My uncle told me this Christmas that he suspects one of the
causes of his Parkinson’s Disease is his exposure to Agent Orange during his
service in Vietnam. He told me this as
his shaking hands turned the pages of a small photo book that my friend Sam
made from our recent two-week vacation to Vietnam, our bright faces gazing
happily from over a pot of phở,
with glasses of wine from the deck of a cruise ship, and over buckets of
live seafood while pointing to our next meal.
Ha Long Bay was so beautiful, I told my uncle, and he said, but what
about Cam Ranh Bay? He spelled it out for
me. He wanted to see pictures of this
former United States military base where he had spent days working on planes during
the roughly 20 year-long Vietnam War.
When Sam suggested that we visit Vietnam a few months ago, I
thought, great. I had a friend who had
taught English in Saigon and loved it, and I knew that the Vietnamese salsa
community was growing. It would be my
first return to Asia since studying comparative religion and culture in Taiwan,
India, and Turkey in college, and our friend Drew had already been and was
eager to show us the ropes. Jay was
along for the ride, so we were sure to have a fabulous time while being
documented by our personal photographer and Instagram enthusiast.
And of course, there was the curiosity of this country that
had victoriously withstood one of the longest and most controversial wars in
U.S. history.
When our guide told us that our next stop on the city tour
was the War Remnants Museum, we were all eager to absorb some history. Our guide warned us, this museum used to be
called the Museum of U.S. Evils (Wikipedia translates this to the Exhibition
House for U.S. and Puppet Crimes, and both names are accurate.) Our guide warned us, there’s a book at the
end of the museum for people to write down their emotions after experiencing
the museum. You shouldn’t look at that
book because it will upset you as Americans.
The first room began on the third floor with massacres of
women and children, photos blown up and on display of people who were killed or
who were about to be killed. Each room
of the museum brought new horrors of war, and sorrow weighed visibly on the
bodies of museum visitors. The room that
cut most deeply into my spirit was titled, “Agent Orange Aftermath in the U.S. Aggressive
War in Vietnam.” Seeing the faces of innocent men, women, and children who were
disfigured and disabled as a result of the U.S. spraying this herbicide over
Vietnamese agricultural land was heart-wrenching. Compelled to share, I returned to the room a
second time to take photos.
The museum ended on the ground floor with an exhibition of
peace and anti-war propaganda from around the world. In the corner next to the exit was a little
shop of souvenirs hand-crafted and sold by people who are disfigured as a
result of Agent Orange. I spent a dollar
on a little Vietnamese girl key chain, who now hangs on the Christmas tree.
After the museum, we returned to our vacation—exploring beautiful
nature and ancient temples, eating delicious and exotic meals, and enjoying the
friendly and welcoming people.
Times have really changed, my uncle commented after I showed
him the little Vietnamese girl handicraft on the Christmas tree and told him
how much we enjoyed traveling in Vietnam.
Until that moment, I didn’t realize that Agent Orange could be what
stole my uncle’s health and mobility.
Here are some others who were affected:
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