 4). 

In 1883, the childless Emperor Tự Đức refused to appoint his most senior heir, Dục Đức, having written in his will that Dục Đức was depraved and unworthy of ruling the country. He instead named his nephew, Kiến Phúc, as his successor. Unfortunately for Emperor Tự Đức and Phan Đình Phùng, Tôn Thất Thuyết (the scholar who was previously criticized by my ancestor), was appointed administrator of the country. True to his dishonest ways, Thuyết ignored the late Emperor Tự Đức’s will and enthroned Dục Đức. 

My grandfather, Phan Dinh Dien, on the right.

And, true to his principled ways, Phùng protested and refused to recognize Dục Đức’s authority. According to Hue-Tam Ho Tai’s book Radicalism and the Origins of the Vietnamese Revolution, Phùng only narrowly escaped the death penalty for his insolent behavior because he was so widely admired by the other regents. He was, however, stripped of his titles and exiled to his native village back in what is today Hà Tĩnh Province.

Meanwhile, back at Huế's royal court, Thuyết was orchestrating plenty of turmoil: three emperors were deposed and killed in just over a year. In 1884, 12-year-old Hàm Nghi was enthroned as the Emperor of Vietnam.

Being literally a boy, he was easily and quickly dominated by Thuyết and his associate, Nguyễn Văn Tường. At this point, the French were gaining power around Vietnam, and with this latest succession, concluded that the two regents were causing too much trouble, and sought to remove them.

Tensions erupted on July 4, 1885 when Thuyết and Tường organized an attack against the French. Things didn’t go as planned, and French forces ended up capturing the imperial palace and looted it out of anger over being attacked. On the heels of the defeat, the imperial court fled Huế. Thuyết took the teenage Emperor Hàm Nghi and three empresses into hiding at a mountainous military base near Laos. From there, the regent Thuyết convinced the now-13-year-old king to issue a proclamation calling for the Vietnamese people to rise up and "aid the king" (cần vương). Thus, the Cần Vương rebellion against French colonial rule had begun. 

Phan Đình Phùng Street in Đà Lạt.

This is where Phùng comes back into the picture. He was all for overthrowing French colonial rule and re-installing Hàm Nghi as emperor. He joined the Cần Vương movement by creating his own guerilla army and setting up bases in his home province of Ha Tinh. 

Phùng's first notable attack targeted two nearby Catholic villages that had collaborated with French forces. Unfortunately, the attack was unsuccessful, and French forces quickly overwhelmed them, forcing a retreat. And in a crazy twist of fate, the former viceroy of northern Vietnam — the same one who had been removed from his imperial position because Phùng called him out as incompetent and corrupt — was now a French collaborator and governor of of neighboring Nghệ An Province, and ended up capturing Phùng’s brother during the attack.

The French then convinced one of Phùng’s old friends to beg him to surrender in order to save his captured brother, his ancestral tombs, and his entire village. According to Radicalism and the Origins of the Vietnamese Revolution, the French also offered to award Phùng a high colonial government position if he agreed to work with them. His pithy response: "If anyone carves up my brother, remember to send me some of the soup."

So the French arrested his family and desecrated the tombs of his ancestors, publicly displaying their remains in Hà Tĩnh.

But Phùng had bigger things on his mind than worrying about the public violation of his ancestors’ remains. In 1888, Emperor Hàm Nghi, who Phùng still wanted to re-install, was betrayed by his bodyguard Trương Quang Ngọc, captured, and deported to Algeria. This incited Phùng to come down from the north, track down the traitor Ngọc, and personally execute him. 

All this mischief-making made Phùng the target of Hoàng Cao Khải, the French-installed viceroy of Tonkin who, being of the same scholar-gentry background and village as Phùng, recognized him for the true threat he was. They exchanged a series of letters in which Khải pleaded with Phùng to surrender and end the Cần Vương rebellion in order to stop the prolonged suffering of their countrymen.

Phan Đình Phùng Street in Buôn Ma Thuột.

Khải promised he would lobby French officials to pardon Phùng if he were to surrender. Phùng refused, citing Vietnam’s impressive resistance against China, a neighboring country “a thousand times more powerful” that has “never been able to swallow it up” and put the blame for Vietnamese suffering on the French. With this refusal in hand, Khai went to French officials and called for the "destruction of this scholar gentry rebellion."

According to Oscar Chapuis’ The Last Emperors of Vietnam: from Tu Duc to Bao Dai, in July 1895, French area commanders called in 3,000 troops to crush the three remaining rebel bases. Most unfortunately, Phùng contracted dysentery. And as any of us who grew up playing Oregon Trail knows, this now very curable disease was then a death sentence. Six months later, on January 21, 1896, Phan Đình Phùng died, and in the words of the French governor general leading the attacks, "the soul of resistance to the protectorate was gone."

But the story doesn't end there. After Phùng's death, Ngô Đình Khả, a member of the French colonial administration, had his tomb exhumed, burned the corpse, and used the remains as gunpowder to execute anti-French revolutionaries, such as Phùng’s captured followers, as described in Vũ Ngự Chiêu’s The Other Side of the 1945 Vietnamese Revolution.

In contrast, Khải, the viceroy of Tonkin who led the take-down of Phùng, was held up by the French colonial authorities as an example of true patriotism and so died with riches and honors, according to Radicalism and the Origins of the Vietnamese Revolution.

But today, there are no streets named after Hoàng Cao Khải, whereas practically every city and every provincial town throughout the length of Vietnam has a street named after Phan Đình Phùng. So, I guess he got the last word after all.

This article was written in memory of my grandfather Phan Dinh Dien, another great Vietnamese patriot.

Marie Curie High School, also called Lycée Marie Curie in French or Trường Trung Học Phổ Thông Marie Curie in Vietnamese, is a public high school located in Saigon’s District 3.

Madame Curie, the famous Polish-French chemist, was the first woman to receive a Nobel Prize, and the first person to receive two Nobel Prizes, an achievement that is all the more impressive since they were in two different areas of science.

