[News] Back to Vietnam - The Legacies of War
Anti-Imperialist News
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Mon Jan 13 11:33:33 EST 2014
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*http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/01/13/back-to-vietnam/*
*The Legacies of War: 1970-2013*
Back to Vietnam
by JUDY GUMBO ALBERT
I am one among millions of people around the globe who protested the
American war in Viet Nam. I am also one of perhaps 400 people from the
United States who visited Viet Nam while the war still raged. I returned
this past January 2013, part of a delegation of former peace activists,
spouses, partners and supporters. We called ourselves the Hanoi 9,
invited to help celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Paris Peace
Accords. I had been ridiculously nervous before this second trip, which
I put down to fear of losing my illusions. Would this country which once
embodied my highest ideals still maintain its moral hegemony in a 21st
century world of Starbucks and a Ho Chi Minh City stock exchange?
When I visited the former North Viet Nam in 1970, U.S. troops had been
waging war in that country for over seven years. More 14,500 American
soldiers had died, close to half a million military personnel had served
in combat. Republican Richard Nixon had replaced Democrat Lyndon Johnson
as president, yet the threat by Johnson's top general Curtis LeMay that
the United States would bomb Viet Nam back into the Stone Age still
resonated. Pro-war America labeled Vietnamese as gooks; demonizing
combatant and civilian as a slant-eyed, black-pajama'd enemy who fought
relentlessly by day and insinuated themselves by night into tunnels,
encampments and nightmares of foot soldiers and Presidents alike.
At the same time, public opposition to the war had become a fact of
life. Hundreds of thousands of anti-war activists like me idealized the
North Vietnamese and their compatriots, the National Liberation Front of
South Vietnam as Davids battling the high-tech killing machine of the
American Goliath. To my way of thinking, the chant "Ho, Ho, Ho Chi
Minh, the NLF is Gonna Win" was not propagandistic wish fulfillment; it
was inevitable.
I arrived in Hanoi in May 1970, along with fellow Yippie Nancy Kurshan
and Genie Plamondon of the White Panther Party. We were a women's
delegation of three. On our first morning, a dilapidated dark green
school bus with the number 4709 stenciled on its windshield waited for
us on Ngo Quyen Street outside the former colonial French Hotel
Metropole, now renamed Reunification. Also waiting was Do Xuan Oanh, the
man who had invited us to visit Viet Nam. Oanh, pronounced 'Wine' with a
nasal intonation and /nnnng/ at the end, was more than just the go-to
person for visiting peace activists. He was a composer, a poet in the
romantic Vietnamese/French style, a watercolor artist and a translator
into Vietnamese of Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn. Everyone from the
inner core of the U.S. anti-war movement knew him. The writer Susan
Sontag who visited Hanoi in 1968 had written: "Oanh had a "personal
authority, (he) walks and sits with that charming "American" slouch, and
sometimes seems moody or distracted." Oanh's brooding may have stemmed
from his personal history. Oanh's wife, the granddaughter of the Chief
of Staff of the French government in Indochina, had been arrested by the
French in the early 1950s and held at the Maison Central, a concrete
building in downtown Hanoi that would become infamous as the Hanoi
Hilton. Oanh's wife suffered chronic headaches and fainted whenever she
saw a snake. Only in 2013 did I grasp the meaning of Oanh's story when I
saw on the wall of the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City a
depiction of a woman being held down by two burly, bare chested men who
were raping her with a snake.
In 1970, Nancy, Genie, Oanh, three Vietnamese guides and I rode our bus
south until we crossed the Ham Rong Bridge in Thanh Hoa province. A hole
in the bus's rusted floor allowed a view of brown muddy river water
rushing mere yards under my feet. Oanh told us the North Vietnamese army
moved war materiel by train, oxcart, bicycle and foot across this bridge
to the South. U.S. planes had made at least 400 sorties, each one laying
down a carpet of bombs. "Every day this bridge is demolished," Oanh
explained, "Every night it is rebuilt. The courage of the peasants is a
local legend."
Anti-aircraft artillery fighters, Viet Nam 1970. Photo by Judy Gumbo
Albert
<http://www.counterpunch.org/wp-content/dropzone/2014/01/anti-aircraft-artillery-fighters24_24.jpg>
/Anti-aircraft artillery fighters, Viet Nam 1970. Photo by Judy Gumbo
Albert/
The instant after I had conjured up a socialist realist image of heroic
peasants combating their victim hood by rebuilding a bridge each night,
a mountain loomed on my right. One-half of the mountain's top had been
sheared away, as if some industrial-sized backhoe had strip-mined giant
bites from it. I asked Oanh the meaning of the letters QUYET THANG I saw
carved in white chalk into the mountain's top. He replied.
