The technological irrelevancy of CORDS/USAID personnel, their inept managerial efforts and the inappropriateness of their programs are bad enough, but the most glaring weakness is their refusal to go where they are most needed—among the people.
—William R. Corson,
The Betrayal
A movement caught my eye as I drove along the sandy path toward the ferry that would take me and my interpreter to the mainland. I analyzed the situation and decided that this man slowly climbing out of a rice field did not appear to be a threat. My guard dropped, although just a bit.
Elderly Vietnamese farmer.
I don’t know why, but something compelled me to stop. There was nothing unique about this man, who seemed no different from thousands of other rice farmers I had passed since my arrival in Vietnam. Maybe it was the sunset that made me stop. Spread out before me was one of those picturesque twilights you see in travel brochures, splashed in a golden hue.
Still, I was well aware of the danger the setting sun heralded. It was the time of day when the control of the land shifted. During the day, I was somewhat safe. At night, anyone wearing a U.S. Army uniform would be hunted.
Maybe I stopped because I felt both emotionally and physically drained. I needed to connect with something or someone outside of my world.
In the past, I had always found a great deal of solace and good honest information in talking with the Vietnamese. It was such a pity that our government had forgotten that these people were the reason we were fighting in this country. Instead, they had become incidental in our grand scheme to fight communism on “smaller” Third World battlefields. The Vietnamese got in the way of what had become “our” war.
I told my interpreter, Truong, that I was stopping. Actually, it was more a question than a command. My reason for stopping was implied and it was through Truong that I would talk to the old man on the side of the road. Truong, always patient, always friendly, smiled at me as if he had known I would want to stop. He was just a few years younger than me. He was tall for a Vietnamese, about 5 feet 9 inches,” smart and good-looking, and he had been able to avoid military service because of his gift for languages.
Truong had been a medical student, which led him to learn French, German and English. I had a trust in him that only two people working closely together could develop. I knew that he translated for me as accurately as possible, which was rare. Often, interpreters had a tendency to edit the flow of conversation for political or cultural purposes. Truong would not do this, though he often gave me very good advice on how to say things and a strategy in dealing with people.
As we approached the man, he turned to face us. He was old, probably in his late sixties, but still very muscular. His face was dry, etched with wrinkles that seemed to reflect the history of the harsh land. His eyes were dark and piercing. He had a warm, compassionate smile that seemed to reflect the glow of the setting sun. As was customary for men his age he wore a long, stringy goatee. Facial hair is a sign of age and wisdom among the Vietnamese. (One reason I wore a moustache was to cover up my youth).
On the farmer’s head was a rice hat for protection from the glare of the sun. The hat was of the type Americans generally associate with women, but almost everyone in Vietnam wore them when working in the rice fields.
He cocked his head a bit to get a better look at us, just as we were analyzing him. I said hello to him in Vietnamese, then bowed slightly, taking his hand in both of mine. This was the customary way of greeting in Vietnam. The Vietnamese are warm, affectionate people who demonstrate that warmth through touch. I could remember a village chief in Quang Nam Province who gently held my hand for an entire hour-long conversation.
In a way, I was testing this old farmer. My prolonged handshake was a sign of respect and friendliness. Was he friend or foe? He did not retract his hand, nor did he change his expression. Since the Vietnamese always seemed to be smiling and sometimes used this visage as a defense mechanism, you had to become an expert in interpreting the language of the smile: happy smiles, angry smiles, hostile smiles, cunning smiles. It was all part of understanding and respecting a culture.
This man’s smile remained warm and radiant and something inside of me told me I could trust him. I relaxed a bit more.
Our conversation was light at first. We talked of the weather and of the problems and hardships of being a rice farmer in South Vietnam. The old man seemed impressed when I told him that my stepfather had worked most of his life on a farm, finally quitting when it became too difficult for him physically and he realized he could make more money working in a factory.
This statement stirred several questions from the old gentleman. Don’t all farmers in America own large farms and have big houses? Is it true they all now ride in air-conditioned tractors? Does the government tax the farmers on the crops they grow? Do the local police and government officials make the farmers pay money to them in order to drive their products to market? Can the government come into a village and take the farmers’ produce to feed the army and not pay any money? Were farmers treated with respect in America? Were they proud to be farmers?
I answered each question as carefully as I could with my limited knowledge of American farming. While I talked, I held the old man’s eyes in mine while Truong interpreted our words. I told him that America was a blessed country, that God had given us plenty of water and good land. American farmers were more prosperous than Vietnamese farmers on average but not everyone had their own land or house. And though a few farmers rode around in air-conditioned tractors, most did not.
His face took on a look of disbelief as I told him that there were places in America, like Appalachia, where the poverty rivaled that of Vietnam. I explained that farmers had to pay taxes, as did all citizens, but there was no system of local bribes as in his country. No, I said, the U.S. government does not take produce from the farmers without paying. In fact, the government actually pays some farmers not to grow crops on certain lands.