The lycée that bears her name was established in 1918 by the French colonial government as an all-girls school. The private school taught mostly French expatriates, in addition to a few local Vietnamese. All classes were conducted in French. 

Among the Vietnamese student population, most were children of wealthy families or government employees. They also often specialized in subjects that were popular in Europe but undeveloped in Vietnam. Many Vietnamese alumni shared with PhD candidate Nguyễn Thụy Phong during her research on the school that the lycée was a safe haven for free speech and creativity, a privilege they were grateful to have had.

The architecture of all eight classroom blocks is heavily influenced by French design principles. These influences are most apparent in the entrance gate, the lush gardens and the fountain. Much of the original structure remains unchanged decades later.

From 1970, the school began allowing male students. In 1975, the school was handed over to the Hồ Chí Minh City Education and Training Department, and the French teachers returned home.

In 1997, the school transitioned to a semi-public model. For a time, it was the largest co-ed high school in the country, with more than 5,000 students attending classes each year. Eventually the school reduced its enrollment to increase the quality of education.

Today it is a public high school with about 3,500 students. In 2015, it was finally recognized as a heritage site.

Though most other schools held over from colonial times have since changed their names, Marie Curie High School’s has stayed the same. Take a tour of this historic school through ages below.

[Photos via Flickr user manhhai]

While today’s Đồng Khởi Street is peppered with tourist-centric shops and restaurants, just half a century ago, the downtown street was the nightlife hotspot for Saigon’s cool kids to congregate.

Among those snazzy night hangouts, Tự Do Nightclub was perhaps one of the most iconic landmarks in the minds of old Saigoneers, for a variety of reasons. Located at the corner of Tự Do and Thái Lập Thành streets (now Đồng Khởi and Đông Du, respectively), during its heyday, music lovers and social butterflies flocked to the comfortable booths of Tự Do every night to sway along with the hottest crooners of the day: Khánh Ly, Tuấn Ngọc, Khánh Hà, etc.

La Croix du Sud cafe in 1955.

Up until at least the 1950s, the building that housed Tự Do was home to La Croix du Sud (The Southern Cross), a café and nightclub that was a favorite haunt for French soldiers. The street was first named Rue Catinat during the French occupation, and was renamed to Tự Do in 1955, but most locals still referred to its French name for at least the next decade or so. Đông Du Street’s name back then was Amiral Dupré.

In his 2002 book Window on a War: An Anthropologist in the Vietnam Conflict, Gerald Hickey wrote about nightlife in the area: “As night fell, rue Catinat filled with pedicabs, which everyone called cyclo-pousses, little yellow-and-blue quatre-chavaux Renault taxis, somber black Citroens, and motor scooters.”

The club in 1968 right before the year's Tet holiday.

Hickey added, “Legionnaires seemed to favor the London Bar next to the Cinema Majestic while air force pilots crowded the Croix du Sud café and nightclub.”

In the late 60s and early 70s, the Southern Cross was turned into Tự Do Nightclub and started serving more Americans GIs as the war rolled on. Tự Do welcomed an amicable mix of American and Vietnamese patrons. Little did they realize that a shocking event would unfold in 1971, changing the face of the nightclub, both literally and figuratively.

The dreamy facade of Tự Do at night.

On Wednesday, September 15, 1971, a bomb went off inside Tự Do in the middle of a show, killing 15 and injuring 57 others, according to the Associated Press (AP). The news agency was quoted by New York-based Schenectady Gazette in an article published the following morning.

“The bomb blew out the ceiling and front of the two-story Tự Do Night Club, sent debris tumbling down on tables, scattered glass a block around and wrecked several motorbikes parked outside,” the Gazette writes.

The attack was deemed one of the worst violent incidents at the time in Saigon. The city's security situation was already precarious due to anti-American sentiments.

Today, the site at the corner of Đồng Khởi and Đông Du is now occupied by a major Trung Nguyên Cafe outlet. However, passersbys can still spot a neon sign depicting the word “Tự Do” on the front display, though we’re unsure if it actually originates from the now-defunct nightclub.

The interior of the club during the Christmas season in 1972, a year after the bombing.

Saigoneers who spent their formative years in the 1990s will remember an era of secondhand products of mixed origins. This unique feature of daily life also extended into the transportation realm.

In the immediate years following the đổi mới reform, as Vietnam’s manufacturing capabilities were still lackluster, most local households turned to gently used appliances from Japan, which offered the ideal balance between affordability and endurance. Secondhand clothing was provided by the Swedish International Development Agency (SIDA) in bulk. In the universe of public buses, however, the models in use were a mixed bag from various nationalities.

This album of Saigon buses, compiled by Flickr user Ian Lynas, gives us some glimpses into the colorful and diverse world of public transport back in the 1990s. These include Isuzu from Japan, DeSoto from the US, DAF MB200 from the Netherlands, Renault Goélette from France, and more.

A DeSoto model in Saigon.

A DeSoto bus belonging to Rạng Đông Co-op in Chợ Lớn.

The term “public transport” is used loosely here, as the bus service known as “xe đò” by its users wasn’t fully operated by the government, but small co-ops (hợp tác xã). Each co-op was free to create bus routes, hire drivers, and manage its finances; routes included both intracity transport and interprovince coaches.

To maximize profits, owners often procured used vehicles from overseas, buying whatever other countries were willing to offload no matter how old or patched-up they were, resulting in a truly chaotic bus experience for riders. Depending on the route and co-op, one could be sitting on plush leather seats or rickety deathtraps on four wheels. In Japan's case, for example, buses operated under a strict turnover system where vehicles must be retired after 10–15 years of use, even if they were still in good conditions, so many of these ended up in Southeast Asia. 

In 2001, the city decided to step in to straighten out the bus scene by limiting the age of vehicles in use to just 20 years and offering bus owners subsidies to buy new vehicles. Nearly 90% of buses operating at the time became “expired.”

Reacquaint with some of Saigon’s most iconic vintage buses from the 1990s below:

An inter-city DeSoto bus linking Chợ Lớn and Bến Lức (Long An).

Another DeSoto bearing a “Ford” name running between Chợ Lớn and Đức Hòa (Long An).