"Determined to win. So American pilots will see this as they fly over."
I did not question why the North Vietnamese believed American pilots
could translate this slogan. Then I realized mine was an Americo-centric
point of view; the slogan was much more to inspire resistance among
peasants undergoing bombing than a deterrent to pilots. By the time the
bus stopped, I was feeling no small measure of guilt and remorse, as if
I was in some way responsible for the destruction I had witnessed. A
woman in a stained lightweight patterned shirt, visibly pregnant, led us
through a narrow passage into a low ceilinged cave hollowed into the
mountain's core. Bare bulbs attached to wires flickered orange; tons of
mountain earth above us tamed Vietnam's humidity. Seven or eight women
and men bent over lathes that resembled oversize sewing machines. Oanh
said that despite daily bombings this munitions factory had remained in
continuous production.
I shivered, not from fear or from my cooling skin but because the air
around me felt infused with such resolve I could not help but sop it up
like a sponge. I told myself if Oanh and his compatriots could make a
life amid such devastation, I could re-make myself. I would act more
like my heroes: Mme. Binh, Che Guevara, the Trung Sisters and Emma
Goldman. I'd become less self-centered! I'd learn empathy, compassion
and determination! I would sacrifice my happiness for the good of
others. The vows I made in that factory cave in 1970 in feel Utopian to
me now, but at age 27 they changed my understanding of myself and thus
my life.
Genie Plamondon, Nancy Kurshan & Judy Gumbo Albert protesting the Viet
Nam War outside the U.S. Consulate in Moscow, 1970. Photographer
unknown.
<http://www.counterpunch.org/wp-content/dropzone/2014/01/albertkurshanplamondon73.jpg>
/Genie Plamondon, Nancy Kurshan & Judy Gumbo Albert protesting the Viet
Nam War outside the U.S. Consulate in Moscow, 1970. Photographer unknown./
Forty years later, Thursday, January 24, 2013, was the second day of
Nancy's and my second trip to Hanoi. Instead of holes in the floor, our
2013 bus came equipped with upholstered dark blue seats, wide windows
and an up-to date microphone and speaker system. We were to tour the
Garco 10 factory on the outskirts of Hanoi. During the war, this factory
had produced uniforms for the North Vietnamese Army. Today it
manufactures shirts and suits for men, plus a line of clothing for women
and children for companies like Pierre Cardin, J.C. Penney, Perry Ellis,
Liz Claiborne, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY and Target.
Our delegation climbed three flights of stairs, past a green sign
promoting compact fluorescent bulbs, solar power and recycling. We
waited in a conference room whose major difference between it and any
American corporate office appeared to be its bust of Ho Chi Minh. Than
Duc Viet, Garco 10's Director recited her list of Garco 10
accomplishments: employees who own stock shares which their children can
inherit; pre-school for worker's children; on-site dental care; 11,000
workers with wages of $200 a month, well above that made by most
Vietnamese factory workers. To me this factory felt like a 21st century
embodiment of Pete Seeger's Taking Union: "shorter hours, better working
conditions, vacations with pay, take your kids to the seashore." Still,
I had to wonder: how many workers in modern Viet Nam have access to such
perks?
I'd studied up on the Vietnamese economy before my trip. I knew that the
Vietnamese government promulgates what they call a "socialist-oriented
market economy." The day after I visited Garco 10, I had an opportunity
to ask Deputy Director Sung of the Vietnamese government's Americas
Department, "What does the phrase socialist-oriented market economy
mean?" In a reply that was perhaps more candid than the usual diplomatic
"open and frank" discussion, I understood him to say he hopes that Viet
Nam will maintain socialist ideals in a way that allows it to function
in global capital markets and, at the same time, avoid the systemic
economic collapse of the former Soviet Union. Director Sung did not
allude directly to the enormous political pressures being brought to
bear on Viet Nam by market forces, except to explain that "political and
economic stability is a high priority so countries can put their trust
in us. If we fail," he concluded, "it will be our fault." I am a child
of Communist Party parents. I long ago renounced what I experienced as
Communist authoritarianism for Yippie anarchism, yet I came away
thinking that if Viet Nam's state-owned and private enterprises can
figure out how to extract surplus value (i.e. profit) from their workers
while at the same time achieving workers' control of the means of
production, more power to them.
