Christa's Project

At the beginning of the semester, I had considered a number of topics for my capstone paper, particularly in light of our anticipated visit to Vietnam. Now that I have been to that war-torn country, those original ideas I had pale in comparison to the reality I encountered. I had only a vague notion of what I might experience on the trip, but what actually transpired was far more powerful emotionally than anything I could have imagined. I wanted to do an ethnography about what I saw there, but there was simply too much to recount for a paper of this length.

Throughout my study of the war in Vietnam, I have been introduced to a variety of opinion on the role of my country. I was told, on the one hand, that we did not belong there and yet, on the other, I was flatly informed that it was a matter of duty to intervene. I have seen many Americans show remorse for out actions in Indochina, while at the same time I have witnessed others display confusion or even anger. But whatever the response, one question continued to plague me: Did the Vietnamese feel the same way? What has their reaction been to American visitors since the war’s end? How would they respond to us? Traveling to Vietnam was an experience that no book, history course, or tour guide could ever prepare you for. I came to this class and to the Vietnam trip full of questions. I got to Vietnam and had many questions. I came home and am still full of questions. I never got all of the answers that I wanted and I probably never will.

I wanted answers to these, and other questions, not only so that I might pass along such information to others here at home, but also because I had a personal stake in the conflict, albeit an indirect one. My Uncle Rick, a Marine, lost both of his legs in the war due to a land mine explosion. While I have never been hesitant to ask my uncle about his wartime experience, I have always exercised caution in my inquiries so as not to upset him. He has never shown any animosity toward the Vietnamese that I am aware of, yet it is impossible to know what might be hidden in the far recesses of his mind. But from my conversations with him, I came to realize that I needed to know how the Vietnamese felt about us — would they reflect the apparent acceptance of a horrendous reality as Uncle Rick had, or would they (legitimately) manifest ongoing anger and resentment, perhaps combined with a desire for revenge?

I have studied the aspects of this war in depth throughout my college career. There have been opposing views in all the literature I have found, but no one poses my questions (as well as those of many other Americans) as well as Marilyn B Young: “Why are we in Vietnam?…How did we keep expanding the war, and how did we get out?” Throughout her book she attempts to explore the explanations offered.

The one question posed in all of the books that I have read was would President Kennedy, had he survived his term, have escalated the war as Johnson and Nixon did, or would he have pulled Americans out? That is a question that cannot be answered due to his assassination in 1963. Kennedy was scared that pulling out would lead to another red scare. According to famed historian George C. Herring, “Increasingly nervous about the South Vietnamese but still worried about the potential political costs from the 'loss' of Vietnam, the president told McNamara to begin planning for overt military actions against North Vietnam and for a phased withdrawal of U.S. troops from South Vietnam.” This is the one thing that leads me to believe that his last executive order NSAM 273, would have proven Kennedy’s plan for withdrawal by 1965, had Johnson not overturned it upon the death of Kennedy. According to John M Newman, “The tragedy in Texas, in the end, brought about the outcome that Kennedy had opposed throughout his presidency: full-scale American intervention in Vietnam.”

The questions posed in class (about the reaction of the American people, the protests and even the reaction of my professors who lived during that timeframe) lead me to believe that the government did not care what the people believed. It followed a one track mind, one of colonialism as well as cold warriorism.

As I embarked on this trip, I kept all points of view in mind, but that lasted as far as my first night in Vietnam and my interactions with the people. I have been raised my entire life in a strong Republican home and throughout my career at Miami, I have leaned more to the left little by little. Upon returning from my trip from Vietnam, I could feel with the liberals of the Vietnam War era as well as the liberals of today. Boy, what will my parents and family think of me now?? Well I have been raised to have my own beliefs and this class and experience has been an eye opener for me.

This paper begins with questions surrounding the Vietnam war, and continues with my arrival in Hanoi, my visit to Hoi Ann, my experience at the site of the My Lai massacre, and my visit to the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City. It ends with my reflections once I arrived back in the United States, concentrating upon places that I want to illustrate for my readers through words and feelings. I found that some of these places were very heavy for an American. I hoped this trip would be a good cultural lesson that would enable me to reflect on a horrific era with a sense of balance.

