Of Pasts and Futures

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I came to Vietnam expecting it to be a communist country, replete with propaganda-laden billboards, signs the government was watching your every move, a populace fearful of badmouthing the authorities for fear of the ultimate consequence. Instead the neon signs tempted passers-by with advertisements for Coca Cola and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Except for a handful of uniformed soldiers scurrying about from time to time, they was little sign that government was even present, let alone on the lookout for traitors to the Republic. As far as the eye could see, capitalism reigned supreme: coffee shops, fast food restaurants and photocopy outlets dotted the bustling streets of Saigon.
So where was the great Communist victory? Yes, there were photos, paintings, busts, and statues of Ho Chi Minh, their savior in every government building. Yes, there were expansive, elaborate monuments to the war dead of the North. The cemeteries of the South had long ago been dug up and bodies burned to the wind. But, Saigon is no Havana where giant billboards compel the people to defend the revolution and unmask any turncoats. When U.S. dollars are at stake, the Vietnamese people reach up to grab them as quickly as anyone can. Apparently, we won the Vietnam War after all.
In Vietnam, there are many remnants of the bloodshed of the twentieth century, unmoved, unchanging after a quarter century. The demilitarized zone at the 14th parallel retains the essence of desolation. The fields are still heavily mined, yet farmers brave them from time to time, in search of pieces of scrap metal that will bring them a few pennies at market. Too often, these selfsame workers are the victims of mine explosions; there have been thousands of maimings by landmine in the decades since the war. Many of these unfortunates then head for Saigon, condemned to a lifetime of beggary.
On our tour, we stopped at two landmarks, one a living history of the war, and the other a hall of graphic, often violent remembrances. The former, known as the Cu Chi Tunnels was the home to some of the Vietcong soldiers during the war. The tunnels are an incredibly intricate and complex network stretching over many miles, and providing the soldiers with the means to live for months at a time. The tunnels contained absolute darkness, snakes and bats roamed free; if someone discovered the tunnel there was nowhere to hide. For a little taste into the life of the Vietcong, a group of us walked, or rather crawled, through a tunnel for five or ten minutes. It felt much longer. We could not begin to imagine spending months in those tunnels.
The hall of memories, otherwise known as the War Remnants Museum, could strike a blow to even the strongest of psyches. The photos pull no punches. One in particular, depicting four U.S. soldiers sitting down, smiling with the head of a decapitated North Vietnamese soldier in the foreground, is an image I will have for the rest of my life. Other photos showed the effects of Agent Orange, the deadliest chemical ever devised, and used to great effect during the war. The Vietnamese people found out about the mutations afterwards. A special exhibit showcased the pictures of children during the war. The museum is heavily anti-American and South Vietnamese as might be expected, but that does nothing to take away from the realities of the damage we committed during the American War.
However, the Vietnamese people move on. Many old battle sites and army bases have been converted into shopping malls and movie theaters. The people do not believe in the concept of waste. Instead they convert the instruments of war into new corporate enterprises. They are also not a people to hold grudges. They were genuinely happy to talk to Americans. For some it was their first contact with us since the war at which time we worked side-by-side, plotting war strategy and becoming friends. We ran into several old men in Vietnam who spoke flawless, even slang-filled English, and they were some of the friendliest people we met. One particular man at the market unfailingly greeted with a “Hey Man!” and gave us high-fives. We talked about the events in New York, I bought some postcards and a map of Vietnam, and then I went on my way. His voice, though, continues to echo in my mind. The Vietnamese people have been independent a thousand years. They learn to survive and to triumph from near impossible odds. The elderly gentleman in the market, reduced to selling postcards to make a living, is still quite content with his life, always cheerful and looking forward to the next day. Countless times we witnessed the strong helping the weak, especially at the nursing home and home for the disabled that we visited. The people of Vietnam have a few lessons for all of us. I feel emotionally richer for the experience.

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