Some Thoughts on Returning to Vietnam

Some Thoughts on returning to Vietnam
eevalentine-pearlfishing.blogspot.com
February 2009

I stepped foot on Vietnamese soil just a week after Ho Chi Minh died in September 1969. Two months prior to this I had stayed up all night to witness Neil Armstrong’s one giant step for mankind on the moon. During the ride from Tan Son Nhut Airport through Saigon’s mad-cap traffic to the missionary guest house where my young husband and I along with 8 other freshly recruited volunteer relief workers would stay during our orientation, I felt as though I had indeed landed in a place as foreign as the moon. Those first glimpses of the extreme poverty; refugees crowded into make-shift shanties, military trucks and jeeps overpowering the ubiquitous motorbikes and tri-shaws, the steam rising out of sidewalk food vendors pots and men openly relieving themselves on the side of the road. All these street scenes filled me with the overwhelming realization that I was clueless about this civilization, this country called Vietnam.

Over the years, I have fed my obsession with Vietnam by filling my home library with dozens of books written by Vietnamese, French and American writers. I sat through every movie made about Vietnam, allowing the tears to flow hoping, I suppose, for some cleansing ritual. Now as I eagerly anticipate my first visit to Vietnam since I departed in August 1971, I wonder how my experience of present-day Vietnam will compare with my jumbled web of memories and the volumes of books and articles I’ve read over the years.
I’m one more American returning with a backpack spilling over with memories and stories that no doubt over time have blurred the actual facts. I’ve protected certain memories of those two years that I served as a volunteer administrative and fund raising assistant at Hoa Khanh Children’s Hospital, located 10 miles north of Da Nang. The stories I have written and that have shaped my personal history contrast with the other Americans who I worked with at Hoa Khanh. The one consistency in all our stories is the black cloud of fear that shadowed us every single day. The hospital had been built as a joint humanitarian project by the Navy’s Seabees and the Marine for refugee children whose families had poured into the hamlets surrounding DaNang. The hospital stood just inside the entrance to Camp Books, Force Logistic Command Base of the Marine Corp. This served as the largest supply base for I Corp, the northern sector of South Vietnam. “Rocket Alley” the nick-name for our new ‘home’ got shelled almost every night the first few months of our in country adventure. We learned to hear the distinct difference in the whistling sirens of in coming versus out going rockets. Between the constant sounds of war and seeing the broken and burned little bodies of the children lying in the hospital, death seemed to close in around us. At the ripe age of 21 I doubted that I would make it out in one piece. On the worst nights, I believed I would die on Vietnamese soil.

For years after my safe return home, I tried to put Vietnam behind me and get on with my life. When I stepped off the plane in San Francisco and fell into the hugs of my sisters, I fully expected that it would be possible to just dust myself off and pick up life where we left it after college graduation and our wedding. I was determined to guide my life script, like a well crafted story: launch my career, get a graduate degree, have children and settle into a happy marriage. After all, none of my worst fears had come true: I was not injured, not captured and force marched up the Ho Chi Minh Trail to a prison (which was my worst nightmare) and I even escaped contacting tropical diseases. The fear with a capital F had wormed its way deep into my unconscious and over time manifested in the usual forms, nightmares, jumping at loud popping sounds, and a suspicion that if I ever returned to Vietnam, death would hunt me down and get me the second time around.

I carry a load of disappointments and guilt from those years; disappointed that I curled into the fear, allowed the ‘foreignness’ of Vietnam to scare me enough so I shrank into the false protection of the U.S. military and never really allowed my curiosity and love of adventure to open up to the vast and wondrous Vietnamese history and culture. I ventured only superficially beyond the American dominated universe at Hoa Khanh Children’s Hospital. The Vietnamese nurses and other staff seemed in awe of American ways and adapted to the requirements to be employed on an American military base. They were even given American names which they readily assumed in deference to the overpowering western influence. There seemed to be no doubt in their minds who would win the war and they were preparing themselves, I think, for another long period of western dominance.

I was disturbed by how brazenly we pushed aside thousands of years of customs and insisted that the Vietnamese adopt our faith, our food, our language and our form of democracy. I argued with our superiors that we demeaned the Vietnamese by replacing their given names with American names. I regret that I didn’t take time to learn the language, or to understand much about the people and their customs. I found myself in the middle of my childhood fantasy; to experience life in a foreign country and yet, fear gradually displaced my childhood fascination with the Far East.

My daily interaction with the Vietnamese people and their culture was contained to occasional drives out the villages and hamlets, the street markets of DaNang, Tet celebrations in the homes of the Vietnamese staff and the occasional grand feasts in the home of our head nurse and my dear friend, Nguyen Thi Khang, known as Gwen. I deeply regret that I could not summon the courage to gaze beyond the barbed wire barriers into the heart and soul of Vietnam. I remember one remarkable adventure when we were thrown into a rare cultural exchange. We were driving on the outskirts of Hue, having just toured the remains of the Hue Citadel: ancient Vietnamese Imperial City. This area had suffered enormous damage and hundreds of military and civilians were killed during the Tet Offensive in 1968. It was still considered an ‘unstable’ area. Our driver, an American who claimed to know his way around the countryside, had lost his way and our apprehension grew when the road dead-ended at a Buddhist Temple. Instead of coming to face to face with Viet Cong we were greeted warmly by the nuns and monks and invited to participate in a feast. As I recall it was the celebration day honoring Buddha’s Birth. They ushered us into this lovely hall and insisted we sit at a long banquet table while they served us heaps of tasty, Vietnamese food. There was every reason to bask in the warmth of their hospitality. I am ashamed to say that I sat silently picking at the food placed in my bowl, worried that I was eating dog meat or worse and convinced that I would get ill, or that this was a ruse and the V.C. were waiting in ambush for us the minute we piled back in the jeep. I missed so many opportunities like this to really see and learn from our Vietnamese hosts.

