Vietnam War: ‘We don’t want to talk about it’
Almost 50 years after it ended, the conflict continues to spur a range of emotions among locals and visitors to the country.
It’s almost 50 years since the end of the Vietnam war and that’s a long time. On April 29, 1975, Dutch photographer Hubert van Es captured the defining image of the fall of Saigon – desperate evacuees clambering up a makeshift stairway to an American helicopter perched on a rooftop lift-well. Incorrectly captioned as the US Embassy, the building was the nearby Pittman Apartments, which housed CIA operatives. The structure stands at No. 22 on Ly Tu Trong St (after a revolutionary martyr), once Gia Long St (an emperor) in the also renamed Ho Chi Minh City, still widely called Saigon. Its rooftop, marked by a sign, The Last Mission, in recent times has hosted a cafe (although closed during my visit) and that’s entirely in keeping with the modern, enterprising Vietnam. The nine-storey building is flanked by the high-rise designer-heaven Vincom Centre and close to Notre Dame Cathedral, swathed in scaffolding for a significant refurbishment.
There’s no doubt many visitors are attracted to Vietnam for its scenery, friendly people, dynamic street life and sensational food (looking at you, Luke Nguyen). And although younger Australians may be able to mouth the words of Khe Sanh and I Was Only 19, thanks to parents and grandparents, knowledge of the Vietnam war is thin on the ground. Eavesdrop at a Sydney performance of the musical Miss Saigon and be staggered at the lack of knowledge a war even took place. But I am of a generation with memory of conscription for national service, which may have included a stint in Vietnam. The ball with my birthdate on it was drawn from the barrel for the last call-up. Soon after, I received a letter from the newly elected Whitlam government telling me to ignore all previous correspondence from the Defence Department. It had been a turbulent time of opposition to the war. Those who fought overseas were poorly treated on return; 523 soldiers died.
I am in Saigon on board the luxury ship Seabourn Encore, sailing from Hong Kong to Singapore along the coasts of Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand. My 500 fellow passengers are largely from the US and Australia, and overwhelmingly of an age with memories of the war. Some have served. This is not a battlefield tour but many shore excursions include points of historical interest and, in keeping with Seabourn practice, are conducted by knowledgeable and entertaining locals.
A note on the excursions brochure advises, “information is presented from a Vietnamese perspective” and “may be at odds with American sentiment”. Some interesting group dynamics are possible but let me say it’s smooth sailing.
Thomas (“call me that for convenience”) is our guide in Hanoi, capital of the unified nation that had been split at the 17th parallel in 1954 by a Geneva Convention after the Indochina War with colonial power France. Twenty-something Thomas speaks good English but asks to be corrected by native users if he makes mistakes. Born in the north, he loves his job in tourism and loves his country; he talks about its wars of “liberation” against France and the US, and is open about its communist government (of a different hue from that of Vietnam’s northern neighbour but no great friend, China).
Among other sites, we visit Hoa Lo Historical Prison Relic, described on the sign outside as “A Hell on Earth built by the French colonialists” and known as the Hanoi Hilton “for American pilots detained in northern Vietnam from 1964 to 1973”. One was the late US senator and presidential candidate John McCain. Americans in my group honour him and are keen to see the cells in which he was held, and are disdainful of this year’s Republican presidential candidate who branded McCain a loser because he was captured. Entry to the museum is the equivalent of $3, but free for some and half-price for “villagers in poverty from mountainous, remote areas and contributors to the Revolution”. I buy a poster of a drawing of revolutionary leader Ho Chi Minh with four young Vietnamese bearing arms.
Thomas points out that two are men and two women. He likes the inscription: “Nothing is more precious than independence and freedom.” The item is wrapped with a label, Vietnamese Poster Propaganda. Thomas runs a finger over the last word and asks me to pronounce it. This I do and he repeats. We do not discuss the word’s meaning. I (sort of) promise to frame the work to remind me of my trip to Hanoi. On the nearly three-hour trip back to Halong Bay, where Seabourn Encore is docked, we stop at a marketplace, where Thomas buys his mum a present.
In dizzyingly busy Saigon, one-time capital of South Vietnam, tour guide Zen is world-wise and well-connected through his family, some of whom left for North America after the fall of Saigon, and contacts in hospitality, especially veterans who fought in Vietnam. In short order he has me talking on his mobile to a pal on Victoria’s Great Ocean Road, Frank O’Brien, who runs Franko’s Rail Tours of Vietnam. Zen remembers from childhood the war and the victory of North Vietnam forces, whose tanks smashed through the gates of the president’s Independence Palace on April 30, 1975. Now the 1960s-styled palace is named Reunification Hall and the pristine tanks stand to one side. Not far away is the War Remnants Museum, the exhibits of which were once displayed in the Exhibition House for US and Puppet War Crimes.
Passions today are a whole lot more subdued. Zen is leading a group to the Cu Chi Tunnels, a two-hour drive from central Saigon. Dating from 1948 and the fight against France, but expanded during the ’60s, the tunnels, dug into clay, formed an underground network for Viet Cong guerillas covering about 200km and included sleeping and eating quarters, classrooms and medical facilities. Spine-chilling booby traps, dropping onto lethal spikes, deterred detection. Disconcerting gunshots ring through the regenerated bushland. The National Defence Sport Shooting Range is part of the complex and visitors can practise their aim, for a fee. It’s modern enterprise again. There is a chance to climb down a manhole into a tunnel and crawl on hands and knees along a 25m stretch. Time: just a few minutes. It is a stifling experience, even to one not normally given to claustrophobia.
In the fresh air again, Zen, born in the south, has some thoughts about history. Ho was probably a good man, aiming for one country, although he died six years before that was achieved. “We were so tired of war,” he says. And half a century on, “We don’t want to talk about it.”
In the know
Seabourn Encore, now in the Mediterranean, returns to Southeast Asia early December
for a series of sailings similar to the one described. From about $12,200 a person, twin-share.
Graham Erbacher was a guest of Seabourn Cruise Line.
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