The Thổ Mộ Carriage and a Deep Nostalgia!

Saigon before 1960. My eldest brother and I left our hometown in Sa Đéc and made our way to Saigon, struggling to make a living. This city holds countless memories for me, and every time I recall them, I can't help but feel emotional—one of those memories is tied to an old carriage.

It was the thổ mộ horse-drawn carriage, gliding along the streets of old Saigon. The carriage was driven by a middle-aged, hardworking, and simple-hearted man, accompanied by a strong and intelligent horse. Though there have been various explanations for the name thổ mộ, none have felt entirely convincing. To my brother and me, this peculiar-looking carriage became a dear friend—sharing in our joys and offering silent comfort in our struggles as two young men trying to make ends meet in a foreign place.

Originating from the outskirts of Gia Định, Củ Chi, Hóc Môn, and Bà Điểm, the thổ mộ carriage traveled back and forth through the city. Modest and unassuming, it moved through Saigon’s streets with ease, facing little competition, as the city was not yet overcrowded with traffic. This small and simple vehicle had a curved roof, reminiscent of the ghe bầu boats that used to traverse the rivers of my hometown (and certainly not resembling a grave mound, as some interpretations of the name thổ mộ might suggest—that notion always gave me chills!). The carriage was made of wooden planks, with large wooden wheels rimmed with thick, hard rubber.

It could carry 8 to 10 passengers or transport several hundred kilograms of vegetables and flowers. Inside, there were no proper seats—only a flat wooden floor covered with a woven mat. Passengers would sit close together, legs folded, for the entire journey.

Most of the thổ mộ carriage passengers—who chose this affordable ride—were women selling goods in the markets, laborers, poor students commuting long distances to school, or those who couldn't even afford a rickety bicycle. Among these humble passengers were my brother and me. We were loyal and devoted riders of the thổ mộ carriage, relying on it every morning and evening as we struggled to earn a living and save whatever we could to send back to our aging parents in our hometown.

The thổ mộ carriage is forever etched in my memory because of one particular moment. One drizzly evening, before the city lights had come on, my brother hurried onto the last carriage ride of the day. That carriage carried him far away—to a distant battlefield! He secretly left, guided by an underground resistance soldier, whom I later learned was none other than our familiar carriage driver—a man with a solemn face, bright eyes, and a gentle smile.

Not long after, my brother sent word from the battlefield, encouraging me to leave Saigon and return home to join the Đồng Tháp women’s movement, which would allow me to be closer to our family. We wrote letters to each other regularly. He told me he had joined a combat unit on the outskirts of Saigon, where he fought with great enthusiasm and bravery. In every letter, he reminded me to study, to train myself in moral character, and to contribute effectively to the revolution. He always ended his letters with:
"When you get married, let me know right away, okay? I have a special wedding gift for my dear little sister!"

Then, the devastating news arrived: After two years in the Saigon battlefield, my brother heroically sacrificed his life in a fierce battle. The deepest sorrow I have ever known was that he passed away before he could hear the joyful news of my wedding.

After 1975, I returned to Saigon—now Ho Chi Minh City, completely liberated. As I retraced old memories, I felt a mix of heartache and pride. My brother had given his life, along with countless patriots, to help build the flourishing city that stood before me. Now, as we approach the 30th anniversary of Saigon's liberation, his remains are still missing. His portrait rests on our family’s altar, beside our parents, and every year on July 27th—Vietnamese War Invalids and Martyrs Day, we hold a ceremony in his memory.

My brother fell as a heroic soldier, yet even now, he remains an unknown warrior. And the beloved thổ mộ carriage, once so familiar to us, has long disappeared from Saigon’s streets. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of it in old photographs or on film.

As I write these memories, I light a solemn incense stick in remembrance of my dear eldest brother, Nguyễn Ích Tài, whose absence I will mourn for the rest of my life.