As painful as it is I take my time looking at each photograph, silently thankful every time I glance downward and away to read the captions. This is no easier actually, as the descriptions just give a more concrete description to what could just be a group pose: This photo was shot 3 minutes before this GI battalion was shelled from the jungle in the background, it reads. The men look utterly unprepared for the immediate destiny that I desperately wish I could yell to them. It's like at any second the figures are going to start moving, they'll continue to lay down their rifles and helmets, thank the heavens for finally a break from the rain, light up cigarettes, pull out faded pictures of loved ones, make a pathetic camp for themselves. Eventually I snap out of it, swallowing the rock from my throat back down to my stomach. I shuffle to another set of pictures, seriously wondering if I should give myself a break, but I seem to be moving not on my own volition. Next are these two photographs taken from the same angle, maybe 2 seconds apart from each other. They both depict an wounded and smoking tank, caught in a mess of jungle, and a South Vietnamese solider running for cover from an invisible enemy. The second picture: the solider is replaced by an upward blast of rocks and dirty. It is uncertain the outcome of the soldiers well being, the caption below says. Next will be a wall devoted entirely to a single photographer. Some of the pictures are just gorgeous, those classic grainy black and white and greenish-grey images of tall grasses and banana trees, streams snaking into the background, so deep it forces the soldiers to hold their weapons high overhead. There are some closeups of American soldiers: boys' faces of stubble and dirt, dangling cigarettes from smirking grins. Next is a photo that made a double spread in Life magazine: the metal cubical inside of a helicopter. An army captain clutches his comrade in his lap, a tangle of limbs, torn clothing, smears of blood, a scream frozen on his lips for eternity, bullet shells covering the floor and roll out the exposed side of the aircraft as it dips and twists away from something unseen. At the end of this wall there's a caption next to a photograph of a few soldiers squatting behind a tank for cover: "This is the last picture to be taken with this camera, which was found damaged next to a crater left by a landmine. The photographer has not been seen since".
I quickly make for the exit, the lower window of my vision wavers, like shimmering heat waves emitting from hot pavement, as my world begins to flood from the bottom up. I cut straight through the new crowds of tourists getting off the bus, making my way for the exit 2 or 3 steps at a time, sunglasses over my eyes long before I make it out into the sunlight. My watering eyes and the mix of Saigon's humidity make my lenses fog, as I blindly push through the swarms of jabbering Korean's tour groups, twisting to avoid colliding with their protruding camera lenses, facing downwards as to not be caught on the film from the sparkly new camcorders. I find an empty bench at the far end of the courtyard. Motorbikes zoom by on the other side of the fence while I sit in the shade of some giant US military war vessel, cannons gleaming in the sun, camouflage paint fresh as if applied the week before. I glance at the plaque next to the tank, identified by some hyphenated stream of numbers and letters. Words like "rounds per minute", "157 mm", and "total tonnage" mean little to me, something that may have excited me when I was 8 years old or played war-themed video games.
This is the closest many will ever come to the horrors of the Vietnam/American war. I'm devastated with feelings of extreme sadness for the countless of Vietnamese who have suffered. I'm angry at the long reach of the American government to "fight" Communism, the impact of war on all those American soldiers and their families, the use of Chemical warfare, it's effects still felt by both the people, the wildlife, the soil, of Vietnam. I feel embarrassment at myself for feeling so attached to something I know so little about, for something that has never directly influenced my in any way. The War Remnants museum of Saigon is a powerful reminder of the tragedies felt by soldiers, civilians, and the Vietnamese landscape during the War.
When I first came to Vietnam I was prepared for the harassment I might encounter due to my nation's recent attack on the country. What was I to do if I encountered some veteran NLF (viet cong) solider on the streets of Hanoi? Would the friendly conversation quickly turn ugly if I admitted to being American? Is everyone with some sort of physically deformity a victim of Agent Orange? I prepared myself for the worst, for anger, for spit, for a "Fuck you, American!". We're not exactly the most loved country in the world and I was willing to submit to any hostility without a fight...
How wrong was I to be on my guard like that. I have not once been chastised for my nationality. NOT ONCE. It's interesting how the word "Vietnam" means something so different to American's than the word "American" means to a Vietnamese. I learned this quick, feeling foolish for having any sort of hesitation for my American presence in a country so devastated by America. The Vietnamese have not only forgiven the US but have almost completely forgotten the damage we inflicted less than 40 years ago. I was amazed, and while seeing little reminders of the War here and there, I more or less forgot about our country's horrific shared history.
