Studying Humanities makes it tough… to get rich
After passing the second-level baccalaureate (high school graduation), those who were inclined toward poetry and literature could enroll as preparatory students in one of the seven faculties of the Faculty of Letters: Vietnamese Literature, Philosophy, History, Geography, Humanities, French Studies, and English Studies.
Students of the Faculty of Letters understood that they would devote their lives to literature and language, and that it was nearly impossible to become wealthy with a bachelor’s degree after graduation. Their career paths were often limited to teaching or working in administration, diplomacy, libraries, and related fields. And “worse,” some would become poets, writers, or journalists.
Earlier, when I was still a high school student, I had already heard of the Faculty of Letters and its renowned Saigon scholars and literary figures who served as professors there, such as Gian Chi, Dong Ho, Nguyen Van Trung, Do Khanh Hoan, Ly Chanh Trung, Le Ngoc Tru, Pham Viet Tuyen, Tran Trong San, Le Ton Nghiem, Vu Quoc Thong, Vu Khac Khoan, and Le Xuan Khoa. There were also legendary stories: Professor Dong Ho Lam Tan Phac collapsing and passing away at the lectern; Professor Vu Khac Khoan with his flowing, artist-like hair and demeanor; Professor Nguyen Van Trung with his thick glasses; and Professor Kim Dinh, resembling a Taoist sage in his white ao dai.
I dreamed of becoming a writer, and thus the gate of the Faculty of Letters became a deep aspiration within me—what Dong Ho once described as: “One sky of university, one sky of the Faculty of Letters.”
Every day on my way to Petrus Ky High School (now Le Hong Phong High School), I would pass by the imposing Medical School and the neighboring Science Faculty, yet neither attracted me. The boy in me, who had just begun to hum romantic songs like “Em tan truong ve”, only dreamed of the Faculty of Letters—home to some of the most beautiful female students in Saigon, gracefully dressed in ao dai. Were not famous singers such as Thanh Lan and Hoang Oanh also students there? Statistics showed that in the year I enrolled, there were 5,004 female students out of a total of 8,271 freshmen. Hence the somewhat wistful saying among male students of the Faculty of Letters:
“A wise man seeks a wife from the Faculty of Letters;
A wise woman seeks a husband in politics or business.”
Previously, the Faculty had been located on Nguyen Trung Truc Street, a former prison site that poet Dong Ho once described as a “melancholic land of death.” In 1967, it was relocated to 10–12 Cuong De Street (now Dinh Tien Hoang, Ho Chi Minh City). Although the new campus appeared more spacious, the Faculty of Letters had only two large lecture halls, one smaller hall, and about ten classrooms. To accommodate students, the school had to construct additional prefabricated classrooms—seven in total—with corrugated iron roofs near the entrance (these structures no longer exist today).
To reach the “upper-class area” of the Faculty of Letters—the three-story building (now Block A)—students had to climb an outdoor staircase from the courtyard. If they did not feel like heading to class immediately, they could turn right into the Faculty’s common room to enjoy coffee, iced lemonade, play table tennis, or have lunch. Despite its modest facilities, the school boasted a relatively spacious and quiet library.
Humanities students are brimming with competitive spirits
Despite being students of literature, however dreamy they might have seemed, those of the Faculty of Letters always carried a fervent spirit in the struggle for peace and national reunification. In the fiery days of the 1970s, Saigon witnessed the Faculty of Letters, the Faculty of Pharmacy, and the Agro-Forestry-Livestock Center (now the University of Agriculture and Forestry) forming a “hot triangle,” where speeches and demonstrations frequently took place. At times, students and pupils took control of the entire Cuong De Street for a whole day.
At the Faculty of Letters, I met student musician Ton That Lap, who was delighted after persuading fellow student musician Tran Long An to buy a collection of protest songs—including the famous “Nguoi Me Ban Co” (The Mother of Ban Co), set to poetry by Nguyen Kim Ngan. Then there was Truong Quoc Khanh, the author of “Tu Nguyen” (Voluntary), whose delicate appearance—were it not for his thick glasses—might have resembled that of a refined young gentleman.
There was no shortage of graceful young women at the Faculty of Letters amid the rows of tall phi lao trees: Nguyen Thi Yen, whose image inspired writer Thu Bon in his work “Mat Bo Cau va Rung Phi Tien” (Dove Eyes and the Casuarina Forest); Vo Thi Bach Tuyet, a female commander in operations to burn American vehicles; Tran Thi Ngoc Dung, To Thi Thuy, Phan Nguyet Quon, and many others whose names I can no longer fully recall.
This was also the venue for exhibitions and cultural performances organized by the Saigon General Student Association, with participation from student unions in Hue and Can Tho, as well as the Saigon Pupil Association. At one such exhibition, student Buu Chi (Hue) introduced his large oil painting “Pha Xieng” (Breaking the Chains)—his debut work, vividly portraying Southern Vietnamese students breaking the chains of oppression.
That same evening, we watched the stage performance “Suu Cao Thue Nang” (Heavy Taxes and Levies) by the Saigon student troupe. The image of laborers trudging along to the music and lyrics—
“Each morning my father goes to the harbor,
Waiting for goods to carry as fast as he can.
The burden is heavy, yet taxes weigh more—
How long must he carry before the suffering ends?”
left the audience deeply moved.
Most memorable of all was the solo poetic drama “Giot Mau Ta Mot Bien Hoa Binh” (A Drop of Our Blood for an Ocean of Peace), written and performed by student Vo Que (Hue). He portrayed a prisoner relying on inner strength to endure shackles and torture. In the final moment, as he cried out the line “a drop of our blood for an ocean of peace” and collapsed, the entire hall erupted in prolonged applause, sharing a profound sense of empathy.
Returning to the University of Social Sciences and Humanities, VNUHCM this mid-autumn, I was struck by how much the campus had changed. Over more than 40 years, the former Faculty of Letters—later the General Sciences University, and now USSH—has trained countless talents for the nation. Many of my classmates from 1973 have become professors and doctors, continuing to teach and pass on humanistic knowledge and national traditions.
Former students of the Faculty of Letters, returning today in preparation for the 60th anniversary of the University’s establishment and development (to be held on November 20), still feel like the same young students of the past—never out of place, only somewhat astonished by the spacious and modern facilities. Suddenly, I find myself remembering the old trees in the courtyard, the mossy ground with puddles after rainy nights—now gone—and the flowing ao dai, the songs, and the sleepless nights of those student days long ago.
Le Van Nghia
Source: Thanh Nien Newspaper