A Karosa bus (Czechoslovakia).

An ISUZU BU40 bus (Japan).

ISUZU bus leaving the 23/9 Park Depot in District 1.

ISUZU BU10 serving a domestic tourism company.

Nissan FHI serving as a company bus for workers.

A rare IFA W50L (East Germany) owned by the Giải Phóng Film Studio.

An IFA linking Hậu Nghĩa Township and Chợ Lớn.

A Mekong Star serving as a city bus in 1996. Mekong Star was produced by Mekong Auto, Vietnam's first bus manufacturer, and a joint venture between Vietnam, South Korea and Japan.

A DAF MB200 (Netherlands) running between Bến Thành and the Eastern Bus Station.

Another DAF in action.

A Mitsubishi Fuso (Japan) that still had its original Japanese that says “Via Kusumi, Umezu Depot.” 

A Hino RE-100 (Japan) operated by the Quyết Tiến Co-op.

Another Hino vehicle.

A Renault Goélette (France) in Chợ Lớn.

A Fuso-Kureha bus (Japan). The label says エドモンズ大学 (Edmonds College). This vehicle was likely from the Kobe campus of the Edmonds College (Washington) that opened in 1990.

An ISUZU Kawasaki (Japan).

A Fuso-Kureha bus parked in the Independence Palace.

A Tân Hóa–Chợ Lớn bus.

Photos by Ian Lynas via RedsVN.

Bordering the Temple of Literature in Hanoi is Nguyễn Thái Học Boulevard, where a number of art shops sit side by side. Among them, tourists and visitors can find an endless supply of varying iterations of socialist iconography, gold-plated replicas of Đông Sơn drums, and faux-impressionist paintings of colonial Indochina. In Mũi Né, a 127-room resort unironically called The Anam Mui Ne boasts its Indochine allure with “Indochine Charm. Modern Luxury” on its home page. Throughout the resort are paintings depicting women in traditional áo dài and scenes of tranquil fishing villages, gesturing toward the bucolic past of Vietnam. In Saigon, numerous cafes and eateries are decorated in encaustic cement tiles with intricate floral, pastel designs, while brandishing French names and wrought iron railings on their balconies.

Tourists walking on Hanoi's Hàng Gai Street, famous for its range of arts and crafts shop. Photo via Expedia.

If you live in Vietnam, none of this comes as a surprise. In fact, it might even be expected, understood as an homage to a bygone era. But if you’ve never been to Vietnam, such imagery might evoke scenes from Régis Wargnier’s Indochine (1992) or Jean-Jacques Annaud’s adaptation of Marguerite Duras’s L’Amant (1992), films that have long captured the imagination of foreign audiences and helped shape a sanitized vision of Indochine, now repackaged and romanticized as Indochic. While these films didn’t invent the Indochinese style, they certainly helped in propagating it to a larger audience. And it is evident that throughout the country, such conjurings of this aesthetic language are part of a longer repertoire of codes that don’t only refer to a certain time period, but also to class stratification, self image, and cultural heritage. The pervasiveness of this aesthetic, and the aura around its revival, prompts a critical inquiry into how postcolonial Vietnam negotiates a visual regime inherited from colonial rule, one that continues to structure artistic production, shape market expectations, and mediate the nation’s cultural self-representation in a global context.

The roots and expressions of the Indochinese style

On the right is an ad for the Foire de Hanoi in 1932, trade fair highlighting local enterprises.

To explore the origins of this phenomenon, it is necessary to examine the roots of the Indochinese style itself. Broadly categorized as French colonial style, this aesthetic extended beyond architecture into studio art, interior design, and colonial cultural sensibilities more generally. Its foundations were intricately linked to French colonial policies, notably Albert Sarraut’s mise en valeur initiative. Sarraut, Governor-General of French Indochina from 1912 to 1914, actively promoted the preservation and development of “indigenous arts.” For example, he supported French art scholar George Groslier’s initiatives aimed at safeguarding Cambodian cultural traditions, including the establishment of the National Museum of Cambodia.

In 1921, Ernest Hébrard (1875–1933) was appointed the head of the Indochina Architecture and Town Planning Service, and would become the central figure in the architectural formulation of French Indochina. Hébrard’s aspiration to devise a distinctly “local” style for the colony resulted in a fundamentally syncretic approach, structurally inspired by various Asian architectural traditions rather than directly replicating any specific Indochinese vernacular. Completed in 1928, one of the finest examples of this style is the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building in Hanoi, which vividly illustrates Hébrard's synthesis of architectural elements. Nevertheless, this methodological approach drew criticism for its perceived lack of authenticity.

The building that currently houses the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was built in 1928. Photo via Visit Ba Đình.

Parallel to these architectural developments was the founding of L'École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine (EBAI) in 1925, under the directorship of French painter Victor Tardieu. Established along similar lines to the École Nationale des Beaux-Arts d’Alger (founded in 1843), EBAI cultivated a cohort of Vietnamese artists who would profoundly shape local artistic discourses. Prominent French figures also included artists such as Paul Jouve (1878–1973), designer of the Indochine 1000 piastre note, and writers such as Pierre Loti (1850–1923), author of Un Pélerin d'Angkor (1912), while Vietnamese artists, who graduated from the EBAI included: Bùi Xuân Phái (1920–1988), most known for his scenes of Hanoi’s old quarters; Tô Ngọc Vân (1906–1954), whose seminal work ‘Thiếu nữ bên hoa huệ’ (1943) exemplified Indochinese sensibilities; Mai Trung Thứ (1906–1980), whose “Mona Lisa” is now well beloved; and Lê Thị Lựu (1911–1988), one of the first female graduates of the school most recognized for her portraitures; and more. These were just some of the early key figures who introduced and established the visual and cultural lexicon, which would later be labeled, “chim, hoa, cá, gái” (birds, flowers, fish, women), or the prominent subject matter emblematic of this style.

