A rifle in one hand, a plow in the other

Saigon has an energy unlike anyplace I've seen yet on this trip. It has a pulse like New York. I welcome the hustle and bustle, the chaotic sea of motorbikes squeezed into the streets, the shouts of market vendors and stinky smells of fish and garbage. I love it.

Being an American also makes reactions to this place unique ... and I felt it full force while visiting the war museum and Cu Chi Tunnels, where a strategic underground community defended the North. Thriftyness was of the essence - old tires became sandals, old bombs could hold new, homemade ones ... bamboos spears were carved, and tapioca trees could be eaten at the root. The tunnels were not a place of sentiment. It was not repeated that 4 million people were killed, only the resilency of everyone fighting (no matter the side) echoed. A film explained the inner workings of the tunnels and profiled a young girl avenging her father's death. She was described as "a cute and gentle schoolgirl" while firing a semi-automatic rifle, and was awarded an "American soldier killing" medal as a national heroine.

Far more emotional was the war remnants museum, which had a large photo exhibit honoring the journalists throughout the war. I was surprised and impressed at how balanced the information was, and was the most moved by an American article documenting one pilot's bombing mission. The photo on the last page showed him weeping in a church after the mission was completed. Seeing the affects of agent orange was as tragic as anyone could imagine. I will say no more on that.

All we can do is hope to pick up the pieces, try to move on, and pray that history doesn't repeat itself.

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