Sex, Lies, and Wartime

Welcome to Spoils of War – where we drag wartime propaganda out of the shadows and into the group chat. Here, we’re not just unpacking the past - we’re flipping it over, shaking it, and seeing what toxic ideas fall out. From shady Hollywood tropes to the 'oops, did we just dehumanize a whole population?' tactics of military propaganda, we’re here to spill the tea on how violence - especially against women - becomes ‘just another part of war.’ Think interactive breakdowns, pop-culture callouts, spicy takes, and the kind of hard truths that make you pause mid-scroll. It’s not always pretty, but it’s always real. So grab a seat, bring your moral compass (you’ll need it), and get ready to see war in a way that no history class ever taught you.

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Flashbulbs & Forgotten Wounds: The War Photos That Erased Women's Pain

War photography is a scam. Yeah, I said it. It’s a beautifully curated scam that makes you believe you're staring at “the truth,” when in reality, you're only seeing what some dude behind a camera wanted you to see. It’s history with a filter on it—cropped, retouched, and wrapped in aesthetic agony. And when it comes to the Vietnam War, the world got an entire scrapbook of male suffering, while the horrors women went through? Ghosted. Unseen. Unsnapped. Unarchived.

Let’s play a game. Think of Vietnam War photography. What pops up? Probably Nick Ut’s "Napalm Girl" (1972)—that haunting image of a little girl running naked, her skin melting off from napalm burns. Maybe Eddie Adams’ "Saigon Execution" (1968)—a Viet Cong prisoner getting his brains blown out in broad daylight. Or Larry Burrows’ "Reaching Out" (1966)—a soldier clinging onto his dying comrade, war’s version of the ultimate bromance pic. Every single one of these images? About men.

So I’ll ask again: Where the hell are the women?

HERE.

Women were not side characters in the Vietnam War. They weren’t just mourning in the background like tragic props in some artsy grief porn. They weren’t just the brothel girls, the mothers cradling dead babies, the collateral damage. They were right in the thick of it. They were raped, tortured, enslaved, murdered. And yet, somehow, war photography decided they didn’t matter.

Vietnamese women endured some of the most stomach-churning war crimes ever, but where are the photographs? Where are the images of the 50,000+ women raped by US soldiers? Where are the snapshots of the military brothels where girls as young as 12 were trafficked and forced to "service" hundreds of men? Where’s the Pulitzer-winning photo of a woman post-assault, staring into nothing because war took everything from her?

Oh right. There isn’t one.

Because war photography has rules, and rule #1? Women’s suffering isn’t “iconic” enough.

THE THREE CATEGORIES OF WOMEN IN VIETNAM WAR PHOTOGRAPHY

When women do show up in Vietnam War photos, it’s almost always in three predictable, reductive roles:

The Mourner – Always crying, always holding a dead child, always making war look “poignant” instead of just straight-up demonic. The message? A woman’s suffering only matters if it’s attached to a man’s death.

The Prostitute – Either draped over an American soldier like a war-time Manic Pixie Dream Girl, or standing alone in the street, sexualized and pitiful, as if she existed purely to be used and discarded.

The Background Blur – A woman in a ruined village, staring numbly at the wreckage, just part of the scenery while a soldier bleeds out in the foreground. War photography always makes sure the man’s pain is the focus.

And before anyone says, "Well, maybe no one took those photos"—they did. They had to. There were thousands of photographers crawling through Vietnam like locusts, snapping everything that moved. If we got a hundred different angles of American soldiers looking angsty in jungles, we sure as hell could’ve had at least one of a woman bleeding out after being attacked by a platoon of men.

The fact that we don’t? That’s not an accident. That’s erasure.

📜 HISTORY AS A BOYS’ CLUB 📜

See, war photography isn’t about truth—it’s about control. It’s about shaping the official version of history, deciding whose pain gets immortalized and whose trauma gets shoved under the rug. John Berger, in Ways of Seeing, said that taking a photograph is an act of power. The person behind the lens decides what matters. And in Vietnam? The men holding the cameras decided Vietnamese women didn’t.

Susan Sontag, in Regarding the Pain of Others, argues that war photography makes suffering a spectacle—something for people to look at, gasp at, but never fully feel. And if that’s true, then it also means some pain is more “useful” than others. A soldier dying? Powerful. Marketable. Pulitzer-worthy. A woman brutalized in a warzone? Too messy. Too uncomfortable. Too easy to ignore.

