Healing the wounds of war in Vietnam

The war is over, but its scars — physical and emotional — remain, lingering silently as a part of memory

Apr 30, 2025

By Alex Hoang
In the final days of April, as Ho Chi Minh City bustles with preparations for the grand celebration, we happened to come across a man selling children's toys in the middle of a busy downtown street.

He dragged his amputated legs toward us and extended his right hand, with only half the fingers remaining, to greet us. That hand, though incomplete, gripped ours warmly. A crooked smile lit up his face, which had only one working eye, as if to express what words could not.

His name was Le Thai Thuan, 72, a veteran of the former Republic of Vietnam.

Born in Hue to a French father and Vietnamese mother, he joined the South Vietnamese army in 1972. The urgency of the time meant he only completed a short officer training course before being deployed.

In late 1974, he was seriously injured in a fierce battle and taken to a hospital for treatment. When the Saigon government collapsed on April 30, 1975, he was still lying in bed, hovering between life and death.

Looking back, he expresses no bitterness or regret. On the contrary, he feels relieved that the war ended: “I’m grateful for April 30, 1975. If the war had lasted just a few more weeks, I might not have survived.”

For severely wounded veterans like him, every day was a struggle between pain and despair.

Today, Thuan’s life remains difficult, but he embraces it with optimism. Occasionally, charity groups visit with gifts on special occasions, and he receives support from local authorities for people with disabilities.

Leisurely mornings with sidewalk coffee and spirited chess matches with elderly neighbors bring him simple joy and a love for life.

He quietly observes the city of Thu Duc, once a deserted land, now transformed into a bustling metropolis:

“The war has long ended. I only wish our country would develop more, so that future generations won’t have to experience the bombs and bullets we did,” Thuan says.

Like him, Nguyen Q.P. (whose family requested anonymity) is also a living witness of war. During the 1975 Hue–Da Nang campaign, he was severely injured by shellfire, losing both legs and suffering serious hearing loss. A fragment of shrapnel remains lodged in his body.

His wife, also a victim of war, lost both legs on the historical day, April 30, 1975, after being hit by an artillery shell. The two became life partners, supporting each other through hardship.

They met after the war, married in 1980, and built a life together in a small home in Hoc Mon.

Nguyen Q.P. recounted that his older brother served in the North Vietnamese army, while he joined the South under a general mobilization order. After the war, it was his brother who took him from the hospital in Can Tho back to Saigon and cared for him — regardless of the ideological differences they once had.

Today, the couple receives disability allowances and health insurance, along with the care of their family and community. Though not wealthy, they see every peaceful day as a precious gift.

Quiet acts of reconciliation
Stories of personal resilience like these do not end there. As war memories slowly fade, many emotional reunions have sparked hope for a reconciled future. One of the most memorable moments took place in the spring of 1973, after the Paris Peace Accords were signed.

In Long Quang, Trieu Trach commune, Trieu Phong district, Quang Tri province — a land ravaged by war — photographer Chu Chi Thanh captured a moving image: a Liberation Army soldier and a Republic of Vietnam soldier with arms around each other like old friends.

The simple yet meaningful photo later became a symbol of the yearning for peace. Years later, the two soldiers were identified as Liberation Army (North Vietnam) soldier Nguyen Huy Tao and Southern veteran Bui Trong Nghia.

In 2018, on the 45th anniversary of the Paris Peace Accords, the two soldiers met again. There were no victors or vanquished. Under the sky of peace, they shared their memories with mutual respect and understanding. That reunion, though modest, testified to the power of forgiveness and compassion.

Another deeply moving story of reconciliation took place at the Phu Quoc prison camp — a site once infamous for its harsh conditions during wartime.

Phu Quoc was known for its brutal interrogation methods, including the wrenching of prisoners' teeth — a violent practice recalled in detail by former detainees during postwar reunions. One of the men who endured such torture was Nguyen Van Tang, a former Liberation Army soldier captured and detained at the camp in the later years of the war.

Among those who administered or oversaw such methods at the time was Bay Nhu, a former prison guard. Decades later, during a gathering between former inmates and former prison staff, the two men — once on opposite ends of power and pain — came face to face.

Tang recounted how he had once been hung upside down from a wooden beam, his hands tightly bound, while his teeth were forcibly twisted with metal pliers. It was, he said, one of the most terrifying and excruciating moments of his life.

And yet, what moved those present at the reunion was not bitterness, but grace.

Instead of words of condemnation, Tang extended a quiet handshake to Bay Nhu — a gesture of extraordinary restraint, and of reconciliation that transcended personal suffering.

Now in his seventies, Bay Nhu, visibly shaken, expressed his remorse for what had happened and asked for forgiveness. Tang said little in response. But his handshake — firm, respectful — spoke volumes.

That silent moment of understanding served as a powerful reminder: Even in the aftermath of immense pain, human beings retain the capacity for compassion.

And even where war left scars, it could not destroy the human will to forgive.

Such quiet encounters, though unassuming, carry a healing power that transcends time and the past. They remind us that — regardless of sides or uniforms — we are all Vietnamese, bound by shared blood.

Half a century has passed. Those who stepped out of the war are now in the twilight of life. The war is over, but its scars — physical and emotional — remain, lingering silently as a part of memory.

Yet, what endures after 50 years is not hatred or pride, but handshakes, empathetic glances, and embraces of reconciliation.

As General Secretary To Lam recently said: “National reconciliation does not mean forgetting history or erasing differences, but accepting diverse perspectives in a spirit of tolerance and respect, to move toward a greater goal: building a peaceful, unified, strong, civilized, and prosperous Vietnam — so that future generations will never again have to witness war, separation, hatred, or loss as our forebears once did.”

Amid streets lined with flags and flowers this April, old soldiers walk quietly, carrying a simple yet profound message: It is time to heal, forgive, and together preserve peace for generations to come.--ucanews.com