At this statement, the old man laughed out loud. He could not possibly imagine that someone would pay him not to work in his field. He asked where he could apply for this program, and at that all three of us broke into laughter. I told my new friend that farming in America was a tradition that had its roots in our early beginnings as a nation, that there were many in America, including my stepfather, who were proud to be men of the soil. I said that in some sense Americans held farmers in high esteem but, sadly, that view was eroding as we modernized. More and more, as in Vietnam, it was hard to encourage sons to follow in their father’s footsteps.
We stood there on the side of the rice paddy engrossed in conversation, observing the change in the spectrum of light as the sun sank deeper in the west. I noticed that Truong was becoming nervous. The longer we stayed on the road at this time of day, the greater our chances of being ambushed. But I felt relaxed, watching the world go by with this old man. I wished that I could walk back to his village, drink tea and sit and talk to him all night in front of an open fire.
Of course there was no time for this, but there was something else I wanted to ask. It had popped into my mind during a delay in Truong’s interpretation. It was the million-dollar question of the war and potentially a dangerous question for the farmer, because his answer could be considered treasonous. Political questions were avoided at all costs. But there was something about the mood of the evening and the tone of our conversation that told me to proceed.
It was a simple question, really, and I presented it as such. Still looking at him, I asked, “Who do you want to win the war?”
Truong gave me a worried glance but translated my question. The old man paused and absorbed it.
“God,” I thought to myself, “The Asians really know the power of the pause.” His answer was as simply put as my question. He said, “I don’t care. We farmers have always had mandarins over us.”
He paused but I suspected there was more.
“Let me ask you, my young friend,” he went on, “Why it is your government has allowed those men in Saigon to have more power over us than any mandarins in our history?”
Even as I formulated the answer in my mind, it seemed more like the typical weak official jargon heard on the news. I talked about the Vietnamese tradition of village democracy and of the need to stem the communists. My friend’s smile changed. It became patient and compassionate, like the smile a father might give to a son learning to ride a bike, or a professor to a student struggling over a difficult question.
“Your government constantly talks about the idea of ‘the big picture’ as if communism was some type of mythical dragon that had to be slain with a magic sword,” he said. “With such a broad philosophy, your government has totally ignored the individual. Our real needs and thoughts are not considered. Defeat for America is not marching on the shoulders of the communists. This revolution is not an explosion. It is an implosion.
“Your officials believe that the only way to defeat communism is with violence and terror. They use the magical sword. But communism is not some mystical beast. Communism is a weed that grows and flourishes on violence and terror. Swords just get tangled in weeds. That is why the more you do, the stronger they get.”
“And, of course, the communists use the sword. They too believe in violence and terror. But they are better at it than you. They are not hypocritical. They are decisive and extremely selective in the use of that power. Americans, because you are novices, tend to use violence randomly and haphazardly. You hurt the wrong people, and every time you do more citizens turn against you.
“Yes,” he continued, “We do have a tradition of village democracy, but ironically these traditions have been smashed by Saigon and your government. The tyranny has gone beyond anything that we can remember, and our history goes back thousands of years, not hundreds. The people no longer have any real options. They are being forced to accept the lesser of two evils—and believe me, they understand what this might mean for them. But soon no one will accept that government in Saigon.”
I began to interject but the old man uncharacteristically held up his hand and continued. “I know what you are thinking before you say anything, my young friend. You’re wondering how an old man such as me knows such facts. You wonder if I might be a communist political cadre. Your government has always underestimated the knowledge of local people24. To them we are just poor, uneducated rice farmers. But for us knowledge is survival. We read and listen to any news available in order to survive.”
“To answer you before you ask, I am no communist nor will I ever be one. I have lost sons, brothers, relatives, friends and neighbors in this war. They have died wearing the uniforms from Saigon and Hanoi. The killing has been too much for many of us in Vietnam. My original answer still holds. I no longer care who wins the war. I just care that it ends.”
I felt a strong sense of compassion for this man. He had taken a great risk in speaking so frankly. If I were a Phoenix operative25 I could have had him put in jail—or worse. I knew that a warm spirit dwelled in him and I felt close to it. We looked intently at each other knowing that there was no more to be said. Once again, I shook his hand and bowed to him. As I bowed I thanked him for his wisdom and honesty. Accepting my words, he stood patiently watching us as we drove away.
Both of us said little on the trip home. Truong was worrying about the possibility of a burst from an AK-47 assault rifle crashing through the window into our foreheads. I was thinking about the old man and how thankful I was for his kindness, frankness and warmth. How I had come to love and respect the Vietnamese people during my time in this country.
I had learned to combat cynicism and defeat by concentrating on saving lives, one at a time. This course of action drove me farther away from the American mission and closer to the Vietnamese people. As I dropped my inhibitions and learned more about their culture, I found that the Vietnamese openly embraced me. In my entire life, I had never felt so welcome, so needed and so useful.
