Legacy 50: Saigon – city of ‘firsts’

On 20 July 1885, the Vietnamese railway industry was officially born, as the inaugural train pulled away from Saigon station, crossing the Vam Co Dong River and arriving at its final stop in the heart of My Tho. Billowing smoke and the rhythmic clang of wheels on steel captivated onlookers. The train’s powerful form sweeping over the river sparked wonder and pride—a glimpse into a thrillingly unfamiliar world of modernity. The Saigon–My Tho line, steeped in history, stood witness to nearly a century of colonial rule, bearing Southern farmers through revolutionary fervour and into the pages of national legend. Thanks to this very railway, My Tho’s prominence outshone its Western neighbours.

In the 1950s, however, the tide began to turn. As roads and cars took precedence, train journeys fell out of favour. By 1958, the Saigon–My Tho route ceased operation—much to the regret of many. Though its life spanned just 73 years, the railway left an indelible imprint on the South’s daily rhythms, cultural fabric and collective memory—particularly north of the Tien River. Folk songs and oral poetry remain to this day, echoing the deep affection people once held for this pioneering railway line.

Today, only echoes remain of a once-glorious railway. The moss-covered bridge pillars, forgotten stations scattered across 70 kilometres, and the recollections of the elderly are all that survive of the Saigon–My Tho line. Its historical mission long complete, the “iron road” may have come to a stop, but the memory of those early train journeys continues to move, quietly and steadily, through the current of national history.

In the early days of the Vietnamese press, still echoing with a mix of French and Chinese characters, Gia Dinh Newspaper (1865–1909) emerged as the first publication in the national language. Not just in Cochinchina, but across the country, it stood alone in Saigon during its time. Its editorial office operated out of the interpretation division within the Internal Affairs Department (Direction de l’Intérieur) of Cochinchina, at 59–61 De La Grandière Street—now the corner of Dong Khoi and Ly Tu Trong.

The paper’s founding, established by decree of Rear Admiral Pierre Gustave Roze, was initially placed under the charge of French interpreter Ernest Potteaux. But the turning point came in September 1869, when Truong Vinh Ky assumed the role of editor-in-chief. Joined by a circle of gifted contributors—Huynh Tinh Cua, Truong Minh Ky, Ton Tho Tuong and others—the publication began to develop a voice of its own. It became a gathering place for committed minds, helping to shape the contours of Vietnam’s young journalistic landscape.

While some in its early days viewed Gia Dinh Newspaper as an instrument of colonial messaging, its pioneering spirit and influence remain undeniable. Under Truong Vinh Ky’s editorial hand, the paper broadened its content, moving beyond official notices and decrees to include essays, poetry, historical pieces and reflections—enriching the cultural life of its readership. From humble beginnings as a four-page monthly, it would grow into a bi-weekly, then a weekly, mirroring a society increasingly hungry for ideas and information.

Over its 44-year lifespan, Gia Dinh Newspaper became one of the most enduring publications in Vietnam of its time. Beyond any political intention, it carved out a path for the flourishing of Vietnamese-language journalism. Its influence extended far beyond the newsroom, helping to spread knowledge and sharpen minds across diverse fields. Above all, as the sole Vietnamese-language newspaper of the era, Gia Dinh Newspaper played a vital role in refining and popularising the national language—a contribution etched into the pages of Vietnam’s literary and linguistic history.

Discreetly positioned at the junction of Nguyen Du and Chu Manh Trinh streets in District 1, Nguyen Du supermarket ushered in a new era of retail in Vietnam. It was the country’s first venture into a modern shopping model. With the ambition to refresh the domestic market, this pioneering space brought something entirely unfamiliar: polished aisles, chilled air, neatly arranged shelves with price tags, and the novel clatter of shopping trolleys. In contrast to the bustling and informal atmosphere of traditional markets, Nguyen Du supermarket offered a new kind of encounter—modern, measured and surprisingly elegant.

Just over a month after its landmark debut, Nguyen Du supermarket cheerfully welcomed its 100,000th customer. The man behind this “shopping marvel” was Mr Tran Do Cung, an economic official with a vision for market stability. Inspired by early ideas in February 1967, he led a delegation to explore the US military’s food depot model, followed by study trips to the Philippines, Singapore and Hong Kong to observe international supermarket operations first-hand.