The Indochine style utilized locally sourced natural materials such as wood, lacquer, rattan, bamboo, and baked bricks, and incorporated motifs like dragons, turtles, phoenixes, cranes, and diverse floral patterns. The color palette — characterized by neutral and warm hues, beige, cream, yellow, orange, black, brown, and white — embodied a nostalgic aesthetic tailored to accommodate tropical climatic conditions. Architectural features such as wide eaves, screened balconies, and strategic window and ventilation placements facilitated climate control and comfort. In Saigon, the Phương Nam Mansion is among one of the best examples with its tiled roof, colonnaded façade, covered balconies, and wrought iron balustrades.

Phương Nam Mansion in HCMC in 2019 before being greenlit for conservation works. Photo via Người Lao Động.

Nearing the mid-century, this style was no longer seen as new, but as Vietnamese. For the ordinary person, aside from shophouses in the city, or traditional wooden houses in more rural areas, this simply was how official buildings and upscale private residences looked. It was often used in villas, like the ones found in Đà Lạt and Nha Trang. This feeling of heritage was doubly enforced by the fact that, from the 1940s, modernist architecture arrived in Vietnam, producing an entirely different conversation about novelty and contemporary sensibilities. This was especially true in the south where there was a rapid expansion of modernist construction after the first Indochina War and World War II. Architects, both local and foreign, adapted modernist principles with climate-conscious innovations. Iconic buildings such as the Independence Palace (formerly Norodom Palace), rebuilt in 1962, epitomized this modernist aesthetic and moment of transition, thereby positioning Indochinese style as charmingly historical rather than contemporary.

From Indochinese to Indochic, a performable social signal

The resurgence of Indochinese style, now Indochic, as an aspirational style emerged prominently in the early 2000s, correlating with Vietnam’s rapid economic growth and easing of post-war austerity measures. With economic reforms initiated in 1986, transitioning Vietnam towards a socialist-oriented market economy, GDP per capita rose dramatically, from just US$235.65 in 1985 to US$430.19 in 1986 and US$585.30 in 1987. The trend continued upward throughout the 2011–2024 period, reaching US$4,346.77 in 2023 and around US$4,649 in 2024. This economic shift not only transformed material living standards but also gave rise to a new aesthetic consciousness among the burgeoning middle and upper classes. No longer was the austerity of Neubau sentimentality the lingo du jour, but it was the intentional return to old world charm in the form of colonial minimalist decadence.

Indochic, therefore, re-emerged not merely as an architectural style but as a form of self-fashioning, a visual assertion of cultivated taste and social mobility, made possible only by the temporal distance between its initial conception and its later absence. It offered the newly affluent a sanitized version of history, absent of colonial exploitation and labor regimes, one that evoked heritage without consequence. Space and light were still important considerations for buildings, but so were paintings of bucolic rice paddy scenes, populated with women in domestic spaces, and wooden fishing boats that also serve as family homes. And we can’t forget the heritage vases and courtyard bonsai. As the style re-emerged, its meanings also shifted. It became retro, even aspirational, undeniably chic, and now, air-conditioned.

Bucolic embroidery works inside a store in Hanoi. Photo via Expedia.

More than a revival of aesthetic motifs, this new Indochic marked a transformation in class performance. With newfound prosperity, Vietnam’s rising middle class eagerly signaled their upward mobility by adopting what appeared to be markers of inherited taste. The look of “old money” became performable, accessible, and desirable — even if few could claim direct lineage to the colonial elite. Indochic, thus, asserted a “tasteful” nod to cultural sophistication and continuity with an idealized past, which more often than not results in an aimless parody of ahistorical amnesia. Sure, you might not have been a wealthy heiress of businessmen or plantation owners like Éliane in Indochine, but you can certainly dress and decorate your house as if you were.

Aesthetic cues extended beyond architecture to vintage áo dài silhouettes, mid-century design elements, and brand identity, all feeding into a curated performance of taste, discernment, and nostalgic authenticity, but done ironically without that direct lineage. It is a performance, in other words, of a form of self-fashioned social belonging, which, if done successfully, can separate the gaudy from the simplistic, or conversely, muddle tradition with off-sighted experimentation. Truly, we can’t all be the queen of Saigon. In some cases, it is hard to tell if one execution is a cultivated homage to history or merely a decontextualized mimicry of hollowed-out orientalist motifs.

The private estate where Éliane (Catherine Deneuve) lives with her foster daughter Camille (Phạm Linh Đan) in Indochine (1992). Image via Sài Gòn Vi Vu.

Regardless, contemporary interior design companies and luxury businesses frequently deploy these visual codes, perpetuating Indochic as an aesthetic synonymous with luxury, and cultural heritage as a brand. Part of the issue here is that, historically, the development of Indochine style coincided with profound societal transformations within Vietnam, marking a transitional period from feudal traditions towards modernity, underscored by the expansion of educational and healthcare infrastructures. Thus, in some ways, it was rather revolutionary to the extent that it challenged pre-existing norms not by way of visual violence, but through mediation between idealism and material reality.

Much like the myth of a more balanced colonial hybridity, the insidiousness of the style’s revival has less to do with its purported harmony than with the logic of subordination of aesthetic norms, vis-à-vis the deficiency of indigenous sensibilities that needed intervention and renovation in the first place. Put differently, its drive toward harmony is achieved only through the framework of recognizable European forms, meanwhile, subjecting its unresolved tensions into the decorative elements, such as dragon mosaics, and lotus flowers in the crown molding.

Indochic in quotidian life and the art market

In miền Tây, where I am from, it is common to encounter newly constructed homes adorned with tiled verandas, Corinthian columns, Greco-style pediments, arched windows with decorative keystones, and occasionally even faux-mansard roofs. For locals, prolonged exposure and cultural sedimentation have rendered this architectural vocabulary part of the everyday vernacular. There are, of course, more contemporary-looking houses in the region and throughout the country. However, the trend tends to lean in this direction of more heritage-looking houses, and it is quite easy to spot the nouveau riche, where many of the mentioned elements are overstated and mixed with neo-Baroque motifs, bordering on camp. In many of these places, rather than performing an imagined fantasy derived from a colonial mindset, Indochinese motifs have genuinely become heritage, fully vernacularized, and not disparagingly so.