* * *
All the photos I took in 1970's Viet Nam are black and white, yet the
vivid greens and earth tones of my memory are closer to my actual
experience. One photo I have from Thanh Hoa province shows eight women
lined up in formation, four abreast. They are a platoon of artillery
gunners. Each wears a pith helmet and those ubiquitous black silk pants.
They appear as short as I am and look in their mid-twenties. One is
barefoot; the others wore black sandals recycled from used rubber tires.
A second photo shows me in a tie-dye tank top, hair braided to ward off
the heat, seated in a Russian anti-aircraft gun mounted on what looks
like a two-wheeled tractor spattered with mud. Jane Fonda had her
picture taken in this same model gun when she visited North Vietnam two
years after I did. Jane's enemies used the photo to brand her a traitor;
the record of an act Jane says she now regrets. Her friends have told me
the fallout from that photo made the task of winning mainstream
Americans to the anti-war cause more difficult. I have never regretted
looking through those gun sights, but I do remember feeling like a
fraud. My life was one of privilege. How could I compare myself to women
for whom making it through one day meant shooting a gun mounted on a
tractor at sophisticated airplanes out of whose belly fell canisters
filled with shrapnel, white phosphorous or napalm jelly engineered to
stick to clothes and skin?
The barefoot soldier handed me a gray-green half ball made of metal as
if it was detritus of little value. It was round, hollow, two and a
quarter inches wide, ¾ inch deep with a jagged hole in one side as if a
single tear had burned like acid through its metal casing. It was the
exploded remnant of a U.S. pellet bomb or "pineapple." It had once
contained 250 steel pellets, now dispersed, except for a few still
caught like pomegranate seeds inside its metal skin. Between 1964-71
the US military had ordered at least 37 million such pellet bombs or
pineapples. Pineapples were housed inside "mother" bombs dropped by B-52
Stratofortress bombers. A single B52 could drop 1000 pineapples over a
400 square yard area.
War cannot help but leave its remnants behind; the Viet Nam I visited in
2103 remains polluted by bombs dropped between 1965 and 1973 in over
126,600 sorties made by B52 bombers. At the Mine Action Center in Quang
Tri province, once carpeted by 3,000 bombs per square kilometer, I
encountered display case after display case of exploded pellet bombs
like mine; whose unexploded cousins remain buried, only to rise up from
the soil, unbidden and undead, to kill or maim children who mistake the
bombs for playthings. Hand held hoes are available for clean-up, as are
metal detectors, supplemented by bright red signs warning: Danger! with
a graphic of a skull and crossed bones.
During the war, at the former U.S. airbase at Da Nang, American G.I's
offloaded barrels of the toxic herbicide Agent Orange; today the airbase
is the most contaminated area in the world. I met Walt, a bearded former
marine with orange hard hat and wire-rimmed glasses now a United States
Agency for International Development tech hired to help clean up the
airbase. He said 100,000 cubic meters of earth are being dug down ten
feet; then placed in concrete boxes, like a mountain of giant Legos. The
soil will be heated to 300 then to 700 degrees, changing the chemical
nature of Agent Orange and, Walt claimed, rendering it non-toxic, usable
for roads. Although despising protestors when he was in the Marines,
Walt acknowledged he would not want to grow anything in this soil. Or
breathe in its fumes.
I learned a simple formula: dioxin is a byproduct of Agent Orange.
Dioxin adheres to earth. Contaminated soil gets incorporated into
grasses on which cattle graze or into ponds and streams where ducks swim
that are later eaten. The consequences to human health are not so
simple: lung cancer, diabetes, lymphoma, leukemia, kidney disease and
mental disorders. I stood beside a creek and felt my mouth burn. Could
this be real, I asked myself, or just a hypochondriac over-reaction?