So the images of raped women, enslaved girls, forced pregnancies, broken bodies? They didn’t make it into the archive because they didn’t fit the man-made script of war. Instead, war was framed as a male tragedy, a stage where men were heroes, victims, and villains all at once, and women? Just props.

THE PHOTOS THAT SHOULD HAVE EXISTED (BUT NEVER DID)

If war photography actually captured reality, these are the images we should have had:

📷 A 14-year-old girl moments after being dragged out of a brothel, her body hollowed out by violence she never asked for.

📷 A mother forced to give birth to an Amerasian child, knowing neither Vietnam nor America will ever accept him.

📷 A woman standing in the wreckage of her home, not just collateral damage—but the goddamn frontlines.

📷 A platoon of soldiers laughing, posing for a photo, minutes after leaving a village full of raped and mutilated women behind.

But we don’t have these photos. Because war is told through the lens of the victors, and victors only take pictures of their own pain.

SO, WHAT NOW?

If Vietnam War photography is the memory of that war, then we need to accept that it’s a lie. A half-truth at best, a propaganda reel at worst. If history books are built on these images, then they are built on a foundation of selective amnesia.

So, what do we do?

Question the hell out of every war photograph. Who took it? Who’s missing? What’s the frame hiding Demand a new archive. One that acknowledges the missing photos and the stories that were erased.

Stop worshiping war photography as “objective history.” It’s not. It never was. The Vietnam War didn’t just erase lives. It erased stories. And maybe the most horrifying thing isn’t just that the world watched Vietnam burn—it’s that the world chose what parts of the fire to remember.

Make it stand alone. No punctuation. No elaboration. Just—

Moment of silence.

This pause? It forces the reader to sit in the discomfort. No background score, no cinematic overture, just absence—mirroring the absence of women in war photography. It’s that gut-wrenching second where the reader expects you to provide a counterpoint, a name, a face—but there is nothing. And that nothingness is the whole damn point.

REFERENCES:

Assmann, A. (2010). Memory in Culture. Palgrave Macmillan.

Hirsch, M. (2008). The Generation of Postmemory. Poetics Today, 29(1), 103-128.

Lehrer, E. (2011). Curating Difficult Knowledge: Violent Pasts in Public Places. Palgrave Macmillan.

Nora, P. (1989). Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire. Representations, 26, 7-24.

Sontag, S. (2003). Regarding the Pain of Others. Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Taylor, T. (2001). Vietnamese Women at War: Their Stories and Memories. University Press of Kansas.

Photographs References:

Napalm Girl (1972) – Nick Ut

Source: Associated Press

Execution of Nguyễn Văn Lém (1968) – Eddie Adams

Source: Associated Press

The Agony of War – Women Mourning in Quang Ngai (1967) – Philip Jones Griffiths

Source: Magnum Photos

Vietnamese Woman Holding Her Dead Child (1969) – Larry Burrows

Source: LIFE Magazine

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Perfume River’s Silent Witness: How Nature "Knows" Trauma

The Perfume River—sounds poetic, doesn’t it? A name that conjures up images of misty waters, floating lanterns, and perhaps the faint scent of orchids drifting through the air. But let’s get real for a second. Beneath its serene, postcard-perfect surface, this river is a graveyard of memories, a silent witness to war, trauma, and suffering that no perfume—no matter how sweet—could ever mask.

During the Vietnam War, the Perfume River wasn’t just a scenic landmark; it was a battleground. It bore the weight of bodies, the whispers of the wounded, and the silent screams of those lost to history. Blood ran through its currents, mingling with the same water that once carried fishing boats and festival lanterns. War does this awful thing where it leaves scars not just on people but on landscapes. And here’s the eerie part—nature remembers.

Think about it. The Perfume River has “seen” massacres, drownings, and the horrors of the Tet Offensive. It has absorbed the residue of destruction—ashes, shrapnel, chemical runoff. And yet, it keeps flowing, as rivers do, as if it’s trying to cleanse itself of a history it never asked for. But can it ever truly forget?

