The drive back to Saigon didn’t take too long. The roads had been widened in the south to accommodate American military traffic. Still it was a hive of activity the nearer we got to downtown. Minh directed our driver to go to a certain market for the patches. It was nearing 4:00 pm and Mihn was asking if there was anything else we'd like to see in the city. As we were talking with Minh about the war, Chrissy asked, “Can we see the War Remnants Museum?”
It wasn’t on our schedule, but both Chrissy and I had wanted to see it. Mihn said, "You want to see the museum?" somewhat like he wasn't happy about it, and Chrissy said “Yes". Even though I didn’t know if we would make it to the patch shop in time, I was glad to go to the museum.
When we arrived, Minh bought the tickets and told us that this was a museum he couldn’t look at. "It's not good for me", he said. I am sure that he lived most of it during the war and then was forced to relive all of the horrors again for four years after the war while he was being "re-educated". He handed us the tickets and took a seat under a big tree near some other people who were waiting.
The museum houses relics from the American and French wars in Viet Nam.
When the last Americans pulled out in 1975 much of the military hardware was left behind. The items left, were put on display. The museum is really a propaganda piece that the Communists have put together. It highlights the atrocities of the war. With 1.5 to 2 million people killed in the war, many of them civilians, I don’t suppose that you could view the war as anything but atrocious. The museum also presented information, pictures, examples (some in formaldehyde) and even personal stories, of the long-term effects of Agent Orange on the people who lived through it and those born after. Definitely not easy to look at. The last part of the museum housed a prison where Vietnamese political prisoners were held during the French war. The very end of the tour brought us face to face with a Guillotine last used in 1960. It was a difficult museum to go through, but it is important to see what others think of American actions. The Vietnamese perspective is hard to digest, but the basic facts are accurate. In past and present wars, the American press, US government and many history books downplay those who are killed who aren’t American. Even American deaths are sanitized and the personal stories are lost. It is a numbers game not a story about people. In the US we hear that “two soldiers died” or that “civilians were caught in a battle between opposing forces.” We don’t often hear the stories behind the numbers. It is easier to hear the number and not hear the name or see the face.
We left the museum about 5:00. I didn’t have any hope that we would make it to the patch shop, but Minh said he would try. The patch shop was a little south of our hotel in a shopping area inside an old warehouse that we could never have found on our own. When we walked in, I wasn’t certain where we were going. Saigon is a very dirty city and this area was dirtier than most others. The shops at the opening of the warehouse were already tarped over. There was water on the floor and people appeared to be straightening up their stalls. We rounded a corner and saw some other people at their shop, putting things away. Bare light bulbs hung here and there. Minh greeted the man and woman as we walked up. Everyone we walked by seemed to know him.
Their shop was a pile of military clothing and artifacts from the US Soldiers, Vietcong and Vietminh regulars. They had flags, lighters, uniforms, and helmets and just about anything you wanted to see. Minh told the man what we were looking for and he disappeared down one of the narrow walks. The lady laid a Viet Cong flag in front of me from 1967; I took it and set it aside. She also laid out a replica of a Viet Cong uniform. I didn’t buy it. There was a chain of American dog tags on the table, I picked them up and looked at them. Some were in better shape than others. I read the names on several. They had the soldier’s home state on them as well. I didn’t look at them closely, I was thinking about the people behind the names. How they had come to loose their tags? I assume that most of them probably died with these tags. Others may have tossed them aside. Each tag had a story. I wanted to buy one, but it was almost sacrilegious. I knew if I bought one I would follow its story until I knew as much about the story of the tag. I couldn’t buy one.
The man returned with a couple of notebooks. They were full of patches. I hadn’t thought about the patches. I had been to engrossed with the dog tags, the relics, and the museum. I was looking for a simple Viet Nam patch, something like a flag, something you would find in a tourist shop.
I wasn’t looking for a military patch, I saw a couple at the museum and didn’t buy them there, but notebooks lined the patches up in front of me. I thumbed through the pages trying to find something that would work. I found one that said “Tunnel Rat” on it, that one I bought for Jess. Another said “Air Cavalry,” I picked that one for my Japanese friend; and I bought one for me that simply said “Viet-Nam.” Some of the patches are probably replicas, others looked like they may have seen action and were discarded with some uniform. The patches also have stories, but their stories aren’t as personal. Their stories are more generic, more palatable, for me and those who I will give them to. That is what we Americans want, just a good story, but nothing to make us think too deeply or feel too uncomfortable with what our actions have done, then or now.
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