At a time when most children were running from the chaos, a small figure with a camera around his neck was running towards it.
Lo Manh Hung, barely 12 years old amidst the turmoil of the Vietnam War, was Saigon’s unlikeliest photographer – and possibly the youngest in the whole country.
Hung’s story begins not on a battlefield, but in the darkroom of his father, Lo Vinh, a seasoned freelance photographer.
Here, Hung learned the language of light and shadow, the click of the shutter a constant rhythm in his young life.
By the age of eleven, Vietnam was engulfed in war, and Hung wasn’t content to stay on the sidelines.
He became his father’s apprentice, venturing into the heart of Saigon with a camera in one hand and a heart full of courage in the other.
His small stature, a disadvantage in most situations, became an advantage in the warzone. Hung could squeeze through rubble and navigate alleyways that adults couldn’t.
But his youthful appearance also brought challenges. Police often stopped him, questioning a child’s presence in the midst of danger.
Hung, however, was persistent. Armed with his father’s credentials and an unwavering determination, he earned grudging respect and access to stories others couldn’t reach.
Lo Manh Hung became more famous during the Tet Offensive in 1968, often seen following ARVN troops deep into the VC-controlled part of Saigon to take photos and sell them to local and international news.
Hung eventually left Vietnam and established his own photo shop in San Francisco. In 1998, he met former AP photographer Horst Faas, as reported by the San Francisco Examiner:
In San Francisco, Faas was surprised by Jimmy Lo Hung, who took pictures for AP as a 12-year-old during the Tet Offensive and now runs his own photo shop on Ninth Street.
Hung had brought a picture of himself in a helmet with PRESS across the front, and a laminated story headlined ‘Boy, 12, in Dangerous Jobs’.
‘They paid me $10 a picture,’ he said, ‘and that was big money in Vietnam. It could support my whole family for one month.’
Hung lost all his pictures and negatives when the North Vietnamese invaded the South. ‘I only had a few minutes to escape,’ he said, remembering that ‘I was pulled aboard a helicopter filled with soldiers.
They held my leg while it took off. So many soldiers trying to get on… some didn’t, some dropped down.’
Faas, sitting beside Hung, said ‘This kid, I didn’t even know he was alive. I’m happy, really happy, to see him.'”
The original article published by The Southeast Missourian on February 14 1968: Boy Photographer Seeks Danger as Others Flee, by John Nance.
One of the most unusual sights in a city overflowing with strange sights is the slight figure of a 12-year-old Vietnamese boy darting into the street battles, scrambling across the rubble, deliberately heading for trouble.
While other youngsters flee danger, he looks for it. He is a professional photographer and he has a thick stack of published pictures to prove it.
Not much taller than four feet and only a smidge over 60 pounds, bright-eyed Lo Manh Hung wears his cameras like a badge.
He has been taking pictures professionally for more than two years, since his locally well-known father, Lo Vinh, was injured covering street rioting and needed help in his work.
With the father, who is 58 years old, the pair form a team boasting Saigon’s oldest and youngest working photographers.
The father, a cameraman for 44 years, was born in North Vietnam, and studied art and literature at a French university, but turned to his hobby of photography for income when times got tough.
For years he traveled, taking pictures throughout Indochina, and didn’t marry until he was 43. A few months later he and his bride fled the Communists in the North and came to Saigon.
Lo Manh Hung and his father arise every day at 5 am, to be early on the job, and usually don’t finish until after 9 pm. That’s 365 days a year, the father sighs.
In less hectic times, the pair scoot about the city on a motorbike to cover official government affairs, weddings, airport arrivals, parties, fires, whatever may make news.
Lo Manh Hung helps with the film processing and printing, then turns messenger salesman, peddling fresh prints to local newspapers and foreign news agencies.
His small, slim frame and child’s face are both the hindrance and help in his work.
Police invariably stop him as he tries to pass through official gates, demanding “Where do you think you’re going?”
He explains calmly he is the son of photographer Lo Vinh, produces his credentials and cameras, and usually continues on his way.
But not always – and that, he says, is his biggest problem: convincing police he really is a working news photographer.
The advantage of his size has been seen often by the Saigon press corps.
As photographers jam together, elbowing, pushing, clawing for the right picture angle of an arriving dignitary or a crowded news conference, who squirms through? Lo Manh Hung.
He snakes through a crowd on all fours, emerges in the front of the lot and clicks happily away with the best angle of all.
He is so short he never blocks those behind and they let him be.
(The Southeast Missourian Feb 14 1968: Boy Photographer Seeks Danger as Others Flee by John Nance / Flickr by manhhai / Wikimedia Commons).