Whether Minnesotans fought for or against the Vietnam War, the experiences they collected often sit like pieces of shrapnel in their lives. But often enough, when veterans, family members, protesters and refugees share their stories, they trigger a healing process.
In September, filmmakers Ken Burns and Lynn Novick will debut their new 18-hour documentary “The Vietnam War,” a project that has been 10 years in the making and revolves around the questions that continue to hover over the war’s turbulent history and its impact. In a parallel track, TPT launched “Minnesota Remembers Vietnam,” a year-long initiative aimed at telling the Vietnam War’s untold stories from a local frame of reference. Along the way, we’re gathering the stories of Minnesotans who were directly affected by the war – and those stories will be collected on an interactive, digital Story Wall that serves as a space for connection, understanding and healing.
If you have a story to tell, please consider sharing it on MNVietnam.org.
Silent Stars
By Edy T. Johnson
U.S. Army Nurse
Long Binh Post, near Bien Hoa, Vietnam
It wasn’t Christmas, but the view out the small window made me think it could be. Above, stars—scattered like snowflakes across the navy sky—looked down on their reflection below, the twinkling lights of home. In contrast to the storm inside me, the sight radiated a peace so sweetly tender, it conveyed to me something of the awesome love of God. The words played in my head, “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie….”
The turmoil of the past year had come to an end, but the memory of it haunted me like a powerful novel or movie might. Had it all been a dream? Or, did I really live through it? Of course, I had, but returning home messed with my perspective. One day I was at work in the combat zone, wondering how I could be leaving with the job unfinished. What had my presence there accomplished? The situation was the same as when I arrived, as if I had merely entered stage right, crossed to the other side and exited stage left. I shouldn’t be going home. Not now, anyway. Yet, the next day I would be “back in the world” as if waking from a long winter’s sleep.
I thought of one Vietnamese boy, a long-time patient, who tried unsuccessfully to hide his tears when he realized we were saying our final goodbyes to him. I could never forget him, or the headquarters’ officer who had “adopted” our hospital ward. Whenever this man showed up, usually bringing crayons, coloring books or other treats for the children, the boy cried out with delight, “Meester Ceegar!” Soon, we called both the boy and the cigar-chomping officer by the same name. My heart rebelled against leaving my storehouse of patients and coworkers behind.
So now, with the heart-wrenching good-byes over, I wept in silence, all the way home. The bus from Travis Air Force Base had dropped us and our luggage between the two terminals at the San Francisco airport. It seemed somehow appropriate that it was pouring rain, drenching our luggage and our uniforms. Heaven masked our own tears as we bade farewell to friendships forged in the fires of duty to God and country.
A grandfatherly man sat in the aisle seat, an empty space between us. I was grateful that he didn’t try to make conversation. I thought of the doctor, a stranger across the aisle on another flight more than a year before. Noticing my uniform, he had a lot of helpful advice to offer from his time in the Pacific during World War II. I appreciated that conversation, then. I appreciated even more the silence, now…
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