In his memoirs, Mr Cung recalls the vibrant atmosphere of opening day, when “a convoy of Hondas, Mobylettes and Vespas arrived, their drivers proudly escorting wives and children into the modern marketplace, where service was warm and courteous”. Nguyen Du soon became a cherished daily destination, drawing some 2,500 visitors each day. Its influence spread swiftly, sparking the emergence of other private supermarkets across Saigon. Mr Cung’s foresight and flair even earned international admiration, culminating in an invitation from the Thai Supermarket Academy to share his experience.

In Saigon Stories of Life in the Streets, writer Pham Cong Luan fondly recounted his earliest visit. The supermarket felt “like a huge store, air-conditioned and brimming with unfamiliar items!” Inside, elegant shoppers in chemises and ao dai browsed alongside uniformed officers, taking their time to select goods. Despite the chill of the air, the days leading up to Tet saw a rush of activity. Customers with net bags waited patiently in long queues—a curious, almost endearing scene that captured the charm of old Saigon.

Though Nguyen Du supermarket, like many free-market institutions, closed after 1975 in the shift toward a planned economy, its pioneering legacy endured. It was not until 1993, in the wake of Vietnam’s economic reforms, that its “descendants” returned—ushering in a fresh, modern era of retail for Vietnamese consumers.

The Ho Chi Minh City General Science Library traces its roots to 1868, when it was established as the Library of the Admirals and Governors (or the Library of the Governor’s Palace of Cochinchina) under a decree by Vice Admiral Ohier. In 1882, it was renamed the French Government Document Library of Cochinchina, marking it as the country’s very first public library. It officially began operating as the Saigon National Library in 1972, before assuming its current name in 1978—and continues to thrive today.

Few realise that the grand structure at 69 Gia Long Street—now Ly Tu Trong, District 1—stands on ground once home to the infamous “Saigon Grand Prison”, the first penal facility built by the French colonial authorities. From a site steeped in pain and confinement, something extraordinary emerged: a sanctuary of knowledge and cultural awakening. The library’s founding marked the first step on a long journey of intellectual development, reflecting a nation's enduring belief in education and resilience.

At its inception, it was the largest library in Vietnam, with architecture that blended modern design with intricate traditional Vietnamese elements—as noted in Modern Architecture of Southern Vietnam. Staffed by 53 people and housing over 100,000 valuable documents, the library quickly became a beacon of learning and a trusted cultural haven, not only for the people of Saigon but for the entire southern region.

Over nearly five decades of distinction, the Ho Chi Minh City General Science Library has emerged as a model for public libraries and training institutions alike—a pioneer in the collection, digitisation and promotion of Han Nom documents. It has led the way in integrating information technology and professionalised library management in service of readers.

Beyond its walls, the library has introduced and successfully operated mobile digital libraries to combat both the scarcity of information and the gap in digital literacy. It has also developed impactful publishing services for the visually impaired, extending support to libraries in Vietnam and neighbouring countries such as Laos and Cambodia. Its initiatives include advanced techniques in preservation, repair and document restoration, as well as rural outreach programmes and city-wide children’s competitions—a testament to its enduring influence.

While the earliest recipes remain something of a mystery, coffee has coursed through the veins of Saigon since 1864, when two French-run cafés—Lyonnais, on what is now Ly Tu Trong Street, and Café de Paris, on Dong Khoi Street—first opened their doors. From those initial pours, a cultural current was born, becoming a daily companion and confidant to generations of Saigon’s residents.

Read more: Drinking coffee, finding the heritage of modern architecture of 20th century Saigon
Tatler Asia

As French warships settled along the riverbank, the rich scent of butter-laced coffee began to drift across the city. In Indochina in those days, travel writer Claude Bourrin captured an image of Saigon where café tables clustered around the Opera House, their fragrance mingling with the night air as the city lights flickered on.

The earliest cafés are thought to have taken root along Catinat Street—today’s Dong Khoi—which the French swiftly modernised following their arrival. The most iconic were La Pagode, Givral and Brodard, three names that defined what was once Saigon’s journalistic core. These cafés bore witness to correspondents like Peter Arnett and Larry Burrows, chronicling the Vietnam War from their corner tables. And it was here that the enigmatic Pham Xuan An—the famed “General Givral”, a Time magazine reporter and covert intelligence officer—could often be found, nursing a coffee beneath the AP news agency’s offices.

Cafés of that era played host to a striking mix of personalities: military officers, fashion-forward women in Tran Le Xuan’s tailored ao dai, underworld figures, and Saigon’s sharpest minds. Though many of these legendary establishments have since vanished, the ritual endures. Across Vietnam, the act of sharing a well-brewed cup of coffee still evokes the essence of a once-vibrant, ever-changing Saigon.

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