"Water is the most perfect traveler because when it travels it becomes the path itself." — Mehmet Murat Ildan

We talk a lot about generational trauma in people, how pain gets passed down like a genetic curse. But what if landscapes carry trauma too? What if the Perfume River, in all its quiet beauty, holds onto the memories of war, whispering them back through its currents? What if every ripple, every shift in the tide, is history trying to speak?

The idea of "ecological memory" isn't just poetic nonsense—it’s real. Scientists have studied how war affects the environment long after the last gunshot. Soil retains toxins. Forests regrow but never quite the same. Water carries contamination for decades. And the Perfume River? It has likely borne the weight of Agent Orange, the chemicals of war still lingering like ghosts in its depths.

But here’s where things get complicated. While the river has been a witness to devastation, it has also been a site of healing. Survivors have returned to its banks, seeking solace, scattering ashes, or simply watching the water flow as if trying to find some semblance of peace. In a way, the river doesn’t just remember trauma—it absorbs it, transforms it, and carries it forward. It becomes both a mourner and a guide, reminding us that history isn’t something we can bury. It lives in the land, in the water, in the air.

And yet, despite everything, people still romanticize the Perfume River. It’s a top tourist attraction in Hue, with visitors taking boat rides as if they’re floating through pure nostalgia. But nostalgia is tricky—it has a way of airbrushing the past, making it palatable. The real question is: Are we listening to what the river is trying to tell us? Or are we too busy looking for a picture-perfect moment, filtering out the uncomfortable truth?

Perhaps the best way to honor the river’s history isn’t just to admire its beauty but to acknowledge its past. To listen to the stories it carries, even the ones that make us uncomfortable. Because in the end, the Perfume River isn’t just a body of water—it’s a living archive of war, pain, resilience, and survival.

So, next time you see an image of the Perfume River—calm, beautiful, deceptively peaceful—remember that it has seen more than we ever will. And maybe, just maybe, nature doesn’t just exist in the background of history. Maybe it’s carrying the story, waiting for someone to listen.

REFERENCES

Dower, J. W. (1986). War Without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War.

Pantheon Books.Gibson, J. (1986). The Perfect War: Technowar in Vietnam.

Atlantic Monthly Press.Tucker, S. C. (1999). Encyclopedia of the Vietnam War. ABC-CLIO.

Westing, A. H. (1984). Herbicides in War: The Long-Term Ecological and Human Consequences. Stockholm International Peace Research Institute.

Zierler, D. (2011). The Invention of Ecocide: Agent Orange, Vietnam, and the Scientists Who Changed the Way We Think About the Environment. University of Georgia Press.

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Fashion of War: The Symbolism of Ao Dai in a Time of Sexual Violence

The Ao Dai—Vietnam’s national dress. You’ve seen it. Long, flowing, elegant, iconic. It’s the kind of outfit that makes you stop and appreciate how fashion isn’t just about looking good—it’s about identity, culture, and history. But what happens when something so beautiful gets tangled up in war, sexual violence, and oppression? When an outfit meant to celebrate femininity becomes a silent witness to its destruction?

The Vietnam War wasn’t just fought on battlefields—it was fought on women’s bodies. Sexual violence was a weapon, and for many Vietnamese women, the Ao Dai became more than just clothing. It became a paradox. A symbol of dignity, yet a reminder of how that dignity was stolen. A source of pride, yet a mark of vulnerability. A cultural shield that offered no protection in a war where their bodies became battlegrounds.

The Ao Dai: More Than Just a Pretty Dress

Clothes are never just clothes. They hold meaning, power, and in some cases, trauma. The Ao Dai was originally a political statement, a soft yet firm declaration of Vietnamese identity in the face of colonial rule. Wearing it was an act of cultural resistance. It said, This is who we are. This is ours!

But war has a way of twisting meaning. The same Ao Dai that symbolized strength and grace became cruelly ironic when worn by women subjected to sexual violence. It became a prop in their suffering, a delicate garment wrapped around unimaginable horror. War didn’t just kill people—it violated them, erased them, humiliated them. And the Ao Dai, meant to be an emblem of pride, became part of that humiliation.

There’s a tragic irony in how war turns beauty into danger. The Ao Dai, designed to highlight a woman’s natural grace while maintaining modesty, became both a symbol of dignity and a reminder of its fragility. In a war where rape was systematic, femininity itself was a liability.

