Warrior Pose

by Brad Willis

  The fetuses were stillborn as a result of prenatal exposure to dioxin, an extremely toxic herbicide banned in much of the world, and a key component of Agent Orange. The United States sprayed 20 million gallons of it on the Vietnamese countryside during the Vietnam War.

  “This is what Agent Orange has done to our people and continues to do to them,” Dr. Nguyen, whose name rhymes with Win, tells us as we walk down an aisle in his laboratory with cameras rolling. As a government scientist for Vietnam, Dr. Nguyen’s life is devoted to documenting the ongoing effects of dioxin on the Vietnamese population.

  The Pentagon dubbed the program Operation Ranch Hand. It was designed to defoliate rural villages and forests, denying the communist guerillas of North Vietnam food and cover as they surged south. The spraying of Agent Orange also helped create “forced draft urbanization,” a tactic the Pentagon deliberately concealed from the media. Destroying the countryside’s rice and vegetable crops eliminated the ability of South Vietnamese peasants to support themselves, forcing them to flee to U.S.-dominated cities such as Saigon. Destitute, their only choice was to join the South Vietnamese Army and fight against their own countrymen from the North.

  Operation Ranch Hand destroyed 5 million acres of forest and millions of acres of crops, and seriously polluted most of the waterways in the regions where it was sprayed. Widespread famine occurred, leaving hundreds of thousands of people malnourished or starving. According to the Vietnamese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, close to 5 million Vietnamese were exposed to Agent Orange attacks. Almost a half-million were killed or maimed. An even greater number of children were born with birth defects, and they’re still counting. American soldiers were also hard-hit by the defoliants. Thousands of veterans reportedly contracted debilitating skin rashes, suffered neurological damage that triggered psychological problems, and developed cancer. Many also had children born with birth defects after the war.

  Dr. Nguyen explains it matter-of-factly: “This is the legacy of the American chemical companies and the U.S. military, but they refuse to take responsibility even now. They must be held accountable.” Dr. Nguyen wants the military and the corporations to admit their wrongdoing and offer compensation. He is adamant that justice must be done, but any anger he once may have held has vanished with the passage of so much time.

  The primary producers of Agent Orange were Monsanto and Dow Chemical. Both continue to deny their chemicals were to blame, but in one of the most heavily sprayed areas in Quang Ngai province, we are shown more of Vietnam’s evidence of the devastation wrought by the herbicide. Portions of the tropical forest surrounding Quang Ngai are lush again, framing peaceful vistas over rice fields and waterways. But in the villages, human deformities abound. In small, thatched huts we interview older men and women, sprayed during the war, with huge tumors deforming their faces into hideous masks. We film small children with unusable limbs, giant heads filled with fluid, tumors covering their bodies.

  I remember opposing the war in my teens, shocked at the pictures of Agent Orange being sprayed from Army helicopters over villages such as this. I remember being sprayed with mace by the National Guard and smacked on the head with a billy club during protest marches. To me, loving one’s country never means turning a blind eye to such horrors. It means seeking the truth and speaking out in the face of obvious injustice. Freedom of speech is one of the most powerful forces in democracy, and it has always been worth risking everything for. As we film these deformed children, I wonder: What were we doing? Where were the moral principles that gave our country its greatness? How could anyone not speak out?

  From Quang Ngai we travel north to Hanoi, joining a delegation from the Select POW/MIA Committee, led by Senators John Kerry, Bob Smith, and John McCain, all of whom served in the armed forces during the Vietnam War. The senators are here on a historic mission. It’s the first time an American political delegation has been allowed in the capital city, which served as the headquarters of the North Vietnamese Army during the war.

  Unlike bustling, modern Saigon in the south, which was renamed Ho Chi Minh City after the war in honor of North Vietnam’s greatest hero, Hanoi offers a journey back in time to the era when Vietnam was a French colony. Many of its streets are lined with spacious three-story French colonial homes with finely carved facades, dormers, and sidegabled roofs that once housed the French elite. They’re now occupied by government agencies or foreign embassies. Most Vietnamese here live in far humbler quarters and only a fortunate few can afford the luxury of a car. The primary means of transportation is bicycles, which creates a peace and quiet rarely found in a major Asian city.

