Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, May 28, 1995 TAG: 9505300019
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: MADELYN ROSENBERG
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
But in North Vietnam, where the people arguably have more of a right to despise Americans than, say, the Parisians, we were met only with smiles and shouts of "hello!" as we maneuvered our way down crowded streets.
It's been 20 years since the war with Vietnam ended - not enough time to heal all wounds, but enough time, perhaps, to start looking forward instead of back.
I was 8 years old when the last American troops left Vietnam. Snug in my routine of second grade, ballet classes and peanut butter and jelly, I was unaware of friends whose fathers had been away, on and off, since they were born. And of those whose fathers never came back.
In school, we studied what our books called "The Vietnam Conflict" and then went on to the next chapter. We were unaware of the soul-searching our country had done or would do for years to come.
But my fiance and I were more aware of it last month, as we poured our savings account into tickets and tourist visas for Vietnam.
At the schools we visited in Hanoi, old, yellow buildings with an occasional lizard running down the wall next to a picture of Ho Chi Minh, the students always asked us: "What do Americans think of Vietnam?"
We did not tell them the truth - that for years, many people tried not to. And that those who did were filled with a toxic mix of feelings - patriotism, guilt, pride, despair, honor, dishonor.
But we did tell them that now, on this 20th anniversary, Americans are talking about Vietnam again. And that there is more confusion than ever: Why did we fight? What did we learn? How can we heal?
In Vietnam, when the war crept into conversation, it was sometimes at our own gentle prodding.
"I lost my eye in the war," said Mr. Bing, who cast aspersions on the south (everything immoral in Vietnam happens in Ho Chi Minh City, the place they used to call Saigon), but never once on us.
"I fought in the war," said Mr. Chinh, after shaking our hands in greeting at a luncheon we attended on Liberation Day - the Vietnamese celebration of freedom from "American imperialism."
"I lost seven of the men in my family," said Miss Lee, her eyes welling with tears. "Since I was little, I have always heard about the war."
But that did not stop her from thanking us for our visit, or asking us to please come back, or saving us a seat beside her when we did.
Much of the Vietnamese population - just under half by some estimates - is too young to remember the war.
As I rode on the back of 21-year-old Em Thao's motorbike, holding tight to her waist as we wove through the streets, she pointed out the sights.
"That used to be a prison," she said, as we passed the Hanoi Hilton, so named by American prisoners of war once held captive there. It could just as well have been the post office or a Banyan tree.
Everywhere we traveled, people stopped us to try out their newly learned English, even if they knew only two words.
Those who knew more words repeated the same questions: "When will America come? Why is it taking so long?"
"They are working on it," we said. "We think they will come soon."
Nods. Grins. Forgiveness.
Signs, perhaps, that it is time to forgive ourselves.
Madelyn Rosenberg is assistant editor at the New River Bureau. She returned 10 days ago from visiting her brother, who was teaching English in Hanoi.
by CNB