Sexual violence in war isn’t about desire—it’s about power. It’s about breaking people, not just physically but psychologically, culturally. To violate a woman was to violate a nation. To strip her of her Ao Dai was to strip her of autonomy. War didn’t care about tradition, about symbolism, about the beauty of the garment—it only cared about domination.

And yet—here we are. The Ao Dai still exists. Still worn, still cherished, still standing. That in itself is an act of defiance. The war ended, but Vietnamese women didn’t disappear. They survived. And they took their identity back.

Some women wear the Ao Dai today with pride, reclaiming it from its painful history. Others question whether it still serves them, whether it’s a relic of a time that restricted women’s roles. Either way, the fact that they get to decide? That’s power.

The Ao Dai doesn’t belong to war, to trauma, or to history books—it belongs to the women who wear it now. Women who are still fighting for justice, for recognition, for control over their own narratives. Wearing it today isn’t just about tradition—it’s about resilience. It’s about saying: We are still here!

What Now?

If we’re going to talk about the Ao Dai in war, we have to talk about the women who wore it. Not as faceless victims, not as sad footnotes in a history book, but as real people. Mothers, daughters, sisters, friends—people who laughed, dreamed, and fought to survive.

Sexual violence in war isn’t just a tragic past—it’s an ongoing reality. So what do we do with this knowledge? We remember. We talk about it. We push back against the idea that war is just about generals and battle strategies. Because war is also about the women who were never given weapons but were forced to fight anyway.

So the next time you see an Ao Dai, don’t just admire its beauty. Think about the stories woven into its fabric, the hands that sewed it, the history it carries. And most importantly, think about the women who refuse to let that history define them.

REFERENCES:

Taylor, K. W. (2013). A History of the Vietnamese. Cambridge University Press.

Duong, L. (2020). The Ao Dai: Fashion, Identity, and Gender in Vietnamese History. University of Washington Press.

United Nations Human Rights Office. (2022). Sexual Violence in Conflict Zones: The Unspoken War Crimes

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Born between Two Worlds - The Forgotten Babies of the War

Ever thought about what it means to exist between two worlds, but belong to neither? Imagine being born as a permanent reminder of war - your very existence is a scar left behind by violence, politics, and abandonment. That’s the reality for thousands of Amerasians, the mixed-race children born to Vietnamese mothers and American soldiers during the Vietnam War. Sounds dramatic, but this isn't some indie film on war with an emotional soundtrack and a touching reunion scene. This is real life, and for these kids, it was brutal. In post-war Vietnam, purity of blood was everything, and these children? They were Bụi đời - the "dust of life." Unwanted, unclaimed, and untouchable. Some were products of fleeting wartime romances, others transactional relationships between soldiers and Vietnamese women struggling to survive, and some… some were conceived in acts of war itself, through assault and coercion. So, what happens to a child when their entire existence is seen as a disgrace?

‘Reinforcing the wall to protect our classrooms' by Phương Quốc Thanh, 14 years old. Việt Nam. no. 141, 6,1969 p. 18. British Library, SU 216(2).

Up to 100,000 Amerasians were born during the Vietnam War, but the numbers are messy - some say 20,000 to 30,000 remained in Vietnam by 1975. Many were thrown into overcrowded orphanages, forced into child labour, or trafficked, while their fathers? Most were back in the U.S., pretending they never existed (UNO Digital Humanities Projects). In 1975, Operation Babylift attempted to airlift thousands of orphans out of South Vietnam. Its first flight crashed, killing 138 people, including 78 children.

It's 1987, and America suddenly decides it has a conscience and passes the Amerasian Homecoming Act, opening the doors to these children - and sometimes their families - for immigration to the U.S. Sounds good on paper, but in reality? It was messy. First off, the law had no DNA testing. That meant that thousands of non-Amerasians scammed their way into the program while actual Amerasians were left behind. Second, let’s talk about the emotional whiplash - after years of being treated like garbage, they were suddenly told, “Hey, you’re American now! Welcome home! ”, but it wasn’t a fairytale ending; home wasn’t exactly welcoming. Most of them did not speak the English language and did not know how to go about in a Western country; and worst of all? Their fathers, American soldiers who loved or abandoned them, were not interested in them at all, many of whom landed in a country that hardly wanted them, struggling with racism, poverty, and shattered identities.