Perhaps it is these missed opportunities to connect with the Vietnamese beyond the barbed wire that now pulls me back to the place that altered my life and changed my world view. The summation of an essay I published in 1994, “A Woman in ‘Nam: 1969” I stated that “I had gone to Vietnam to help change the world, but I was the one who had changed.”

Mark Twain is quoted as saying, “The worst things in my life never happened,” so too, I admit that my worst fears didn’t happen. What did happen was loss of my faith and confidence in my core beliefs. I returned to a world out of kilter, no longer knowing what I could believe. I was dizzy with doubts and questions about who and what to trust. On the other hand, I felt a fierce kind of patriotism and desperately wanted the assurance that everything I was taught in school and church was rock solid. Perhaps it is karmic power that led me to find some spiritual peace and solace through Buddhist meditation practice. I recently came across something that resonated with my longing to return to Vietnam. The German mystic, Meister Eckhart wrote that, “You must look for God exactly there where you lost him.” I will be on the look out for God in the beauty of the land, the art, the literature, the epicurean delights, the ancient temples, the colorful silk, the fierce strength of the women and the quick laughter of the children.

Shortly after Saigon fell, the news carried heavy stories of the plight of the Amerasian children left behind. Nothing hit me harder than thinking of thousands of orphaned children who would never be accepted into Vietnamese society. Even though I was recently divorced, I seriously considered adopting 2 of these children. My initial hope fell through for various reasons, but I have a lingering feeling of obligation and desire to make a difference in the lives of Vietnamese children. It was impossible not to fall in love with the Vietnamese children. While we cowered in fear, the children in the hospital put us all to shame with the brave stoic acceptance of their pain. Their laughter and eagerness to learn brightened every day. Now, when I think of Vietnam I remember their faces and I feel ready to finally return.

Fun isn’t a word I’ve associated with Vietnam. I’d like to change that and enter the country this time with a lightness of heart. I want to hear the echo of the kid’s belly laughs, and enjoy the sport of haggling over prices in the open marketplaces. I want to run on the white sandy beaches and let the wind blow through my hair. Can I open my eyes, ears and heart to the breathtaking beauty, the lush green rice fields, the mountains, and fully appreciate the rich complexity of their ancient history and culture? I want to absorb those priceless moments and encounters I missed before. I hope to be able to separate Vietnam, the country and the people, from the war.

I feel fortunate to be sharing this journey with a small group called “Humanitarian Adventurers.” Our adventure begins in Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam, where we will meet with the Vietnam Union of Friendship Organizations (VUFO), Vietnam government officials, plus Friendship village( Agent Orange affected children and veterans.) I am also eager to visit the Temple of Literature and other museums. Our next stop is Hue, the ancient capital and imperial city that was modeled after the Forbidden City in China. The projects we’ll visit in Hue and Quang Tri include Project Renew and a micro-loan agriculture project.

One of the highlights of this trip for me is the chance to drive from Hue to Da Nang through the mountains and over Hai Van Pass, (hill of the clouds). During the war we couldn’t drive beyond the Pass for security reasons, but I have a photo of the lush green rice paddies and beaches taken from the Pass and it is spectacular. Half way between Hue and Da Nang we’ll visit Phu Loc Orphanage. (My good friend, Faith, who served as a nurse in the Hoa Khanh Children’s Hospital with me told me that children from that orphanage were sent to our hospital regularly.) I hope to visit the former Hoa Khanh Children’s Hospital. I’ve heard that it is now a mental hospital. I’ll hold my remarks until after I’ve seen it.

The project closest to my heart on this journey is the Danang Kid Project: sponsoring a house for a family who are living in the city’s garbage dump. I have photos of that dump from 1970. We drove by it every time we traveled from the hospital to Da Nang. If you’ve seen the recent movie, “Slumdog Millionaire”- you’ll get the picture
A rich cultural treat is in store for us in the little seaside village of Hoi An. This ancient port for the Champa civilization is now a World Heritage Site. It is also known for a plethora of restaurants and shops. We’ll even get a cooking lesson from one of the local chefs.

Ho Chi Minh City, still commonly referred to as Saigon, will be our last stop. I’m pleased that we’ll be staying at the famous Rex hotel. During the war, this hotel was the journalists hangout and where the military officers gave the daily 5 pm press briefings that became known as the “Five’0’clock Follies.” From the hotel’s famous rooftop bar, I plan to toast the brave journalists who sought to report the truth of the war.

I will share my travel experiences along the way on my blog site:
eevalentine-pearlfishing.blogspot.com