  The centerpiece of downtown Hanoi is Turtle Tower, an ancient, three-story stone temple sitting in Hoan Kiem Lake. The waters around the tower are covered with lily pads that blossom white each spring, sending their fragrance on gentle winds into the city. The Old Quarter, nestled on one edge of the lake, is a dense maze. Shops of furniture makers, silk traders, vegetable markets, artisans, and craftsmen are knitted together along narrow, twisting streets.

  The American domino theory proved wrong. Vietnam never became a puppet of China or a rigid communist dictatorship. Instead, it has emerged as a major economic power in Southeast Asia, and American businesses are hungry for the same access their European and Asian competitors enjoy here. First, however, the U.S. delegation must close the book on the controversy over U.S. prisoners of war and those still deemed missing in action. The POW/MIA debate remains an emotional issue in the States and is the major roadblock to normalizing relations.

  Following two decades of refusal, the Vietnamese have agreed to open their archives from the war, allowing senate aids and U.S. Army researchers to pore over old files, examine dog tags, helmets, uniforms, and personal effects of Americans who were captured or killed. At the government palace in Hanoi, our cameras are denied access to the actual negotiations, but we’re allowed to film ceremonial meetings between the senators and top Vietnamese officials. Many of these officials fought in the war and were vilified in America at the time. Here in Hanoi, they’re national heroes.

  It’s an intricate dance of diplomacy. McCain, Smith, and Kerry must find a way to close the POW/MIA cases without angering opponents back home, signal a formal government apology to Vietnam without it appearing so, and ultimately lay the groundwork for ending a terrible chapter in our history even though gaping emotional wounds remain on all sides. Like the United States, Vietnam recognizes the enormous economic and political advantages involved, and so the two countries finally hammer out an agreement that will have to be ratified back in the States.

  After the senators depart Hanoi, my crew and I take a day trip into the nearby countryside to shoot what we call “color” to add texture and context to our reports. The moment we leave the city, we’re surrounded by lush rice fields. Small villages, with traditional huts made of grass and bamboo, integrate perfectly into the natural environment as if they grew here of their own accord. Even a bicycle is a luxury in the countryside, and most rural Vietnamese walk to their destinations. They are lean and strong from diets of rice and vegetables, and while their poverty is palpable, they carry themselves with a silent dignity and inner peace. Like their villages, they appear balanced and in harmony with the natural rhythms of life.

  The following morning we find our way to Hun Tiep Lake, in a residential district just outside Hanoi proper. Sitting in the middle of the lake’s murky water is the wreckage of an American B-52 bomber. Its nose and wings are submerged. A large, twisted piece of the fuselage pokes into the sky with a white Air Force star at its center. Its rusted landing gear sticks out to one side at the waterline. Nicknamed “Rose 1,” it was shot down during Christmas air raids on December 19, 1972. It’s been two decades since the war ended, but the bomber looks like it just crashed.

  During the Christmas raids, President Richard Nixon was negotiating to end the war, trying not to make it look like a complete surrender. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had just utte
red the famous words, “Peace is at hand,” during negotiations with the North Vietnamese at a summit in Paris. Then came the surprise American bombing attack that shocked and outraged the world. It was called Operation Linebacker II, a football metaphor for eleven days of relentless aerial bombardment, the heaviest strikes launched by the Air Force since World War II. More than 1,600 civilians were killed in Hanoi and surrounding villages. Tens of thousands were wounded. In America, the pilots who flew the sorties some twenty years ago are still revered as heroes. Here, they’re remembered as demons that came in the night and wreaked havoc. For the Vietnamese, this B-52 in Hun Tiep Lake is a monument to victory over a mighty and brutal foe.