After leaving the Da Nang airbase we passed rice paddies that reminded
me of chessboards of green squares. In many, three-sided boxes that
looked like brightly painted dollhouses were mounted on poles;
traditional markers for graves of family members to keep them close to
their fields. At Quang Tri's Cemetery of Fallen Combatants, white
gravestones each with gold star emblazoned on a red circle brought to my
mind a poem from World War I I'd memorized in grade school: /We are the
Dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and
were loved but now we lie in Flander's fields./ I became a widow in
2006. I've been best friends with inconsolable grief. In 2013 and now
remarried, I wandered the cemetery remembering the 3,000,000 Vietnamese
and 58,000 U. S. soldiers who died. But even the graveyards of Quang Tri
could not prepare me a classroom at Friendship Village, one of many such
complexes throughout Viet Nam. Strung on a blue banner across the front
of a classroom into which we were ushered, these words appeared in
capital letters,
/WELCOME /
/AMERICAN FRIENDS/PEACE ACTIVISTS /
/TO DA NANG CENTER SUPPORTING FOR AGENT ORANGE VICTIMS AND UNFORTUNATED
CHILDREN. /
/Da Nang 31/01/2013/
This trip had been fast paced but now time slowed. I hate the word
victim but in this case it felt apt. The Center director, a man half my
size, legs bent and body contorted, informed our group that 1,400
intellectually disabled children lived in the Da Nang area. I sat among
them: girls and boys, faces and backs of heads flat, eyes slanted in
that recognizable way, some with feet deformed and four toes and one
little girl, her body perfect but she was at best three feet tall. This
girl appeared ageless, with an expression under her straight brown hair
and pixie face of such unbearable sadness it broke my heart. The other
children laughed and clapped, she did not join in or smile, as if she
understood she had been cheated of a normal life by toxic chemicals
leeched into and poisoning the soil of her community two generations
before she had been born. I believe, although I have no evidence of
this, that this girl realized whatever chance at normality she may have
possessed had she been born into another body had been cruelly taken
from her by military decisions made in the United States forty years
ago. I was unable to join the raucous Gangnab style dance the other
children and my compatriots enjoyed. The girl disappeared, as if unable
to tolerate the fun-loving intensity disabled children can muster. I am
responsible for the tragedy of this life, I told myself. Yet I felt
powerless to act.
Judy and Nancy at the Ho Chi Minh Mauseoleum, Hanoi, 2013. Photo by
Steve Whitman.
<http://www.counterpunch.org/wp-content/dropzone/2014/01/IMG_0021.jpg>
/Judy and Nancy at the Ho Chi Minh Mauseoleum, Hanoi, 2013. Photo by
Steve Whitman./
* * *
Like his male compatriots, Oanh had dressed for our farewell celebration
in June of 1970 in his usual gray pants and white shirt; our women
guides wore carefully preserved au dai's of faded reds and blues. I knew
the population suffered war-related food shortages yet the banquet in
our honor felt sumptuous; a traditional gesture of gratitude. Spring
rolls fried a delicate brown, bright red prawns, steaming bowls of Pho
served concurrently with fish braised in brown sauce plus a beige
vegetable cut in fantastical shapes that gave off what was to me an
alien scent. A dessert of ripe yellow pineapple came accompanied by
slices of fruit, its white flesh speckled with tiny black seeds as if an
ironic Mother Nature had created a pellet bomb of peace and friendship
just for us.
I also knew my job when I returned to the United States would be to
bring back what I'd learned about the humanitarian consequences of war.
But how to do that? I was especially bothered by how I would negotiate
the factionalism and identity politics that were creating necessary but
to my mind unfortunate splits within peace movement ranks. As if
anticipating my confusion, Oanh answered in his goodbye speech, telling
Nancy, Genie and I to keep the long term view in mind. He said,
"Be good to friends who are good to you; also be good to friends who are
bad to you, for only friends will go with you on the long road to
revolution."
To this day I try to follow Oanh's advice; the first is easy, it's the
second part remains a challenge. Oanh went on to recount a story told to
him by his father. "You must not wait until the score is achieved to
know who is the real hero," Oanh's father had said. Oanh had repeated
this sentence when he buried his father and, as he put it, "pledged to
look at life with the same eye." He concluded, "I would not wait until
revolution is achieved in America to know that you represent the
future." In 1970, I could not have asked for a more inspirational farewell.
On Friday, January 21, 2013, the 40th anniversary of the Paris Peace
Accords, Nancy and I emerged from our bus to the music of a military
band, then were guided past an honor guard, up a red carpet into a vast
auditorium. Across the aisle from me sat a group of older men in white
uniforms, all gray haired and balding, plus one woman in green military
garb. Medals, ribbons and red stars gleamed on every chest. An
impromptu peace ambassador from the former Woodstock Nation, I made my
way down their row and shook each hand. "Thank you, thank you," I said
in English. They beamed with delight.