One thing that I noticed shortly after arriving was that the Vietnamese were extremely welcoming to us as Americans. They did not show any signs of hate or hostility. I remember wondering to myself, how could they greet us with open arms after the destruction that we helped to cause? The second question I asked myself was, why were these gentle people the enemy? I could not even envision them showing any signs of hostility to anyone. I saw the remains of destruction all around me that had happened all those years ago. While the buildings were demolished, I could tell by the looks on the faces of the people that their dreams and attitudes were not.

My stomach was in knots as our plane touched the ground in Hanoi. I was not sure if it was nervousness, excitement, or the anxiety of the twenty five-hour flight that made me feel this way. It was probably a little of all three. I stepped off the plane into a very small airport, which was in the middle of nowhere. It reminded me of my flight into the Cayman Islands ten years ago. The land looked barren. We walked into the airport and stood around the baggage/customs area. There was only one carousel for the baggage of all incoming flights. Once receiving all of my baggage and going through customs, I finally had my first real chance to go outside. I could not wait to see the people of this country. I was very curious to see what their reactions would be to a large group of Americans.

Our tour guides -- Truc, who was from Saigon, and Davies, who was an American now living in Thailand -- immediately greeted us. They were both very welcoming. We took a large bus to our hotel, the Galaxy, which was situated in downtown Hanoi.

The bus ride started out peacefully through the countryside. Truc was giving us a little background on Hanoi and what kind of city it was. As I sat there listening, I stared out the window taking in all of my surroundings. In the distance I could see nothing but green and dirt. The green I saw was nothing like I have ever seen in the United States. It was not dried out like in the United States, but plush, wet bright-colored, and soft-like. I could also see little pointed cone-like shapes in the fields. They were the rice hats perched upon the locals' heads out in the rice fields to shield them from the sun. It was beautiful. I opened my window and took in the fresh air from the outside. I could not wait.

Once we got into the city of Hanoi, I definitely experienced culture shock. This city was like no other city I had ever seen. I have been to my share of large cities but nothing could prepare me for what I saw. There were motorbikes driving every which way. Cars were few. All you could hear was the sound of horns beeping. There were no lanes. There were no stop signs. There were no stoplights. And last but not least, I could not see any signs of anger or road rage. I had read that the Vietnamese never showed signs of anger, but this was unreal. I raised my hand and asked Truc where the traffic laws were. He said that there were none. Everyone just yielded when need be. I remember thinking to myself that there was no way that I was going to even attempt to cross a street

As I looked out at the city, I noticed many differences from our country. There were people everywhere with little stores selling anything and everything. The houses that I saw were nothing but run-down buildings and shanties. People were jogging down the street. I was definitely afraid to see what our hotel looked like. The hotel we pulled up to definitely did not match its surroundings. It was beautiful. Once we got inside, a Vietnamese couple escorted us into the dining room for a refreshing glass of orange soda. We were then given our keys and our room assignments

The next morning after a breakfast of rice, fruit, bread, and real Vietnamese coffee, we headed back out to our bus to visit Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum and his stilted house. We were all dressed in pants and shirts with sleeves out of respect for their culture. I looked around at the other visitors and saw that they were dressed in everything from shorts to tank tops. I was glad that we had chosen to be respectful. It looked like respect was definitely one thing that the Vietnamese strongly believed in, and I was not about to down play that. Truc was fortunate enough to find some friends of his who are training to be translators and tour guides to help with this day’s excursion. They were wonderful. I was glad to see that they were not shy and were very approachable. While standing in line, I befriended one of the young women (her name escapes me, but once I completely unpack, I do have her name and email). She told me that Uncle Ho had just returned from Russia and had only been back on display for a few short days. We started comparing lives and she, like me is a seasoned shopper and asked if she could take some of the girls and me in the class on a shopping tour that afternoon in our free time. That is one thing that is universal for women---SHOPPING!!!

