Destination: Vietnam

A Young American's Journey Twenty-Five Years After the War

I traveled to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam in the summer of 1997, accompanied by my wife and our good friend and native of the country, Tan Van Le. Years earlier during a late-night juncture of drinking and cards, Tan invited me to go to his country and see it firsthand with him someday. Though generally avoiding talk of his escape and emigration to America as a refugee, we had discussed Vietnam many times, and he represented his culture in a benevolent and appealing way. Half-heartedly agreeing to go, I was presented with the real opportunity years later when he called to tell me that he and his family were going that very summer. Challenging me to hold good on my promise from that spirited night years before, I agreed and in a few weeks found myself on a 24-hour plane ride around the globe to Southeast Asia.

My journey to the country was couched in the mindset that I'm sure many Americans had and have with regard to the protracted conflict in Vietnam and the United States' involvement. Born at the tail end of the war, I do not remember the atmosphere in the United States during wartime and was only peripherally affected by family members who had served abbreviated tours of duty and fortunately made it back home in one piece.

The entire experience sent me back to America as a patriot. A snotty-nosed kid raised on all the modern trappings of a middle-class, mainly white-collar American household, I had video games, weekend excursions to the mall, and all manner of computers, electronics and post-modern conveniences at my disposal. For me, the idea of injustice and "political activism" was limited to demanding MTV from our local small-town cable provider who had opted to remove it from their lineup. I returned to U.S. soil with an invigorated outlook on life, a resounding and heartfelt appreciation for liberty and a precious understanding of the proverbial pursuit of happiness. The institutions of my government that had garnered little more than cynicism and passing, obligatory study now commanded my intensified attention and reverence. Going in to Vietnam, I had no formal education nor firm opinion of communism, and my exposure to it in the heart of the Bible Belt had primarily been the conventional caustic label and lambasting it received as being synonymous with evil and godlessness. This unquestioned admonition had actually sparked interest in my rebellious adolescent years, leading to a haphazard cursory reading of Marx's Communist Manifesto amidst attending punk rock shows, getting tattoos and generally rebelling with undirected teen angst against "the system".

Stepping out onto the tarmac at Than Son Nhat airport in Ho Chi Minh City, I was immediately accosted with the two most prominent environmental characteristics of Vietnam: oppressive heat and pervasive dust, both of which permeated every aspect of daily routines. During the 12-hour van ride 300 kilometers to our coastal destination of Nha Trang, the last city to fall before the overthrow of Saigon, I was confronted with Socialist party propaganda on billboards, decrepit from lack of maintenance that seemed to hearken romanticism of revolutionary days gone by. Large posters on buildings and at intersections presented stylistic representations of the Grim Reaper, along with stark warnings about venereal disease. Each morning at 6 AM sharp, I was awakened by loudspeakers, attached to telephone poles in every neighborhood, that would blare information from the Communist Party, including a death count of AIDS victims from the previous day, followed by 'revolutionary' music, calls to 'work hard and be a good comrade' and then a single 'Western' song, in most cases old fifties tunes from the United States. Largely ignored by the populace, these messages fell on deaf ears as the Vietnamese people went about their chores, having already been up for hours during the coolest part of the day, and seeming no better for having heard the messages and music. Overhead, Russian-built MIG fighter jets periodically roared past in formation at low altitude, olive drab with the telltale red star emblazoned on the wings. At the age of 23, I could not help but think of what went through the minds of young men my age twenty-three years earlier as they left their hometowns behind them and stepped into this beautiful and ostensibly strange country, all the while under hostile and life-threatening conditions. My fears of the possible reception I might receive as a traveler bearing a U.S. passport were quickly assuaged as I encountered one friendly Vietnamese after another. The strongest memory I harbor from the trip is the wonderful smile, characteristic of people I met everywhere in all circumstances, as they greeted and lavished me with unparalleled hospitality, presented instantly upon learning that I was 'Hoa Ky' (American). This stood as the most prominent aspect of culture shock, juxtaposed against my apprehensiveness going in to the depths of a formerly hostile enemy country.

We were staying with a native family, relatives of Tan Le, which allowed me to get an insider's view that is rare (and in fact, illegal) by residing in their home, as opposed to the designated "tourist" hotels, and accompanying them to parts of the country considered "off the beaten path". Our accommodations were more than ample, but quite different from the accoutrements of domestic living Americans are accustomed to having. In spite of all the wondrous sites, sounds, food and encounters, my most memorable and cherished events were conversations with a family that treated me with utmost hospitality and genuine care, making me feel quite at home and comfortable in this completely alien land.