Ninh Hiệp Village in Gia Lâm, Hanoi, whose urban center is decked out in rows of new European-style villas and sculptures. Photo via Dân Trí.

Yet, authenticity remains a pertinent concern. While indulging in colonial aesthetics, this saveur indochinois, is not inherently problematic, but a critical perspective must recognize the complex historical and social implications associated with such representations, including parallels with the romanticization of American southern plantation architecture — a troubling analogy, yet illustrative of the underlying cultural violence inherent in such aesthetic codes. This is perhaps where one might find some dark humor in the onslaught of Indochic as a desirable measure for social and cultural stability. As the style emerged not merely as an aesthetic indulgence, but as a complex interplay between colonial imposition and local reinterpretation. More precisely, it is emblematic of the reassurance of class and aesthetic stratification, however in a context where that is very much praised and applauded, and at a time when inequality is ever more concerning.

Colorful travel posters showcasing different tourism locations, 20th century.

Elsewhere, this humor extends in far more impactful ways. In Vietnam’s contemporary art market, for example, early 20^th-century masters continue to overshadow contemporary Vietnamese artists, simply because their visual languages have already been well rehearsed. International auction houses frequently spotlight Vietnamese ceramics and lacquer works, reinforcing colonial tendencies to valorize these objects as artifacts rather than recognizing ongoing artistic innovation. Between April to August of this year alone, there have been no fewer than twenty contemporary art show openings, just in Saigon. At the same time, little attention has been given to these shows, with buyers privileging works that “look” more stereotypically Vietnamese, by which, more often than not, means Indochinese. This continued perception inadvertently positions Vietnamese creative capacity as suspended within a Euro-American cinematic narrative, in which an object must seemingly have been produced by some unnamed master in a hidden village specializing in lacquer of, say, Quảng Trị, rather than an MFA-trained artist in residence at the Guggenheim, as an example. Surely there is a form of existence that lies beyond chinoiserie à la Vietnamienne.

‘Portrait de Mademoiselle Phuong’ by Mai Trung Thứ was sold in an auction in 2021 for US$3.1 million.

‘Mère et enfant’ by Lê Thị Lựu fetched EUR529,200 in 2022.

From personal interviews with local contemporary artists and gallery visits, it’s evident that many are fed up with the particular demand to perform this kind of Indochinese craft-like art making. To some of these artists, it reduces their individual practice to that of a nameless coolie, performing traditional roles and producing traditional wares. There is no doubt that Vietnamese traditional craft has had a storied past, but one can only play so much with the codes of Bát Tràng ceramics in contemporary art before the entire endeavor falls back into kitsch. In my view, the reluctance of these artists to fall into these ethnic-art labor paradigms has less to do with their individual egos than it does about the broader pervasiveness and power which the Indochinese aesthetic regime has on Vietnam cultural tastes and production — a power that is undeniable, but too arrestingly captive for it to offer aesthetic novelty, for those who are seeking expressive liberation rather than sedimentation. At the same time, because of how well-received this style is to both foreigners and Vietnamese people, it cannot simply be ignored or cast off as though it does not exist, even if, to some, the style signals a kind of cultural stagnation or lack of futural imagination.

The complexities behind engaging with Indochic

So, what can be done? If heritage styles allow individuals to fashion themselves as discerning consumer subjects with a particular attunement to personality and sense of judgement, what really is the problem? Surely, a discerning consumer, even if it is just a style, is better than a non-discerning one, no? But here is precisely where we encounter the dilemma: the Indochic style is less about the reconstruction of a style than a re-enactment of it. To that end, the idea of the possibility of reclaiming a colonial aesthetic as purely one’s own is no less than a consumerist fantasy. That is, unless it can somehow be radically re-imagined to accommodate the realities that currently exist within contemporary Vietnamese society.

Personally, I find the discourse of “reclaiming” these aesthetics is equally fraught, since such terminology would imply a dispossession and appropriation inconsistent with Vietnam’s historical adaptation and negotiation of these styles. There is nothing to “reclaim.” The style was never “taken” away from the Vietnamese, in any sense, but it was more so the case that the country simply had moved on to other forms of self-expression.

Inside a cafe in central Saigon, where the theme is Indochinese-inspired.

Vietnam is a country like any other, in the sense that its consumptive practices were well in-line with global developments, particularly during the second half of the 20^th century. The country’s liberation from French control gave way to an onslaught of novel values, which were later disseminated within its larger cultural sphere, and the arrival of modernism was overwhelmingly welcomed, and undoubtedly prolific in Vietnam. Because of this, rather than “reclaim,” I would like to pose if it may be possible to, instead, “retro-fit” the Indochinese style, as a formal renovation?

I pose this question not only in response to the persistence of the style, as evidenced by its fad-like return, but also in relation to the bearing it has on our capacity to critically visualize the future image of Vietnam. After all, this aesthetic emerged directly from complex historical interactions, despite unequal colonial conditions, and to use it as part of the country’s promotional image can’t (and probably won’t) entirely harm its future earning potential in the tourism sector, right? Still, the persistence of Indochic as a cultural marker today extends beyond surface aesthetics, embedding itself deeply within class identities and social structures. All told, “French colonial style” does indeed sound much better than “tropical plantation-core.”

French travel posters of the 3 territories under French rule, Tonkin, Annam, and Cochinchine.

With tourism surging by a record-breaking 6 million visitors in the first quarter of 2025 alone, that image of “France’s former eastern territory” is not negligible, as mere self-promotion. Vietnamese people are proud of their history of anti-colonial resistance, but they are also equally proud of the material culture that was produced during the colonial period. Listen, I am not here to take away anyone’s rêve d’Asie. I think it is possibly one of the most intentional and functional design conventions of the 20^th century. Not to mention, tourists will, unhesitantly, continue to want to experience that romanticized perle d’orient, to revel in their fantasy of a Chinese junk sailing through the emerald waters of Hạ Long Bay, while sporting in white linen and giant sun hats. And who am I to stop them?

Vincent Pérez as Jean-Baptiste on a sampan in Hạ Long Bay in Indochine (1992). Image via Sài Gòn Vi Vu.