Mme. Nguyen Thi Binh and a frail diplomat named Van Loi were escorted to
an oversized stage, where they stood behind by red velvet curtains on
which hung a giant gold star, hammer and sickle. A gold bust of Ho Chi
Minh, three times their size gazed down. As a 'red diaper baby,' I
understood the symbolism: If Ho's bust resembled a Hollywood Oscar, the
Heroic Award of Armed Forces Mme. Binh and Van Loi received would be
equivalent to a Lifetime Achievement Award. At 86, Mme Binh is now the
only living Vietnamese signer of the Paris Peace Accords. She had been
foreign minister of the Provisional Revolutionary Government of South
Viet Nam, headed the PRG delegation at the Paris Peace Accords, had been
a leader of the Viet Nam Women's Union and my personal hero.
Judy and Mme Binh, 2013. Photo by Nancy Kurshan.
<http://www.counterpunch.org/wp-content/dropzone/2014/01/Peace-Accords.-001.-001-008.jpg>
/Judy and Mme Binh, 2013. Photo by Nancy Kurshan./
To the accompaniment of a classical orchestra, images began to flash on
a giant screen: young Ho with wispy beard; destroyed buildings and
pagodas surrounded by metal remnants of B52 bombers; peasants in rubber
tire sandals guiding war materiel down the Ho Chi Minh trail; Mme Binh
signing the Accords; devastation caused by Nixon's subsequent carpet
bombing of Cambodia and Laos, and, to conclude, victorious tanks from
the North entering Saigon. As the film unfolded, dancers filled the
stage like red, blue and yellow butterflies. The music slowed. A line of
young women and men appeared; they were not Vietnamese, they were
dressed as hippies, one of whom played an air guitar as if he was Bob
Dylan. The group began to sing, in English, the international anti-war
standard, 'Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh. Such public recognition of our movement's
efforts made me understand my job in 2013: to convey as best I could the
thanks and gratitude of the Vietnamese government to everyone who
protested the American war in Viet Nam.
After the ceremony, I attended a banquet. As did Mme Binh. Her walk was
steady; her eyes shone behind her glasses. I had carried with me from
the United States a black and white photograph of a women's anti-war
demonstration at the 1972 Republican Convention in Miami. /Women In
Revolt, Sisters Unite!/ I'm in the front line of demonstrators, pounding
out a militant beat on a wooden drum I'd slung over my shoulder. To my
left is a woman later identified as a police agent. To my right is Patty
Oldenberg (then wife of the artist Claus Oldenberg.) Patty wears what I
once called the Mme. Binh Livlikker t-shirt. Above a graphic of Mme.
Binh's head, the word 'LiveLikeHer' appears: an outcome of a volunteer
designer squishing the words 'Live Like Her' into a single silkscreened
slogan. It may be a cliche but as I approached Mme. Binh's table, I
changed into that young woman in 1970 in the presence of my hero. I
handed Mme. Binh the photograph, and told her that my female anti-war
compatriots and I had done our best to live like her. I said, "Thank you
for all you have done."
"And we will continue to do it," she replied, then squeezed my hand.
A socialist-oriented market economy with Starbucks and a Ho Chi Minh
City stock exchange may not be the type of independence I'd envisaged
for Viet Nam when I first demonstrated against the war. Still, if I
follow the example set by Mme. Binh, I will hang onto my ideals of the
Vietnamese as revolutionary heroes, yet stay open to whatever future
they determine for themselves.
/*Judy Gumbo Albert* who was recently identified in the San Francisco
Chronicle as "one of Berkeley's well-known traditional rabble-rousers,"
published her award-winning piece "Bugged" about being surveilled by the
FBI in The Times They Were A-Changing: Women Remember the 60's and
70's, She Writes Press (2013). Judy was an original member of the
Yippies, co-authored The Sixties Papers: Documents of a Rebellious
Decade (1984) with her late husband Stew Albert, contributed to Sean
Stewart's On the Ground, P.M. Press (2011), has written for Counterpunch
Magazine and Rag Blog and is currently completing Yippie Girl, a memoir
in progress about love and conflict among the romantic revolutionaries
of the late 1960s. /
*Sources:*
Susan Sontag: Trip to Hanoi, Fararr, Strous and Giroux, New York 1968
Nick Turse: Kill Anything That Moves: The Real American War in Viet Nam,
Henry Hold and Company, New York 2013
Susan Hammond, War Legacies Project www.warlegacies.org
<http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/01/13/back-to-vietnam/%22http://www.warlegacies.org>
--
Freedom Archives 522 Valencia Street San Francisco, CA 94110 415
863.9977 www.freedomarchives.org
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