Having no intentions of discussing the topic of the war, the reticence ended after the third "night on the town" with the men, Tan Le's friends and relatives. The issue of American intervention in Vietnam surfaced against a backdrop of conversation about photography, fine cognac and women. I immediately reverted to smiling silence when the topic arose, content in allowing the conversation to flow freely in Vietnamese, hurriedly translated at high points by my friend. Several of the men in the group had fought for the Republic (South) and they initiated the discussion that I was all too ready to avoid. Without hesitation, and in an unpretentious and rote manner, they espoused gratitude for the United States' involvement while solemnly recognizing defeat – praising valiant American efforts to assist in a conflict that was, to them, undefeatable from the start. I immediately wondered if they felt obligated to discuss the issue in such an extolling and positive light due to my presence and obvious nationality. The likelihood of their condolences aroused suspicion in me that they were perhaps being overtly cordial, as was usual with the Vietnamese, and possibly appeasing. But the entire conversation on the subject was unsolicited, and in retrospect I realize that among all of the things we had to talk about, Tan Le catching up after many years and me being handicapped by not speaking the language, there was no point in bringing it up, or at least drawing it to my attention, unless they were sincere and really wished to express their feelings. Sometimes the conversation would become heated, directed at no one present in particular and left uninterpreted for my ear. I sensed that there was a fleeting, but uneasy, recollection of unjust events in days gone by.

What had Vietnam become decades after its revolution? How did its people feel toward the government then and now? Understanding that I found myself in the company of exclusively Southern Vietnamese, the resounding contempt for the government was discussed only behind closed doors, and then with tongue-in-cheek allegorical references and humorous cynicism, perhaps not much different from water cooler talk that Americans exhibit in criticism of their government, but with a decidedly guarded execution as if to genuinely fear being overheard. The friendly, intelligent and industrious Vietnamese seemed half-heartedly at ease in their lack of daily activity, often sitting for hours at coffee houses and on the beach in a state that seemed like a constant and apprehensive vacation ... with a longing to administer their skills and apply their extensive education in worthwhile activities that would engage their dedication and determination. The government offered them no such opportunity and as kids aged 5 to pre-teens hustled on the beachfront to hawk gum and cigarettes or perform nearly any personal service or duty that the handful of annoyed tourists could possibly dream, I could not help but think of the wasted talent of this great nation. The lucky ones, able to mark off territory and scramble for the few dollars that might be proffered by sympathetic beach-goers, were far outnumbered by the youngsters, often with even younger siblings on hip or in tow, who resorted to begging on the periphery of the beach area or in the streets, having nothing to sell.

I could not help but wonder if this was Ho Chi Minh's intention in his revolutionary capitulation. Everywhere I turned, there were the pitiful signs of extreme poverty. If equalization and redistribution of wealth was the goal, Ho definitely succeeded – now everyone was equally poor, with the most impoverished being those inhabitants I saw living in the rural and remote areas, who were supposedly intended to benefit most from a proletarian uprising and implementation of socialism. The catastrophe of a centrally- planned economy dumped itself on the already downtrodden and war torn people, leaving them with a vacuum of hopelessness that the state could not fill, despite its best intentions. Sadder still, there seemed to be no way out of the stifled, debilitative environment that presented no real opportunity to the eager, able, and educated Vietnamese. Often repeated scenese that I vividly recall include a child no more than four years old who sat in the dirt and played with a decrepit mangy dog as a Party officer, Ho's picture brandished proudly on the dash, drove by in a late-model BMW, kicking up dust on the unpaved road. The red star on he and his comrades' uniforms quickly came to represent to me hypocrisy and virtual imprisonment, a tenure suffered by the citizens of this country in the name of socialism. I had never witnessed such despair and outright poverty first-hand, whether in the Appalachian mountains of rural east Tennessee where I grew up, in other Asian countries, or in the outskirts of Mexican cities I had visited. At all turns I was confronted with the agonizing picture of begging children and the homeless elderly. The very young and very old seemed to be hardest hit by the repercussions of the backward economy – and try as I might I could not find a single government sympathizer of any stature -- only the watchful and well-heeled middle-aged men who stood in uniform with taciturn confidence in nearly every crowd. I would see them peering from jeeps and through glass doors from within banks, seemingly oblivious to the situation right outside that I considered them responsible for creating and perpetuating. Throughout the trip, I was forced to pay considerable bribes to these grafting officials – to gain access to the country, to get through customs without several hours of delay and "inspection", to visit certain areas of the country and to have my "lost" luggage reclaimed. The photographs of my journey contain scant few pictures of the powerful images of poverty, destituteness and subordination. This is in part due to the fact that I could not bring myself to make the poor a 'subject' and also because, perhaps callously, I did not want to fix permanently the image of these people; having it eternally burned into my memory would be enough for me to remember always. The Socialist Party officials would not allow themselves to be photographed.

I had to ask myself: Is this the "benevolent dictatorship" of the people? Is this the result of moral incentivization? Are the Vietnamese better off now than before the atrocity of revolutionary war? Is there hope for the betterment of this society under Socialist rule? What are the primary directives of the Party now that socialism has been established? Regardless of the post-war critical analysis and questionable tactics and involvement, at the root of the confrontation, we must ask, "Why was the U.S. involved?" Did we stand to gain materially? Or did the United States have some incredible episode of premonition in denouncing the communist takeover from the North and committing support to the "reactionaries" in the South, knowing the success of the "revolution" would lead to decades of poverty and clearly no real progress for the improvement of people's lives? If that was the fear, it can easily be corroborated in the post-war country.