At a certain point, there are only so many ways to insist that in relation to national identity, even something so seemingly inconsequential as hotel designs or souvenir trinkets is not, well, so inconsequential. Furthermore, it may even be necessary to consider how the same cultural apparatuses that have allowed for the ideals of Vietnamese feminized beauty in the 1920s French travel posters, may not be so separate from the fashioning of the female body in major airline advertisements. Today’s Vietnam is much more futuristic than many would believe, but it is not certain that this modern Vietnam is well understood, especially against the prevalence of Indochic’s apparent charm. Southeast Asia as a whole can’t indefinitely remain the antithetical untamed wilderness of East Asia.

All hope is not lost, however. There are signs of what I consider thoughtful reconsiderations — not of Indochinese motifs per se, but of its core tenets: air-flow, natural light, usage of local materials, and a minimalist sensibility rooted in ecological responsiveness rather than decorative excess. Contemporary Vietnamese architects are increasingly revisiting traditional building techniques and indigenous materials, not as a return to heritage for heritage’s sake, but as part of broader conversations around sustainability, climate adaptation, and cultural continuity. Names like Thanh Hà Nguyễn, Võ Trọng Nghĩa, and Phạm Thị Mỹ An come to mind. Their projects, often situated in both urban and rural contexts, offer compelling alternatives to the commercialized Indochic revival. The homage, in these cases, emerges not through codified pastiche or nostalgic mimicry, but through abstraction, restraint, and environmental intelligence. These architects reinterpret climatic logic, overhangs for shade, cross-ventilation for airflow, and porous boundaries between inside and outside, while sidestepping the heavy-handed romanticism that characterizes so much of the Indochic visual regime. In doing so, they point to a future where tradition informs innovation, and where architectural memory is engaged not as spectacle, but as living practice.

“Urban Farming Office” by Võ Trọng Nghĩa Architects. Photo via Kiến Việt.

“Tropical Suburb House” by MM++ Architects. Photo via MM++ Architects.

Elsewhere, contemporary artists are becoming increasingly vocal about their uneasy relationship to the Indochina tropes that continue to dominate expectations, particularly when such expectations are tethered to commercial viability. For some, the decision to conform is strategic rather than aspirational, made under the unrelenting pressure to sell to both domestic and international buyers whose taste remains conditioned by a colonial gaze. Others resist altogether, refusing to participate in a system that demands they package their identity through a retro-Orientalist frame. Popular contemporary art institutions in Saigon are emblematic of this tension, often staging exhibitions that walk the line between market appeal and conceptual critique. The stakes are not merely aesthetic, but structural: who gets visibility, who receives institutional support, and which narratives get elevated in the global circulation of Vietnamese art.

Ultimately, while Indochine-era travel posters may rightfully inhabit souvenir shops near Hồ Chí Minh City's central post office, small boutiques in Hanoi’s Old Quarter, or the exposed brick walls of a coffee shop in Hội An, there remains a need to draw a clear distinction between nostalgic marketing and genuine historical engagement. The challenge is not in disavowing the visual language wholesale, but in learning how to mine it critically, unpacking its ideological underpinnings while embracing the possibilities for artistic evolution, cultural agency, and sustainable reinterpretation. To engage with Indochic today is not to revive the past uncritically, but to imagine how its forms might be retooled ethically, and with attention to the histories they contain.

Vinh Phu Pham, PhD, is an artist, literary scholar, and cultural critic based in New York City. His work explores Vietnamese contemporary art, the musical legacies of the Republic of Vietnam, and Asian American literature in diaspora. His writing has appeared in The Journal of Vietnamese Studies (JVS), Republican Vietnam, 1963–1975: War, Society, Diaspora, Rising Asia Journal, BBC Vietnam, Of Peninsulas and Archipelagos, the Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network (DVAN), Cultbytes, Impulse, and Art & Market.

What can tiny sheets of paper reveal about a whole time period?

Xổ số kiến thiết Hà Nội, which could be loosely translated as the “Hanoi Development Lottery,” came to be during a time when northern Vietnam was rebuilding itself from the rubble of the resistance war against the French and establishing a socialist society. From the illustrations to the way it was promoted, the lottery exemplifies Vietnam’s coupon era.

At the time, while the government was still trying to make ends meet, there was great demand for infrastructure projects and amenities to improve the quality of life of the people, such as roads, schools, healthcare facilities, factories, and other public projects. Northern Vietnam was also saving money to channel revolutionary efforts in the southern region. In that economic climate, Hanoi was searching for a way to secure financial contributions that could both promote the collective spirit and appeal to the people. Thus, for the first time, during the Tết holiday of 1962, the state issued its first lottery tickets named “cần kiệm kiến thiết” (frugal development) as a lunar new year gift to Hanoians. These tickets became the initial foundation for a future lottery program that expanded to the entirety of northern and, later, the whole of Vietnam.

The lottery operation shared some similarities with its counterparts in the Soviet Union and other communist nations at the time. In the USSR, for example, the lottery was wholly state-run and tickets were distributed via official platforms like local workers’ unions, youth unions, kiosks, and state-owned stores; the government also strongly encouraged civil servants to buy tickets. This model was generally adopted by Hanoi: xổ số was both sold at physical locations and sent to state agencies so workers could purchase them at their workplaces.

The way the state promoted the lottery program in its early days displayed a strong sense of collectivist mobilization and socialist messaging. Tickets were often depicted with poetry excerpts and slogans like “Lottery purchase benefits both the state and the household” or “First, [we] build the capital / Then, [we] strengthen the nation’s future” to spread the maxim that buying these tickets was a way for the individual to play a part in developing the nation.

Overall, lottery design during this period wasn’t too elaborate, as the material and technology to produce them remained quite primitive. Both the subject matters and text on the tickets were displayed simply, using bright, eye-catching palettes and straightforward layouts, evoking propaganda posters or illustrations in old textbooks from the 1980s and 1990s. Tickets usually highlighted public buildings, Hanoi’s famous landmarks, or scenes showing Hanoians going through daily activities.

