Illustration by Trịnh Lập

By Nguyễn Mỹ Hà

It’s sealed—the fate of one of Hà Nội’s most controversial contemporary buildings, located on the northern bank of Lake Hoàn Kiếm. The five-storey structure, nicknamed "Hàm Cá Mập" (The Shark Jaw), has served its time as a rendezvous point for countless city dwellers. “Let’s meet at The Jaw” became a staple phrase, a default meeting spot for anyone venturing into the Old Quarter for a night out.

For the past 30 years, the Jaw—with all the baggage that comes with its name—has stood as a contemporary memory marker for at least one or two generations of Hanoians.

Hà Nội’s heart has always been Lake Hoàn Kiếm, but the city itself has seen sweeping changes, especially since the đổi mới reforms of 1986. By the 1990s, Việt Nam’s economy was picking up pace, and commercial activity flourished. At that time, bicycles dominated the streets, and public transport was limited to the city's tram network.

Built in 1900, the central tram junction—anchored at what is now the Jaw—served a small city of just 50,000 people. By 1902, Hà Nội had become the capital of Indochina, and the tram route stretched from the lake to Thụy Khuê in the north and Bạch Mai in the south, transporting students, small traders, and the less fortunate.

After Hà Nội’s liberation from French occupation in 1954, the resistance government took over the tram system, now serving a rapidly growing population of 730,000. Despite a lack of maintenance and no new tram cars, the system kept running for another 35 years.

Even during wartime, when Hà Nội was bombed in US air raids, the trams still operated, ferrying those who remained in the city while children and the elderly were evacuated to the countryside. The trams also became home to blind tram buskers, who sang xẩm—a genre of folk music—to entertain tram passengers.

During these hardest years, the tram’s bell symbolised Hà Nội’s resilience, its sound immortalised in Nhớ Hà Nội (Longing for Hà Nội) a hit by Hoàng Hiệp, a Southern-born musician who lived through the bombings. The song’s melancholic tones turned the tram’s ringing into poetry.

Facing the end

By the early 1990s, Hà Nội’s population had swelled to 2.1 million, and the need for faster transport grew urgent. The old tram rails shrank road space, and bicycles and motorcycles were increasing rapidly. Accidents surged as bicycles got caught in the tracks, and teenagers jumped on and off slow-moving trams, sometimes leading to fatal falls.

The once-beloved trams became a traffic hazard, and the city decided to remove them altogether. With the trams gone, their junction at Lake Hoàn Kiếm was next in line for redevelopment.

Designed by architect Tạ Xuân Vạn, the Jaw was envisioned as a modern landmark inspired by Hà Nội’s urban motifs. Trained and working exclusively in Việt Nam, Vạn designed the building to reflect local aesthetics.

"As I walked through the Old Quarter for inspiration, I reached the Hàng Đậu Water Tower, a cylindrical structure. It sparked the idea to incorporate curves and spirals, much like the incense coils that burn upward," Vạn recalled in an interview.

His design won the competition for the International Commercial Exchange Centre, and construction began in 1991. However, as the project advanced, the floor space was expanded, altering the original design and sparking public outrage.

"I was very upset," Vạn said. "My design was never meant to overwhelm its surroundings. It was supposed to respect the openness of Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục Square, embracing the fountain below."

Things worsened when, in 1993, just before completion, the building was painted black—causing an uproar among both the public and the design community. Vạn was called in to make last-minute alterations.

"I swallowed my pride and did what I could to restore the facade closer to my original vision," he said. "I hope that anyone who touches this building in the future preserves its curves."

But there will be no more fixing, no more refurbishing. The decision is final: the Shark Jaw must be demolished by April 30, 2025.

Loss of architectural identity

In response to the impending demolition, young architect Nguyễn Xuân Mẫn shared his thoughts on social media: "Hàm Cá Mập is the most interesting structure to observe around the lake. In an Old Quarter filled with faux-French facades and decaying buildings, the Jaw stands out as a rare symbol of modernity—bold, distinctive, and ahead of its time. For me, it remains beautiful. Its sharp edges, rough texture, and striking character hold their own against contemporary aesthetic standards."

Mẫn, an architect who graduated from the Construction University and later studied at Newcastle University and got a Master’s from The Bartlett School of Architecture, has worked with firms like Zaha Hadid Architects in London and major design studios in Singapore.

"I have great respect for Tạ Xuân Vạn and his contributions to Vietnamese architecture," he continued. "But the Jaw never got a fair chance—it was dismissed under layers of prejudice and judgment."

Mẫn raised a critical question: "In the Old Quarter, do we only value architecture that mimics the past? Does a building have to be a French colonial relic, a traditional wooden house, or bear a foreign consultant’s signature to be considered ‘worthy’?"

"Why is it that avant-garde Vietnamese architecture—especially structures less than 50 years old—are often written off as lacking historical or artistic significance?

"No international jury would award a faux-French colonial imitation. We eagerly celebrate foreign experimental designs, yet we reject our own architects who push boundaries. Is it true, then, that ‘The Buddha loses his sacredness in his own pagoda’?"

For years, the Jaw was mocked as a "ship that ran aground". But now, as it prepares to vanish, some see it differently—a vessel that once set sail.

During football tournaments, when the country triumphed over rivals like Thailand, the square below became a sea of red flags. In those moments, the Jaw looked less like a stranded ship and more like a triumphant vessel riding the waves of national pride.

It brings to mind Nguyễn Trãi’s famous words: "It is the people who push the ship forward—and the people who can overturn it."

The capital is changing at whirlwind speed. The city’s contemporary and industrial buildings disappear overnight, leaving behind only fragments of memory.

"No matter their architectural or cultural significance, they are easily demolished," Mẫn warned.

"If we fail to protect modern architecture—thorny as some designs may be—we risk losing all traces of Hà Nội’s contemporary identity. What will remain?”

Only the mediocre, the safe, and the uncontroversial.

RIP, The Jaw. VNS