A Message From Vietnam

(Writer’s note: I was born in 1957. As a result, the closest I came to the Vietnam War was as a child in the 1960s watching the nightly talking heads deliver the daily body count like sportscasters reading the box scores of a baseball game).

I arrived in Vietnam on the Fourth of July, 2018. I had slight feelings of trepidation regarding my welcome. Although it had been nearly 50 years since we pulled out of the war, as an American, I was fearful of lingering animosities. I was quick to find out Vietnamese (of all ages) don’t harbor grudges (at least not openly). On the contrary, Americans are highly regarded, and our mien is greatly admired. In fact, I became a much sought-after English teacher as every child in Viet Nam is learning English, and they all want the American version—because it’s “cool,” (Viet Nam has an abundance of Australian, South African, and British English teachers trapesing about).

I was keenly aware that most of the Vietnamese I met were not alive during the war years (or had been children like me). I had a strong desire to speak with a Vietnamese war veteran, someone with a direct connection to this major piece of the American pathos. And while I had run into a few vets, mostly at Bia Hoi stalls (little places that serve cheap beer on tap), I was never able to engage in any serious conversation due to the language barrier (though I was always warmly welcomed by these old-timers who seemed amused by my country of origin).

I finally got my chance to sit down with a war veteran one recent June afternoon when my friend Nguyễn Thị An Na (a university student fluent in English) arranged a lunch with her grandfather, Nguyễn Quang Cửu. All I knew of Grandfather Cửu was what An Na had told me. He’d served for many years and had been shot in the hand during battle. An Na’s father drove us the few kilometers from Cua Lo Beach to Nghi Lộc, a small hamlet best described as Vietnamese pastoral. Simple homes scattered among fields of corn and lush vegetation.

We parked on a narrow lane and walked through a gate towards a house set back beyond a green and white tiled courtyard. There was a small koi pond and a giant Lộc Vừng tree. In a yard beside the house was a garden with rows of vegetables. There were also colorful flowers, banana palms, and trees bearing mango, guava, and pomelo.

I was greeted by Cửu, a short, stocky man with chiseled features and heavy brows that furrowed the steady gaze of his dark eyes. He greeted me warmly with a smile and a firm handshake and then led us to an outdoor table where his wife, Lê Thị Hồng, poured us tea.

Cửu’s first question (translated by An Na) was: Where was I from? An Na knew the answer but allowed me to engage in the conversation. “America. Mỹ,” I replied (Mỹ being the Vietnamese word for America). Cửu seemed pleased. He wanted to know if I had been a soldier. When I explained that I had not, his smile seemed to wane a bit. I felt like I’d disappointed him, gone down a notch in the rank of his esteem. I had the distinct impression he would rather be speaking with an American GI.

So I threw out a hypothetical question. I asked Cửu how he would respond if I had been a GI who had fought against him in the war. His mouth became a giant smile, and he rattled off a response to his granddaughter, turning to me on occasion. “He says he would shake your hand. He harbors no ill-will, anger, or hatred. The war was a long time ago. He says you would both probably share war stories.” I was a bit blown-away, and decided to take the line of questioning a step further. I asked him what he would say to me if I said that I was feeling guilt and suffering pain from the atrocities of the war. This time, his answer wasn’t so quickly provided. He seemed to ponder; his index finger rubbed his head. And then he spoke. And then An Na translated. “He says he would remind you that it was in the past, long ago, and that you must put it behind you. He did say he would tell you that he has also suffered the pain of memories.” I jumped on that. ‘What pain?’ When An Na asked, Cửu simply gave me a weak smile and shook his head. I refused to pry further.

I did have another question along those same lines, and so I asked him what he would say to me if I were the soldier who had shot him in the hand. This time Cửu laughed; he looked at me and drummed his fists like a wind-up toy before he spoke. An Na laughed and then translated. “He says first you would fight and then shake hands and drink wine.”

Seemingly comfortable in one another’s company, I asked Cửu for the Reader’s Digest version of his years as a soldier. He shared that, as a nineteen-year-old, he’d joined his local regiment (D-70 Sư 324) with twelve of his friends. Only three survived the war. He was shot on three different occasions, hospitalized each time, and then sent back into action. As an afterthought, he added that he was closest to death when the concussion of a landmine stopped his heart. He mentioned Huế and Quảng Trị as two of the arenas he saw action in and that he’d done most of his fighting in the Central Highlands. He also mentioned a girl he’d loved, but the war had circumvented their goal of marriage—he’d written her a long farewell letter and a poem from the front.

I asked Cửu if he’d ever spoken with any Americans before meeting me. He laughed and replied (through An Na), “The last time I met an American, we were shooting at each other.” I sat there in awe of Cửu’s candidness, graciousness, and genuine desire to share his story and break bread.

I had to know when Cửu’s path to forgiveness began. His reply: “The day after Reunification Day,” (about a year after America pulled out in 1975). His wife added, “We were very hateful of the Americans for a long time!” Cửu shrugged and gave me an ironic smile as if to say, ‘Civilians, what do they know?’

I had one more burning question to ask before we sat down for lunch. Two days before I met Cửu, there had been an act of vandalism and desecration of a Vietnam War memorial in Elmhurst, Queens. Through An Na, I explained the situation to Cửu, and for the first time, he became visibly upset. His gestures took on fury rather than playfulness. He shook his head and spoke in a more guttural and feverish tone. I stared at An Na, waiting for the translation. “He thinks it is shameful and disrespectful behavior. He says soldiers should not be blamed for their duty and service but respected. He says the behavior of these people is inhumane.”

What could I do but shake my head? All I could think about was how I was sitting with a man who’d been shot three times, saw his comrades killed, and himself had killed in battle. If anyone had a gripe, a grudge, or a vendetta to harbor, it was Cửu and others like him. Hell, the entire country has cause for disdain. But the fact of the matter is that the Vietnamese admire and respect America. Theirs is not forgiveness born of some religious dogma or doctrine but by a visceral demand to heal by moving on and to recognize a fellowship of humanity.

As I took my place on the mat for lunch along with Cửu and three generations of family, the words of Martin Luther King Jr. came to mind (I was 11 years old when he was assassinated—the Vietnam War in full swing—King solidly against it): “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that…”