Agnes Huibonhoa revisits her family’s ancestral home in Saigon, transformed into a museum
SAIGON— “So you’re a real Miss Saigon,” Joji Dingcong tells Agnes Huibonhoa as we enter her family’s ancestral home which is now the Bao Tang My Thuat Fine Arts Museum in Ho Chi Minh, which was Saigon’s former name.
The museum is a complex of four buildings in grand French-colonial style built in the 1920s, so charming and well-preserved.
“I visited this museum before, not realizing it was your home during your younger years,” says Ben Chan.
Miguel Pastor recalls seeing vintage as well as modern art in the museum. Agnes’ assistant Lolet Relliza notes how their family photos once adorned the building occupied by Agnes and her family.
Together, Ben, Miguel, Joji, Tina Cuevas and I are all ears as Agnes tells us stories of her childhood in Vietnam. We all went to Saigon to watch the Mr. World pageant where Bench endorser Kirk Bondad represented the Philippines.
Tracing Agnes’ roots in Saigon, we learn that it all started when Hui Bon Hoa moved to Vietnam from his China birthplace, and worked for a Frenchman, Antoine Ogliastro, who ran a pawnshop. Soon, Hui Bon Hoa became an expert in buying and trading antiques. Then, he became the richest man in Saigon, built 20,000 houses for the less fortunate, and founded the Tu Du Hospital and Majestic Hotel, among others.
He had three sons, Thang Chank, Thang Hung and Thang Phien, whose son Marcel was the father of Agnes. All educated in Europe, the three sons became billionaires—real estate pillars in old Saigon.
On his way to Paris, Marcel Huibonhoa passed by Manila and fell in love with Florencia “Poule” Tankeh, a young store heiress. Marcel was shopping at her family’s Poulex Department Store in Ermita, and the salespeople couldn’t understand him, so they called their boss Poule who understood French because she studied in Belgium. After three months, Marcel proposed and they got married, and had seven children.
“My father passed away at the age of 36 when I was only nine years old, so my memories of Vietnam are somewhat fragmented,” Agnes says. Her mother died only last year at 98.
Her parents enjoyed the period of prosperty in Saigon until the Vietnam War started in 1955. Before the war ended in l975, they had joined the diaspora from Vietnam and settled in other places, including Manila.
Agnes, who studied at Bettendorf in Iowa and started college at Notre Dame University in San Francisco, is now active in the diplomatic community as a consul. In an interview, she talks about the place so close to her heart.
PHILIPPINE STAR: What are your fondest memories of Vietnam growing up?
AGNES HUIBONHUA: I remember Saigon as a city with a whirlwind of energy—the hum of motorbikes weaving through the streets, the vibrant colors of the market stalls, and the aromas of freshly cooked dishes wafting through the air. As a child, I was mesmerized by the liveliness of it all.
One particular memory that remains etched in my mind is watching my father play tennis on the courts within the family property. He was so graceful and focused, moving with an ease that seemed almost effortless. I would sit on the sidelines with my brother sipping fresh coconut juice and clapping every time he won a point. My father loved the game, and I think, in some ways, it reflected his character—disciplined, composed, and full of quiet strength.
He wasn’t just a tennis player; he was an incredibly athletic person. He lifted weights regularly, keeping himself strong and fit. I also remember him horseback riding, a sport he truly enjoyed. Watching him ride was like watching a scene out of a movie—his posture was impeccable, and there was a sense of calm authority about him as he handled the horse with such ease. To me, as a child, he seemed larger than life, a man who could do anything.
Did your father teach you to speak Vietnamese?
My father took on the role of teacher at home. He was both my French and Vietnamese tutor. He was so determined that I learn to speak both languages fluently, believing it was vital to stay connected to my roots. I remember sitting with him in the study, a notebook open in front of me, as he patiently guided me through vocabulary and pronunciation. He had a way of making the lessons enjoyable, often incorporating stories from his own childhood or phrases I’d later hear him use in everyday conversation. Sadly, after he passed away, I didn’t continue learning, and that remains one of my biggest regrets. Family stories also brought our history to life for me. I learned about my great-grandfather, a Chinese immigrant who came to Vietnam with nothing but determination and a dream. Through resilience and hard work, he became one of the most respected figures in the country. Locals affectionately called him “Uncle Hoa” because of his generosity. To this day, people remember him as someone who gave back to the community with an open heart.