Upon entering the mausoleum, we were told that we had to be silent and keep our hands well out of our pockets, where the guard could see them. I was mystified. I had heard that Lenin’s tomb was like this, but it still amazed me. Imagine being such a well-respected figure that you are embalmed for not only your nation to see you but for the world to see you as well. This just goes to show how much respect plays into the culture of the Vietnamese. No one, and I mean no one, disobeyed these rules. It was an eerie experience, but a moving one as well. I have read many books about Ho Chi Minh, but here I was looking at the face of the man who changed so many lives — Vietnamese, French, and American. It was powerful. I had no idea how anything else on the trip was going to top that, but I was willing to find out.

After leaving Uncle Ho behind, we proceeded to the Temple of Literature, which houses the first Vietnamese University. This is also where I actually walked inside my first temple and saw the first of many shrines to Buddha. The sight was breathtaking, full of many colors and the enrapturing aroma of the incense. I watched as many lit incense in remembrance of either their relatives or others. I was mesmerized. Religion, I now realized, played just as important role in culture as respect. Americans could learn a good deal from these people.

Though only two days and one town into my trip, I already realized that religion, family and respect are the key factors that keep this government-run communist society optimistic about the rest of the world. Not only do people respect the living and their elders, but the dead play an important role in their lives as well. One could not even walk into the tiniest of shops and not see a shrine or smell incense burning. Temples were on almost every corner. The smile on people’s faces when given the time of day was enough to make my day. No matter what these people have had to go through, they still look forward to the future and the interaction with others, (That is, if they can survive crossing and driving through the streets as if they were living in an interactive game of Frogger.)

Throughout the trip, I kept thinking back to the events of “9/11.” Like the vast majority of all Americans, I had been glued to the television set, watching in horror as these attacks upon my countrymen and women killed thousands and wiped out national landmarks. I recalled my almost irrational desire for revenge against the perpetrators of such violence and bloodshed, particularly when I learned that a classmate of mine, Mark, worked in one of the towers and might very well been dead. I could not help but think that the survivors of the My Lai massacre as well as relatives of those innocent civilians who died there probably felt the same way. I needed closure and would never get it. Mark is dead and there are no answers as to why this atrocity had taken place.

The trip to My Lai was one of the most saddening and confusing trips I have ever taken. As I entered the remains of the village, or rather the monument to the village, I expected to see something similar to Arlington Cemetery. I was shocked to learn that some were not even buried with families. Some had no family to claim them. Others were just names on a board. Upon entering, I could feel through my classmates that this was not going to be a very verbal trip. I believe that my class’s silence and mine was almost deafening. I believe that most of us could just feel what the others were feeling.

I first walked into the museum and looked at the photographs of the villagers prior to their horrific end. I saw something that I as an American was definitely not used to seeing: Americans pictured in a bad light. We as Americans do not picture ourselves that way, but here it was impossible to avoid. The hate could be seen in many of the G.I.s’ faces in the pictures as the massacre was taking place as well as in the aftermath pictures. I could also for the first time see the look on the Vietnamese faces. Some looked confused, while others showed just pain. It was so sickening. I did not even know how at that point I would be able to look at the remaining pictures, but I continued. Some pictures I just avoided.

Once outside the museum, we were privileged to be given a tour given by a young woman, who at the time I just assumed worked there. As she began to talk to us, I found out through her story that she was another victim of the terror Americans caused this innocent village. Her mother and aunt were survivors of that day so long ago but not forgotten, March 16, 1968. Her voice said everything. She was quiet and almost in tears at different times throughout her story. I was feeling something that I never thought I would feel in all of my life. Embarrassed. Embarrassed for asking for her story, Embarrassed for putting her through this and making her relive it. Embarrassed for my country’s actions all those years ago. Plain and simple, embarrassed to be an American citizen. As she took us around what was left of the village, she pointed out shelters and told us stories of how the G.I.s did not care who was down there. They would throw grenades down there to finish off their jobs. She showed us the ditches where American soldiers put the bodies and later came back to cover up their actions. She showed us the bullet holes in the trees from American guns. She relived that day for us moment by moment.