To be clear, I am not a warmonger. I do not advocate the killing of other human beings or the atrocities that always result from war. But I am not a pessimist. Just as I refused to accept the conventional wisdom of Communism being evil incarnate, I also now reject the notion of guilt -- that America was completely wrong in their involvement with Vietnam and that the South Vietnamese were just "puppets," unsure of their destiny and exhibiting lackadaisical patriotism and wavering motivation. The 14 million participants in the 'counter-revolution' stood their own ground, albeit amidst unfortunate internal conflict and political fallout. The guilt I do feel is that of being so blessed with the fruits of a democratic and free society while people like the Vietnamese live under oppression and intimidation with little hope for a better future. The bloody war that shocked Americans, seen through emotional demonstrations at home and piped in via television from the other side of the globe, contained the spectacular and haunting images of outrage, blood, and killing along with the desensitized daily body count as two ideologies confronted each other in a fantastical display of annihilation.

After the war, although many Americans still live with the nightmare, it is essentially over for us. It seems we know or care little of the situation for the Vietnamese since 1975, content and compelled instead to berate ourselves, clamoring through historical happenings to make sense of the violence that we witnessed and read about. The images of Vietnamese people crying and clamoring at the fences surrounding the U.S. embassy, trying to scramble aboard the last few U.S. helicopter sorties during the final hours of the siege of Saigon should haunt us forever. At the dawn of a new century, we do not see the emaciated disenfranchised in the countryside and in the cities of Vietnam who are affected by little or no change since those days of revolution. Replete with natural resources, the country fails miserably time and time again as the central government, directed by the Socialist Party, tries to implement business and industry. Being near the bottom of the list for GNP and per capita income, but inversely one of world's most literate countries (ranking near first-world countries) can both be attributed to the policies of the socialist government.

The people who surrounded me with love and hospitality probably do not envision Disneyland, sport utility vehicles or DVD players as their dream of prosperity. After having most of what they had worked for seized by Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Cong, they now operate small businesses and eke out a living trying to sell to fellow countrymen who have little money to buy and often nothing to trade. Before the takeover, I find it hard to believe that the people I encountered were oppressive landlords or immoral, corrupt upper-class dandies. It's more likely that, just as today, they were peace-loving people with families; living, laughing and working for a better future, just like their contemporary American counterparts. They have hopes for their country in the years to come and pray for the well being of their children and their children's children. Americans' understanding of the history of the traumatic war that tore Vietnam apart understandably encounters a void with regard to the distraught story of these people's lives. As long as the tyrannical policies and media control of the current regime maintain hold, the story will probably be repressed and never fully exposed or understood by the outside world.

Before showering excess pity, I checked myself with the observation that the Vietnamese are a hardy, resilient lot. They have withstood countless invasions and fought off, sometimes successfully and sometimes not, both internal and external aggressors. Their history is replete with struggle and at the end of the 20th century, nearly 25 years after the culmination of the long struggle that led to Ho Chi Minh's "unification" of the country, they seem weary and tired of the hardships. The pervasive Vietnamese smile that so impressed me during my journey seemed to faintly imply, "We have had enough." On the rare occasion that I would bring up the topic of Tan Le's exodus from his beloved native country, he would provide piecemeal details of his careful and secretive planning during late nights back in 1980 as he and others built a small vessel and rendezvoused at midnight to cast off into the South China Sea from the shores of Nha Trang. With Russian made bullets flashing overhead, their hopes and fears vacillated as they escaped the immediate danger of being killed by the Party officers and now faced the uneasy anticipation of being picked up by a Japanese merchant ship or friendly Philippine fishermen. Stories like this are not unusual and countless refugees who survived the escape can recount similar stories. Whether still ironically imprisoned in the country they call home, or overseas after having faced harrowing experiences in getting out, I had to ask myself: How did the Vietnamese maintain that heart-felt smile in light of such hardship? Tan Le enlightened me with the philosophy that many Vietnamese share:

If someone fires an arrow and strikes you in the heart, you will immediately react and want to know Who Did This?!? With the impending fatal wound bleeding rapidly, you will run in all directions, accusing everyone you see and frantically trying to discover the identity of the violator. Was it you? Was it you? -- pointing and screaming in a dying flurry. As you lay on the ground, near death, your rage to discover and retaliate against the transgressor causes your wound to worsen and you readily die. This fate would be avoided by simply removing the arrow, discarding it, and going to heal your wound. This fatalistic capitulation seems to be the way of the Vietnamese.

The pacifistic moral of the story, ostensibly underpinned by Buddhist influence and Asian spirituality, was one that many weary Vietnamese find themselves living by.