  My photographer and I are paddling out to the wreckage now in a small rowboat. The silence is only interrupted by the occasional croaking of small frogs sunning themselves on lily pads. An elderly Vietnamese woman in a woven straw hat is waist deep in the water, harvesting watercress. Her face is soft and serene despite deep lines of age. She could be anyone’s loving grandmother. Her gentle, rhythmic movements send small, circular ripples lapping against the bomber’s fuselage and give our boat a gentle rock. She pays us no mind, as if we do not exist. I try to imagine what it was like for her and her family on the nights the B-52s screamed overhead and the bombs rained down, shaking the earth with their thunder.

  Hun Tiep Lake, Vietnam, 1992.

  Each morning at dawn, I walk from my small hotel in the center of Hanoi to visit Hoan Kiem Lake and Turtle Tower, and then I slip into the Old Quarter. This helps work out the kinks in my back and I also get to immerse myself in the local culture. I’m always drawn to the places where the poorer people live. Their lives inevitably tell the story of a nation’s past, how its leaders have treated their people, and what the future might hold. Wandering the Old Quarter, I love the aromas of the outdoor markets drifting through the air and the wrinkled, smiling faces with missing teeth that reveal a history of quiet suffering and perseverance.

  Even at this early hour, the quarter is bustling, yet it retains a sense of quietude and peace. Residents squat in the streets with rice bowls, silently enjoying breakfast. It’s rare for an outsider to be here, especially a tall, white one. Even though I must be a sight, few look up or acknowledge my presence. For three days straight, however, I’ve made eye contact with a middle-aged man during my morning walks. Like most men here, he’s clad in the traditional pajama-style black shirt and trousers. On this morning, he signals me to squat down and join him for a bowl of rice.

  Although the United States fears the Soviets are meddling here, most Vietnamese loathe Russians and would never befriend one. They also dislike the U.S. government. But they like Americans. I don’t speak any Vietnamese, so the only words I utter are, “Je suis Américain,” hoping he understands French from the colonial days.

  “Très bien,” he answers with a wide grin.

  This almost exhausts my French, so we communicate with open smiles, subtle body language, and simple gestures. As we eat steaming, gooey rice with our fingers, I remember Afghanistan, where the left hand is used after going to the toilet; thinking it might be the same here, I am careful to use my right hand for the rice. I feel privileged to sit in the street and enjoy this simple meal, and although it’s only rice, it tastes sumptuous and far superior to the pricey, processed MREs I lived on during the Gulf War. As we finish, my friend floats up to standing with ease. It takes me a while to get up from being cross-legged on the ground for so long, and it’s a struggle to do it without groaning.

  Once I’m on my feet, he beckons me to follow him. We walk through a narrow, dusty shop filled with old wood and iron parts for repairing the hand-pulled street carts used to transport goods throughout the Old Quarter. A creaky door in the back of the dilapidated building leads to his home. There are at least three generations of his family living in this tiny space, which is partitioned into miniature rooms by gray blankets tacked to the ceiling. His grandchildren, peeking from behind one old blanket, are wide-eyed. There must be at least a half dozen of them. They’ve never seen such a stranger, let alone one right here in their home.

  My new friend guides me to a far corner. We step past his wife as she squats before a tiny hot plate on the floor, cooking more rice while paying us no mind. He pulls back a tapestry on the wall, revealing a door. It opens onto a narrow passageway, barely illuminated by oil lamps. For a moment, I wonder if I’m being set up to be robbed or roughed up, but I feel genuine kinship with this man. I follow him into the catacombs. The still, dank air smells a thousand years old.

  We zig and zag as the hallway narrows. My shoulders brush the walls as my friend slides along effortlessly. My boots land with jarring thumps. My friend’s footsteps are silent. A few sharp turns now. There are no more lamps. It’s pitch black, except for a faint glow at the end of the corridor outlining another door. My friend slowly opens the door and light floods out from a small room brightly lit by hundreds of candles. Stepping inside, I see that the room is filled with beautiful Buddhist statues, artwork, and artifacts. Incense sweetens the air. Wax runs down the candleholders, forming layers of thick puddles on the rough wood floor. It is a humble temple, yet it feels holier than any great cathedral I have ever seen.

