Photography and text by Thái Tuấn
I first felt the burn of dispossession in the summer of 2022, when the police seized my neighbour’s house for demolition. Their furniture and belongings were pulled out of the house, piled up on the pavement, and left to spill over into the street.
My family resides within the urban planning zone of Chí Linh central area in Vũng Tàu city. As I pass by the countless construction sites. living in a city that is constantly being remade and contested, I observe the transformations of the landscape as well as the experiences and challenges that the residents are forced to cope with.
The urban planning project of Chí Linh central area commenced in 1997 but has not been completed. Throughout its twenty seven year delay, investors have demonstrated a lack of transparency and clarity about the planning, progress, and quality of the project. They have frequently altered plans (eight times to be precise) and have not disclosed information to residents. It has inflicted many difficulties on those who live within the development area.
People whose houses are located within the planning area are deprived of basic rights – such as being granted household registration – which means the law does not recognise their land use rights, and they have to live in constant fear of being evicted. They also do not have the right to repair their houses when they are damaged, resulting in years of living in poor conditions.
Families who have been evicted face even more misery: they have to live in dismal conditions in temporary shelters – places that can be compared to slums, far away from their old homes, while waiting for meagre financial compensation. This loss of connection to place deprives them of the stability that enables the holding down of consistent work, robbing them of much needed income.
These are not isolated cases unique to my hometown, but are common across Vietnam. This is especially rife in the peripheries of cities, where agricultural land can be profitably converted into urban land. The state appropriates this land under the guise of socio-economic development, only to sell it to private businesses who build modern apartments which they then resell at high prices. Such businesses and state-owned enterprises become the beneficiaries of institutional biases and preferential treatments. Yet, as the real estate market booms, traces of demolished houses can be seen everywhere. The state conveniently overlooks the rubble that accumulates and the lives that are shattered.
These abandoned homes belonged to people who are like my neighbours; who have either lived for generations on lands that are now subject to the development scheme, or who have unfortunately purchased undocumented real estate. They are left with little choice. Like the uncle who buys scrap iron or the lady who sells sugarcane and pineapple in the market, their business gains cannot accrue as quickly as the expansion of real estate bubbles, blown by profit-maximizing entrepreneurs with the helping hand of the government. The developers and politicians then proceed to hail the idea of a “socialist paradise” painting visions of riches and affluence, while my neighbours watch their petitions disappear into a legal void and their generational houses collapse under the rumble of jackhammers and bulldozers. It remains to be seen how recent legislative changes will affect future development, or what means of redress will be available to those already affected
My family would have suffered the same fate, if not for my mother’s luck and resourcefulness in getting our paperwork in order with the local government. Others in my neighbourhood did not have such privilege. Because of this, I armed myself with a camera and ventured out to take hold of what is left of my community, to further understand – politically and historically – the land conflicts that have been going on in my country. This project is my attempt to realise, remind, and empathise with those who have been evicted from their homes, with whose blood and tears and land we build our urban civility upon.
Castle was published in 2023 by We Do Good. You can flip through it here, find out more on Instagram, and purchase a copy here.
Thái Tuấn (b. 2003) is a photographer based in Vung Tau, Vietnam. His work seeks to bring forth a view on reality that considers ambiguous histories and harsh social conditions. Documentary photography allows him to record quotidian details that are marginalised by state and propaganda. He makes use of practices such as photobook making to build critical narratives for dissemination.
Thái Tuấn’s projects | @dinhieu17 (Instagram)