As this was viewed as a key state project, xổ số kiến thiết was run quite seriously. The lottery draw was conducted under the supervision of municipal officials at live events, most famously at the Đoàn Kết Club near Tràng Tiền Street. During the decades of a planned economy, when most commodities were tightly controlled by the state using coupons, the lottery was among the few goods that the people could buy freely. Hence, the lottery was warmly welcomed by Hanoians as a form of state-sanctioned gambling.

Đoàn Kết Club. Photo via Báo Tri thức & Cuộc sống.

Trần Minh Hải, a writer who lived through the prime years of xổ số, shared that he used to watch the lottery draw every afternoon because he “liked chum change, tiny prizes — whatever seems within reach tends to draw people in.” True lottery-heads back then even developed strategies to maximize their luck. The set price was just VND2 for a ticket, but a set with auspicious numbers can fetch VND22–24 on the black market.

The atmosphere at live lottery events could be compared to that of football matches. Fans arrived early to find the best, closest seats to the stage to watch the numeral balls spin in the case and the winning sequence on the blackboard; this was because the events took place in the evening and the electricity grid was unreliable, so one needed to stay close to the stage to read the numbers. Every spin was closely followed by hundreds of spectators eagerly waiting for the host to read out the numbers.

Lottery ticket booths. Photo by John Vink.

Hải recounts the sense of palpable disappointment in the air when the sequence was finalized: “1,001 participants simultaneously morphed their faces into a rainbow of emotions — very few of joy and most were of chagrin and regret. Shoe-clad legs stomped on the ground like a percussive symphony, harmonizing with a choir of woeful groans and thundering kneecap slaps [...], leaving behind their seats a white blanket of torn tickets and strewn shreds of hope.” Still, Hải adopted a rather sanguine outlook, reminding us of the true purpose of the lottery: “Losses also meant my beloved capital might gain a few additional bricks to build.”

In the following decades, as Vietnam’s economic model and situation shifted, the lottery operation also changed accordingly: on each ticket, socialist slogans and pastoral scenes were gone, replaced by flashy motorbikes, color TVs, and even the faces of celebrities enticing passersby to pick up a few tickets. Crowds of capital residents gathering around lottery draw events, once a highlight of the local social calendar, disappeared too. Albeit still run by the state, xổ số today is much more commercialized, and much less about fostering a sense of collective nation-building. Still, it remains a unique facet of Hanoi’s cultural history worth remembering.

Images courtesy of Lê Khanh.

Not long ago, hulking “creatures” glided atop the waters between Saigon and Vũng Tàu. Like the dinosaurs that came before them, they slowly disappeared, until all that was left were their skeletons.

As the sun began to set on the Soviet Union in 1990, a run of hydrofoils, dubbed “Design 352,” began to emerge from Feodosiya, USSR’s Morye shipbuilding plant. Designed to roam within rivers and reservoirs, these vessels found themselves with what some might consider a more palatable moniker — “Voskhod” — better known in Vietnam as tàu cánh ngầm.

In their infancy, Voskhods proved themselves up to the task of coastal migratory routes and in 1995, at least 21 of the finned vessels were transferred to Vietnam where they were put into daily use across numerous localities, including Cát Bà and Hải Phòng, but could be found in their greatest numbers in southern Vietnam.

At their peak, they annually ferried some 500,000 passengers between Saigon and the oil-stained beaches of Vũng Tàu at the confluence of the Saigon River and the East Sea, with tickets priced at around VND200,000.

However, as more roads were built and the once-spry Voskhods aged, their numbers began to dwindle and, by 2014, signs of decline were obvious and they became accident-prone.

After a number of service suspensions, including a major fire in January 2014, the Voskhods were removed from service and their lifecycle officially came to an end in December 2016, when their operating permits weren’t renewed by authorities.

But as is often the case, a new type of vessel appeared on Saigon’s waterways not long after to appease traveler’s seafaring appetites. The Saigon-Vũng Tàu route is currently served by a new fleet of catamarans, amongst others, that have been operating since 2017.

Remnants of the Voskhods endured on dry docks around Saigon; the dilapidated carcass of one was still visible along the right side of the Saigon Bridge, when traveling from Bình Thạnh to District 2. It was removed in late 2018, putting an end to the Voskhod's existence in Saigon.

Image by Brian Letwin.

Though the current services are a safer option than their Soviet genus, what we’ve gained in security and stability, we’ve lost in mystique and thrill.

Watch this video from Rusty Compass, filmed about seven years ago, to witness a nostalgic first-hand experience of traveling on these historical relics shortly before they were pulled from service:

It’s claimed by several tourism websites that a gateway from one of the ancient Gia Định citadels has survived and may be viewed on the Lê Văn Duyệt-Phan Đăng Lưu intersection in Bình Thạnh District, close to the Lê Văn Duyệt Mausoleum. However, a little research into the history of that area reveals that the gateway in question has more recent origins.

The gateway, popularly known as the “Gia Định Citadel Gate” (Cổng thành Gia Định), is built into the outer wall of Trương Công Định Secondary School and does bear a very superficial resemblance to the east gate of the 1837 Gia Định Citadel as depicted in the famous drawing of the French attack of 1859, although clearly it was conceived on a significantly smaller scale.

A 1966 map of what is now the Lê Văn Duyệt-Phan Đăng Lưu junction.

In fact, since neither the Lũy Bán Bích city walls of 1772 nor the two citadels of 1790 and 1837 (see “The Citadels of Gia Định”) were located anywhere near this neighborhood, the idea that it ever formed part of those structures may be ruled out.

Old maps reveal that the secondary school stands on the site formerly occupied by the historic Gia Định School of Drawing (École de Dessin Gia-Dinh), an applied arts school set up by the French in 1913 to provide continuing studies for graduates of the Thủ Dầu Một School of Indigenous Arts (École d’Art Indigène de Thu-Dau-Mot, teaching mainly woodwork and lacquerware) and the Biên Hòa School of Arts (École d’Art de Bien-Hoa, teaching mainly ceramics and bronzecasting).

The École de Dessin Gia-Dinh, pictured in the 1920s.