All I kept picturing was her family along with others eating breakfast in the square planning their day. These Americans were their friends. They were supposed to be protecting them. Had the war gotten so out of hand that no one was safe anymore? I could see the people in plain sight. I could feel their fear and chills as she told the story. I imagined them eating the same type of breakfast that we had been served the last few mornings: rice, squid, and fruits. I could see them anxiously planning their day as we had been doing with our professors and tour guides throughout the trip. I thought back to how I felt when the United States was attacked and all the innocent people were just going through their daily routines that day in September. I thought of them eating their bagels and drinks from Starbucks. In one swift moment that was all taken. Why? These soldiers just days before had traded goods with this village. What happened? Why? I will probably never know, but most important, the people who survived, their relatives, and the entire Vietnamese population would never have answers. Some would probably never experience closure.

The kicker, I guess you would say was, when after telling us her story, the young woman invited us all in for a cup of tea. Where did this hospitality come from? Where did this kindness come from? I thought back to everything that I had seen on this trip so far, and the one realization I came to was the importance of the religion that many of these Vietnamese practice — Buddhism and Confucianism. I have never really studied this religion very much, but what I have learned about it is al -positive. I learned that Buddhism is a peaceful religion. I learned that Buddhists act in a way such that they will reach Nirvana. A classmate of mine came over to me after our tea and asked to borrow my lighter. I handed it to him and watched him go over to the statue of the woman, the children and the father in his daughter’s arms and light an incense stick in remembrance. What feeling. Can you imagine thirty years from now, giving a tour of the Trade Center site or the Pentagon to Al Qaeda members and then inviting them in for a glass of beer? I do not think so.

I signed the visitor’s book. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to convey. No words could describe what I wanted to say. I simply wrote, “I will never forget.” What do you say to something like this? There are no words.

I walked out of that tour full of more emotion and respect, more than I have ever felt in my life. These people I realized, had forgiven us for the damage and murder. They have not forgotten, as one could see by the numerous memorials, but it seemed that all was forgiven. We then took the three-hour bus ride back to our resort-like hotel in Hoi An. It seemed like the curtain shut, but I knew I would never forget.

Back in Hoi An, we had the day free, so many of us went to the shops. Many of us, myself included, had appointments with our tailors for second fittings of clothes we had ordered the previous day. As I walked through the city, I remember comparing it to the fishing villages I had traveled to in Greece as a young child. You could smell the seawater in the air. The town was quaint and definitely relaxing. While there were many shops, they did not seem as desolate as in Hanoi. The town was beautiful, but now that I have returned, I have had other feelings about this small town. I recently had a conversation with my uncle, and I was told that this is where he spent most of his time. The town was quite different when he was there. The Americans had destroyed it back during the war. I am glad that I did not know the definite area where my uncle had been injured or I might not have looked at the town in the same warm way.

The next memorable part of the trip was our short excursion throughout the War Crimes Museum in Ho Chi Minh City. This museum was like no other that I have seen.

I had the privilege of taking a course on the Nuremberg Trials. We had to research other war crimes that were committed, not just by the Germans but by others as well. I had heard of the different torture methods used by militaries, but this was unreal. It is one thing to read about it, but another to actually visualize it. It was like walking through the war thirty years later all over again. This museum showed in detail almost every atrocity imaginable by a human. I first came across a picture of Hue and the Citadel (another place to which my uncle had been during his tour), which we had just toured the day before. While we were there, you could tell that it had been hit pretty hard by the war, but when looking at the pictures taken at the time, it was like a different city. It had been almost completely demolished. I could not believe that this was the same city that I had just visited hours earlier. I was astonished. I saw pictures of murders brought on by not only Americans but also by others allied with us. I had thought the pictures at My Lai were offending about my own countrymen, but these were worse. I saw Americans in the worst light possible. I saw the use of Chinese water torture. I saw Vietnamese dragged behind trucks to their death. I saw lines of Vietnamese men and women being shot in the head. I saw children and elderly begging for their lives. There were decapitation shots. This was something you see in movies, not in real life.