Driving my truck back to our compound I knew that my next experience after the war and the army would be my college education. I was excited about that. I knew what I wanted to be and was mapping out in my mind how to get there. I also realized that one of my life’s greatest educational experiences would be my two tours in the villages and rice fields of Vietnam. People like this old farmer, Dr. Minh, Dennis Barker, my hooch maid, the villagers I encountered and the men in my platoon were my real-life professors. I learned a great deal from them.
This train of thought was derailed by a sudden burst of gunfire. My insides twisted for a moment, but I quickly realized that it was coming from the barrel of an American-made .50 caliber machine gun somewhere off the road. From the slapping noise after each shot, I figured that a friendly ARVN was test-firing his weapon into water, most likely a river, canal or pond. No cause for alarm, I told Truong. But my hopeful mood had been shattered.
Many who served in Vietnam didn’t care much for the Vietnamese. How could they? The soldiers were isolated from the “real” Vietnamese except when on patrol, and during patrols the Vietnamese were looked on with suspicion. “People are strange.”
When off duty, the soldiers’ only associations with the people were with the “camp followers” and riffraff that hung around the fire bases: hustlers, pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers and salesmen. Unfortunately, these people were the face of Vietnam to most troops. There were camp followers around every military base in the world and there was not much to like about them. GIs had a poor opinion of Vietnamese because they did not understand or really know them.
To me, the Vietnamese I associated with were a different breed. I worked in their offices, visited their villages, went to their homes, ate meals and drank tea with them. To me, they were the ultimate survivors. Generation after generation had known almost continuous warfare, yet they remained loyal to their families. They showed respect for their elders and ancestors, an all-consuming love for their children, and a compassion for strangers such as myself.
Their friendship changed me. That was possibly the greatest gift I received in Vietnam, although it was a double-edged sword. Getting to know the Vietnamese also made it possible for me to see the war and the events surrounding it through their eyes. The picture wasn’t pretty.
More and more, I had a difficult time dealing with most Americans inside Vietnam. I felt isolated from my own countrymen and their inability to care for the people whom I had grown to love. Riding in that truck with Truong I now understood that for the rest of my life I would have the gift and the curse of seeing my country through foreign eyes.
An arc of red tracer bullets fired from a machine gun in an ARVN base camp drifted toward the stars as if to underscore my thoughts. I was nearing my compound.
I was proud of the person I had become. I thought of home, family and friends. Would they understand me when I returned? I had stopped writing home my last year in Vietnam. It was easier to distance myself. My mother actually sent me a letter she had written to herself for me to sign and send back to her.
As I joked to my platoon mates, what would I say to her or any of them? “Having a great time, wish you were here?” Or “Just love the bunkers and barbed wire.” Had my transformation changed me so much that I could never really go home again or communicate with my mother and friends?
How strange it was for me to be an American in that time and that place. There would always be a chasm between us, the American soldiers of the Vietnam era, and our counterparts from World War II and Korea. The World War II soldier fought to protect our democracy, stop the advance of fascism in Europe and Asia. The modern American soldier, especially the Vietnam vet, unknowingly fought to support a regime that censured democracy. We were more than soldiers. We were witnesses. We had seen the open and festering wound that had become our foreign policy during the Cold War. We participated in its failure.
I wondered what could be done to change the direction we were heading in as a nation. I was still an American and I loved my country. Strangely, after all I had experienced, I not only wanted to help the Vietnamese but I wanted to serve my country as well.
A chilling thought came over me as we approached the outskirts of the MAC/V compound in Hue. I saw my own reflection on the wet windscreen, and it seemed I was looking at the face of all the ghosts I would take back home with me to America. No matter what I did or where I went they would be with me. A part of me would always belong to Vietnam. I knew in my heart that the communists were going to win. I desperately hoped I could leave before that happened.
I had dropped Truong off at his home, and as I pulled into my compound a weird thought popped in my brain. I wondered what side I would be fighting on if I had been born Vietnamese. In Auburn, New York, I grew up in a world of good guys and bad guys defined in part by my education, books I had read, the movies and TV I watched. Our history texts were filled with good Americans winning over evil oppressors.
Here in Vietnam, reality reversed itself. Both sides were brutal to the innocent. No one wore a white hat or a black hat. The war was all shades of grey. I thought about the old man and the others I had met, and as I parked my truck and cleared my weapon, I silently thanked my “professors” for the education they had given me. What I did not know as I walked toward the MP guard post at the entrance to the compound was that I was on the eve of my greatest education in Vietnam. It would happen in a quiet fishing village called An Duong.
24 Author’s note: In my 40 years of work in international public health, I’ve learned this constant about our foreign policy—its inability to work, engage, understand and appreciate the knowledge of people at local village and district levels, even though most of our development work and funding seems to target these people.
25 The Phoenix Program was a program designed, coordinated, and executed by the United States Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), United States special operations forces, and U.S. Army intelligence collection units from MACV. The program was designed to identify and “neutralize” (via infiltration, capture, counter-terrorism, interrogation, and assassination) the infrastructure of the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam (NLF or Viet Cong).