An important training ground for many pioneering southern painters and sculptors, it was renamed the Gia Định School of Applied Arts (École des Arts Décoratifs de Gia-Dinh) in 1940, and after 1954 it became the Gia Định Secondary School of Decorative Arts (Trường Trung học Trang trí Mỹ thuật Gia Định).

In 1955, the Saigon National College of Fine Art (Trường Quốc gia Cao đảng Mỹ thuật Sài Gòn) was opened right next door to the secondary school to teach painting and sculpture. After reunification in 1975, the two schools merged to become the Hồ Chí Minh City College of Fine Art (Trường Cao đảng Mỹ thuật Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh), and when this institution was upgraded to the status of a university in 1981, all teaching was confined to the 1954 building.

The facade of the Gia Định Secondary School of Decorative Arts, picutred in 1960.

The original École de Dessin Gia-Dinh building of 1913 was subsequently demolished to make way for the Trương Công Định Secondary School, but its attractive gateway bearing the name “Gia-Đinh” clearly caught the eye of city planners, who had it preserved as part of the school wall.

As of 2025, although the gate still exists, its facade has been completely painted over to match the white-beige color palette of the secondary school, making it harder to spot compared to its previous shade of bright yellow, as shown in the top image taken in 2016.

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

In the edict to move Vietnam’s capital to Hanoi, Emperor Lý Thái Tổ described this land as the middle of heaven and earth, the center of the four directions. Such a place would bring peace and prosperity, he believed, and deserved sacred protection.

Over the course of the Lý Dynasty, the tradition of worshiping Thăng Long Tứ Trấn, or the Four Sentries of Thăng Long, emerged. These are the four temples dedicated to four deities guarding the cardinal directions of the citadel. 

The Eastern Sentry: Bạch Mã Temple

Located in the heart of the Old Quarter, Bạch Mã Temple is the sentry of the east. It was built in the 9^th century — the oldest temple of Tứ Trấn — to honor the god Long Đỗ, literally the Belly of the Dragon. 

The entrance.

The god Long Đỗ.

Legend has it that when Lý Thái Tổ moved the court to Thăng Long in 1010, he failed to construct a fortress many times. One day, he sent people to pray to the god Long Đỗ, and they saw a white horse walking out from the temple. By tracing the horse’s footsteps and building the fortress accordingly, they finally succeeded. Deeply grateful, the king changed the name of the temple to Bạch Mã, or White Horse, and declared Long Đỗ as the Thành Hoàng, or the One to Bring Abundance, of Thăng Long.

The White Horse with a sun amulet on its side. In Vietnam and many other cultures, worshiping the east is also worshiping the sunrise.

The temple has four main structures. First is a courtyard featuring huge ironwood columns with stunning carvings. The front shrine is dedicated to the White Horse, followed by the mid and back shrine where Long Đỗ himself is honored. 

The courtyard and dedicated carvings.

The front shrine of the White Horse.

The shrines of Long Đỗ.

The Southern Sentry: Kim Liên Temple

Kim Liên is the sacred temple defending the south, here, the god Cao Sơn is worshiped. Cao Sơn was one of the 100 children of Lạc Long Quân and Âu Cơ — the founding legend of the Vietnamese people. He was among the 50 who followed mother Âu Cơ up to the highlands, and he helped Sơn Tinh, the God of the Mountains, defeat Thuỷ Tinh, the God of the Water, and brought peace to the people. 

The entrance within Kim Liên temple with the sign "Southern Sentry."

The temple was built in the 16–17^th century after the capital relocation, making it the youngest of the four. Over time, the people of Kim Liên Village built a cổng tam quan, or a three-entrance gate, right next to the Kim Liên pond. They also added some buildings and turned the temple into a đình, or a communal house, of the village. 

The three-entrance gate of the đình.

The pond in front of the temple.

The most important relic of the temple is a stone epitaph erected in 1510, which was carved with legends of the god Cao Sơn, along with 39 imperial edicts of the Lê and Nguyễn dynasties.

The stone epitaph.

The Western Sentry: Voi Phục Temple

Under the peaceful green canopy of Thủ Lệ Park lies Voi Phục temple, the western sentry. The temple is dedicated to Prince Hoàng Chân, the son of Emperor Lý Thái Tông. He fought against Tống invaders in the 11^th century and died in the battle. To honor him, the king ordered residents to build the Voi Phục Temple, which was named after the two kneeling elephants in front of the temple. 

The design of the roof is in line with the traditional style of ancient pagodas with the tail curved up to the sky, furnished with carvings of spiritual creatures like dragons, unicorns, and phoenixes, etc.

The Northern Sentry: Quán Thánh Temple

Next to West Lake is the sentry of the north: Quán Thánh Temple. Here lies the seat of the god Huyền Thiên Trấn Vũ, who is an important Taoist figure representing the North star.

The gate of Quán Thánh Temple.

As legends go, once there was a nine-tailed fox terrorizing the people. So the god Trấn Vũ came down from heaven and killed the fox. Its body sank to the ground and created West Lake as it is today; this narrative is also why the lake is sometimes called the Xác Cáo (Fox Corpse) Lake.  

An altar with a Tang poem in the background.

The temple has many invaluable relics, including around 40 wood carvings of Tang poems dating back to the 7^th century. There is also a magnificent copper sculpture portraying life activities from the three interlinked worlds: Thiên (sky), Địa (earth), and Thủy (water). 

The copper sculpture hanging from the rafters.

Perhaps most impressive of all, however, is the four-ton, 3.96-meter black copper statue of Huyền Thiên Trấn Vũ at the main altar. According to legend, the statue presents the Taoist god precisely when he reached the highest enlightenment. 

The statue of Huyền Thiên Trấn Vũ.

As befits a place worshiping a god of great martial power, the temple courtyard becomes a dojo in the afternoon.

People honing their martial arts skills at Quán Thánh.

More than 1,000 years have passed since the relocation of the capital, and still the legend of Tứ Trấn remains an iconic part of the city. As long as their stories are still being told, the sentries continue to stand tall to protect this land.

This article was originally published in 2022.