The most disturbing part of the museum was the rooms full of pictures of what chemical warfare had caused. The effects of the chemicals such as Agent Orange and napalm were and still are horrific. Not only did these chemicals kill some and severely damage others. The effects of these chemicals are still seen today. Children today are still being born with deformities brought on by these harsh chemicals. For some reason, my thoughts flashed back to the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. I remember taking a tour and smelling something sweet. Little did I know what that stench was: the gas used to kill many Jewish people in the late 1930’s and early 1940’s. For some reason I could almost smell that same smell. I know the gasses were different, but the effect was just as bad. I had to get out of that room. Once again, I was ashamed of who I was.

After leaving the museum, we traveled through the city to our hotel. Once again we were greeted with refreshing drinks. I was definitely becoming spoiled by all this hospitality. After checking in, we went on a tour of the city. This city was quite different from the capital city of Hanoi. It was definitely cosmopolitan. It actually reminded me of Miami. There were upscale shops, but at the same time they catered to you like the family run ones in the north. The living area of the city was still poor, but it did not seem to bother the people. They were there to serve you. That night we had drinks atop the infamous Rex Hotel, which is where many journalists met during the war. It was beautiful, and as I looked around, I could not picture ever discussing the horrors going on around me while looking at the view from up there. There was so much to do and I was running out of time. We were leaving the next day and I was not anxious about returning home.

As I packed the night before our departure from this beautiful country, I started reflecting on my trip and all that I had seen. I really was not looking forward to returning home. There were still so many unanswered questions. The plane trip home gave me a lot of time for reflection, and I took advantage of the opportunity. Between Mary interviewing the students and my classmates conversing, it was hard to put the trip on the back burner.

As I watched our plane take off (unfortunately from the inside), I immediately started trying to piece the answers that I had with the questions. That was hard. While I know that I will never fully understand what really happened all those years ago, and as Robert Shaplen states in Herring’s book, America’s Longest War, “Vietnam, Vietnam….There are no sure answers.” I wanted to understand one thing. Why the Vietnamese? They were too peaceful for me to buy into the notion of them ever being a threat. I guess you could say that it was all part of the Red Scare and the time. I just knew one thing. These people that I was leaving were just that, people. They have feelings just like we Americans do. Will I ever get my answer?

As I sit here in my air-conditioned house in the United States, I feel remorse for what happened all those years ago. As Dr. Erlich states, though I am not directly responsible for what happened all those years ago, I still carry the loot of my country. I am a twenty-eight year old American watching death all over the news right now as we fight a war in Iraq for (once again) liberation and I have to wonder what this outcome will be? I am also watching an innocent friend of mine die of a terminal disease, and I have come to the conclusion that life is a one day at a time experience, live for the day. War is not an answer. It's just death.

As George Swiers explains in 1983, in the closing of Young’s book, The Vietnam Years, “This week, exactly thirteen years have passed since I was last in California. I return to a place [the conference] where Vietnam is all that is spoken of. And there is some measure of comfort in that. But if I have learned anything in these thirteen years, it is this: I’m not supposed to feel better.”

Had Kennedy lived and won the reelection in 1964, would things have been different? No one has the answers, and no one ever will. All we can do is learn from this experience in our history and not make the same mistakes. We know that Kennedy was hoping for withdrawal. Americans were protesting the war, and people such as Martin Luther King Jr had anti-war views as well. But who did our government listen to? Not the popular vote. That’s the way we work, I guess.

One day I hope to revisit Vietnam and talk with the people who survived that war so long ago. I also plan to follow up my experience with research here on the home front as well. Maybe I will get some of the answers I am looking for, maybe I won’t. One never knows. But I believe that we are owed the answers, although maybe it is too late. Whatever the case will be, I will continue my search.

Works Cited

Gitlin, Todd. The Sixties Years of Hope, Days of Rage. New York: Bantam Books. 1987, 1993

Herring, George C. America’s Longest War The United States and Vietnam, 1950-1975. fourth edition New York: McGraw Hill. 2002

Newman, John M. JFK and Vietnam Deception, Intrigue, and the Struggle For Power. Warner Books. Date unknown

Young, Marilyn B. The Vietnam Wars. 1945-1990. New York: HarperCollins. 1991