  The French suppressed Buddhism in Vietnam when they colonized much of Indochina in the mid 1800s. It was further suppressed in the 1950s after Ho Chi Minh and his communist guerillas, known as the Vietminh, established a Democratic Republic of Vietnam in North Vietnam. I sense the candles in this temple have been kept lit throughout the years as a silent protest, secretly paying homage to the flame of an ancient spiritual tradition. My friend gazes into my eyes, brings his palms together at his heart, and gently bows toward me. I’m not sure what this means, but it feels like a great honor and I return the gesture with a soft smile of gratitude for being allowed to enter this sacred space. I’m mystified, however, why he brought me here.

  Golden Buddha

  A gilded wooden statue of Buddha is the centerpiece of the temple altar. It’s about a foot and a half tall. The Buddha is standing atop a beautifully carved lotus. The index finger of his left hand is pointing up, his right index finger is pointing down. I don’t know what this gesture symbolizes, but the statue has an aura of wisdom and serenity. My friend steps over and gently lifts the golden Buddha from the altar. I watch spellbound as he wraps it in a beautiful piece of light brown silk cloth, turns toward me with a tender gaze, and offers it to me. I’m stunned. I resist at first, but he softly persists. He gestures to me to conceal it in my shoulder bag. I finally understand—at least I think I do. He wants the statue smuggled to freedom.

  I wonder what will happen if it’s discovered by the authorities during my departure from Hanoi. Will I create an incident? Be arrested and imprisoned for smuggling a spiritual artifact out of Vietnam at such a delicate time in history? I pull back a corner of the silk to reveal the Buddha’s face. I swear he’s looking at me as if to say, “Let’s go!” I gently cover him up and carefully tuck him away in my bag, offering a gentle bow of my head to my new friend who gave me this precious gift.

  Japan’s Economic Bubble

  Throughout the ages, all great spiritual texts have counseled against greed and self-indulgence. The Bible warns it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. The Bhagavad-Gita calls greed, anger, and lust “Doorways to Hell.” Buddhism warns that avarice and desire are afflictions that inevitably lead to suffering. Yet we never seem to listen or learn. Great empires perpetually overextend, over-consume, and overindulge—and most eventually come crashing down.

  Rising from the ashes of World War II, Japan’s so-called economic miracle is the darling of the capitalist world. It’s the early 1990s, and the economy is rocketing. Real estate prices have soared to astronomical levels. The Tokyo Stock Exchange is surpassing record levels. Credit is readily available to all, with interest rates at virtually zero. Speculation is rampant and hubris aboun
ds. But now there are subtle signs and undercurrents indicating that the Japanese economy is in a huge bubble that is about to burst, yet everyone here is in denial and none will acknowledge it.

  I’m hitting a wall as I try to report this. Government spokespersons, economists, and businessmen hold deep fears about the bubble, but won’t go on the record with me. Corporations won’t discuss downsizing or layoffs, especially in a nation where jobs are all but guaranteed for life. As a result of being isolated on an island throughout the millennia, Japan is a unique culture in Asia. Foreigners are kept as outsiders, tolerated and treated with respect but rarely trusted or allowed to fully integrate into the culture. Shintoism, the indigenous spiritual tradition here, is designed to sustain a present-day connection to the ancient past. Its rituals are complex, ornate, and arcane. Shinto includes an approach to life called honne and tatemae. Honne is true circumstances. Tatemae is the art of hiding the truth when revealing it would be embarrassing.

  White-collar workers, called “salarymen,” form the new middle class, which traditionally consisted of farmers and shopkeepers. The salarymen endure long commutes and work horrendous hours for Japan’s burgeoning corporations. It’s a life of maximum stress, and as a result they are notorious for their consumption of saké and beer. It’s rare to see them, or any Japanese people, show emotion, because to do so is considered weak and undignified. Talking about one’s troubles or being seen as a failure is called “losing face” and is taboo on both the personal and national levels.