Until the day I went to the museum. Never have I seen such beauty exemplifying such horror. The upstairs exhibit, Requiem, was a collection of maybe 200 photos taken by various international photojournalists from the years 1965-72. This is that cliched reminder that pictures capture an instant in time. But there was a difference here than any other photography exhibition I've seen before; these picture were capturing an instant, at times seconds, before the people in the photo's were either killed or maimed. I'm safe in the present, looking through a one way mirror into the past, knowing that their future is either bleak or brief. Although I found it nearly impossible to make it through the entire exhibition, I did, and I feel like it was one of the most important things I've done in Vietnam.
For as little as I was directly affected by the War, the images at the museum hugely haunt me. For years to come I will never forget this display. Although my family was relatively removed from the conflict, at a safe distance from any harm, I know that so many people throughout the US have been damaged by this War, mentally and physically. And, from my relative understanding, if it's any sort of comfort (and it is to me), the Vietnamese people have nothing but acceptance and respect for Americans. Maybe it's because they emerged victorious, as they have from each invasion over the last millennium. But I have sensed no chest thumping, no sideways looks, no sense that we're unwelcome. Quite the contrary, the Vietnamese are the nicest people I have ever met.
I quickly make for the exit, the lower window of my vision wavers, like shimmering heat waves emitting from hot pavement, as my world begins to flood from the bottom up. I cut straight through the new crowds of tourists getting off the bus, making my way for the exit 2 or 3 steps at a time, sunglasses over my eyes long before I make it out into the sunlight. My watering eyes and the mix of Saigon's humidity make my lenses fog, as I blindly push through the swarms of jabbering Korean's tour groups, twisting to avoid colliding with their protruding camera lenses, facing downwards as to not be caught on the film from the sparkly new camcorders. I find an empty bench at the far end of the courtyard. Motorbikes zoom by on the other side of the fence while I sit in the shade of some giant US military war vessel, cannons gleaming in the sun, camouflage paint fresh as if applied the week before. I glance at the plaque next to the tank, identified by some hyphenated stream of numbers and letters. Words like "rounds per minute", "157 mm", and "total tonnage" mean little to me, something that may have excited me when I was 8 years old or played war-themed video games.
This is the closest many will ever come to the horrors of the Vietnam/American war. I'm devastated with feelings of extreme sadness for the countless of Vietnamese who have suffered. I'm angry at the long reach of the American government to "fight" Communism, the impact of war on all those American soldiers and their families, the use of Chemical warfare, it's effects still felt by both the people, the wildlife, the soil, of Vietnam. I feel embarrassment at myself for feeling so attached to something I know so little about, for something that has never directly influenced my in any way. The War Remnants museum of Saigon is a powerful reminder of the tragedies felt by soldiers, civilians, and the Vietnamese landscape during the War.
When I first came to Vietnam I was prepared for the harassment I might encounter due to my nation's recent attack on the country. What was I to do if I encountered some veteran NLF (viet cong) solider on the streets of Hanoi? Would the friendly conversation quickly turn ugly if I admitted to being American? Is everyone with some sort of physically deformity a victim of Agent Orange? I prepared myself for the worst, for anger, for spit, for a "Fuck you, American!". We're not exactly the most loved country in the world and I was willing to submit to any hostility without a fight...
How wrong was I to be on my guard like that. I have not once been chastised for my nationality. NOT ONCE. It's interesting how the word "Vietnam" means something so different to American's than the word "American" means to a Vietnamese. I learned this quick, feeling foolish for having any sort of hesitation for my American presence in a country so devastated by America. The Vietnamese have not only forgiven the US but have almost completely forgotten the damage we inflicted less than 40 years ago. I was amazed, and while seeing little reminders of the War here and there, I more or less forgot about our country's horrific shared history.
Until the day I went to the museum. Never have I seen such beauty exemplifying such horror. The upstairs exhibit, Requiem, was a collection of maybe 200 photos taken by various international photojournalists from the years 1965-72. This is that cliched reminder that pictures capture an instant in time. But there was a difference here than any other photography exhibition I've seen before; these picture were capturing an instant, at times seconds, before the people in the photo's were either killed or maimed. I'm safe in the present, looking through a one way mirror into the past, knowing that their future is either bleak or brief. Although I found it nearly impossible to make it through the entire exhibition, I did, and I feel like it was one of the most important things I've done in Vietnam.
For as little as I was directly affected by the War, the images at the museum hugely haunt me. For years to come I will never forget this display. Although my family was relatively removed from the conflict, at a safe distance from any harm, I know that so many people throughout the US have been damaged by this War, mentally and physically. And, from my relative understanding, if it's any sort of comfort (and it is to me), the Vietnamese people have nothing but acceptance and respect for Americans. Maybe it's because they emerged victorious, as they have from each invasion over the last millennium. But I have sensed no chest thumping, no sideways looks, no sense that we're unwelcome. Quite the contrary, the Vietnamese are the nicest people I have ever met.