Tell us more about your family home that is now a museum?
The entire residential property has been transformed into the Museum of Fine Arts. The largest and grandest of the houses on the property belonged to Thang Hung, one of the three Hui Bon Hoa brothers, and this house is today the main museum.
My own grandfather was Thang Phien. And his house today is the Museum of Ancient Art. For a child, visiting this house and staying there was magical. It felt like stepping into a story. I can still picture myself running through its long corridors, hiding in the corners of the vast rooms during games of hide-and-seek with my siblings. The house had a presence—its grandeur was undeniable, but it was also filled with warmth and laughter. One of the most fascinating parts of the house was the elevator. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, especially in a private home. My brother and I would ride it again and again, treating it as our private amusement ride. I later learned that this was one of the first elevators ever installed in Vietnam, and it became a source of pride for the family.
The roof deck was another favorite spot. My father would often take my brother and me up there to watch the city as the sun set. I remember those evenings vividly—the golden light spreading over the rooftops, the gentle breeze carrying the sounds of the bustling streets below, and my father telling us stories about the family’s past. It was his way of teaching us about our heritage, of keeping us connected to our roots. Even now, when I visit the museum, I can almost hear the echoes of my childhood laughter and the conversations that filled those grand rooms. It’s incredible to see the home preserved as a museum, not just for its architecture but as a piece of history that connects us to Vietnam’s rich past.
What were the best lessons your dad taught you?
My father passed away when I was very young, but he left an indelible mark on me. He was my first teacher in so many ways—not just academically but in life. As I mentioned earlier, he taught me French and Vietnamese. His lessons weren’t just about words and grammar; they were about staying rooted in who we were, about understanding the importance of identity. He would often tell me, “Language is the bridge to your heritage.”
He was also a man of immense kindness and generosity. I remember how he would always take time to greet the household staff, not just with politeness but with genuine warmth. One time, I overheard him sitting with one of the gardeners, listening to his troubles and offering advice. It didn’t matter who you were—my father treated everyone with respect and dignity.
One memory that always makes me smile is how open and inviting he was, even with unexpected guests. One of his closest friends, a French priest, would often visit our home. He felt so welcome that he’d sometimes stroll into my parents’ bedroom early in the morning before they were even awake. My mother would be startled at first, but she eventually laughed it off, understanding that this was just my father’s way—his home was open to anyone who needed it. Even when my father became ill, he never let us see his pain. He remained cheerful, cracking jokes and keeping the atmosphere light. It was only after his passing that I fully understood the depth of his strength.
For me and my siblings, he set the standard for what it means to be compassionate, generous, and loving. He taught us that true strength lies in kindness and that love is the foundation of everything.
Which part of you is Vietnamese? What is the legacy of Vietnam you’re proudest of?
Vietnam is a part of me, deeply ingrained in my values and my identity. My family left before the war broke out, scattering across the globe. But no matter where they went, I think Vietnam remained in all of our hearts.
I carry Vietnam with me in the values my family instilled: resilience, warmth, and an unwavering sense of community. My great-grandfather’s legacy of generosity continues to inspire me. Stories of his contributions to the community, like building homes and supporting small businesses, are reminders of the importance of giving back.
The Vietnamese people’s strength and grace in overcoming immense challenges are what I’m most proud of. I see it in their history, in their culture, and in the way they embrace life with kindness and determination.
When I visit Vietnam today, I’m reminded of its beauty—not just in its landscapes but in its people. The legacy I cherish most is that spirit of resilience and compassion. It’s a reminder that no matter how far life takes us, we carry our roots with us, shaping who we are and guiding how we move forward.