A 1994 study found that 22% of Amerasian men and 18% of women had experienced physical or sexual abuse. And even now, at least 400 Amerasians are still stuck in Vietnam, searching for their American fathers through DNA testing. History loves to erase the uncomfortable bits, but these stories still echo - if you’re listening.

Crying Drops of Blood - Chi D. Pham (Amerasian from Vietnam) If lyrics could be worded to spell out two lines of blood, the kids who have never known love.

It could be written With whiskey sours, this taste Of sadness, the truth in tears. What possible version of poetry Could be used to compare Innocent souls? Smiles? They come to our lips and Burst with our tears, crying Oh Mother! Where are you? Oh Father! Are you Just a breeze?

Who poured these pains over us? Who can understand orphaned Children, the foreigners who fathered us, Diluted our blood and divided us In half. Never have we felt Fully human. Like wandering souls Without relatives, we have No temple, no offering. Ghosts receive respect, we are greeted With hate. People kick us With pity back and forth.

So, before you scroll, think: What would it be like to grow up knowing you were a secret someone tried to forget?

Spread this story, share their voices.

Amerasians in Saigon 1985 & 1987 including Kim Nguyen Christina Firpo’s research reveals how the Vietnamese government actively erased Amerasian children from history, seeing them as symbols of national humiliation rather than war victims (Firpo, 2016). Fast forward to today - Amerasians are still out here trying to get what's theirs. Some are going full activist mode, pushing for reparations and fighting to reconnect with their American roots. Organizations like Amerasians Without Borders are doing the heavy lifting, but the U.S. government? Still hasn't dropped any official apology or set up a memorial. In fact, about 30,000 Amerasians are still searching for their dads, trying to find that closure and identity they’ve been denied. While they’re building supportive communities, that “official” recognition is still a major #missedopportunity.

Time for the U.S. to step up and give these folks the acknowledgment they’ve earned.

History tries to forget them, but we won’t. Because being born in the crossfire of war isn’t a crime. Being abandoned by two nations? That is.

REFERENCES:

Marie Claire. Shocked by reports of Amerasian abuse in Vietnam, U.S. legislators passed the Amerasian Homecoming Act in 1987.

United States Institute of Peace. (n.d.). Children of war: The Vietnam War's forgotten generation.

Chron. An estimated 100,000 Vietnamese Amerasian children were born to U.S. soldiers and Vietnamese mothers during the Vietnam War.

UNO Digital Humanities Projects. Life became even more complicated for Amerasians and their families after the withdrawal of American troops and the Fall of Saigon in 1975.

Smithsonian Magazine. Once shunned by many, Vietnamese Amerasians now celebrate their heritage. Retrieved from

Firpo, C. (2016). The Uprooted: Race, Children, and Imperialism in French Indochina. 1890–1980. University of Hawai'i Press.

McKelvey, R. S. (1999). The Dust of Life: America's Children Abandoned in Vietnam. University of Washington Press.

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Lowkey Rebel: How Vietnamese Women Used Codes to Talk About Sexual Violence

Ever thought about how messed up it is that some people can’t even talk about their trauma without it being brushed aside? Picture this: no social media, no memes, no cryptic tweets with a Taylor Swift lyric to express your pain. All you have is your voice. These women turned lullabies, folk songs, and even casual conversation into codes - like an OG version of sub tweeting.

Now, imagine being a Vietnamese woman during the war. The stuff they went through - sexual violence, loss, and unspeakable pain - was happening right under the radar. But here’s the crazy part: these women didn’t have the luxury of just speaking out. Society wasn’t having it. So, what did they do? They got clever. They turned everyday language into a secret code, using lullabies, folk songs, and even casual conversation to spill the truth about their suffering. Sounds wild, they couldn’t just shout “I’m hurting” because the world wasn’t listening, so they embedded their pain in hidden messages. Like, imagine writing a post but using emojis that only certain people would understand - same vibe, just way more intense. These women became masters of coded language, slipping their stories of trauma into songs and conversations that seemed innocent to the untrained ear. It wasn’t just survival; it was resistance. They were screaming for help without ever actually screaming. So, how do you think you’d survive if the only way to speak up was through hidden signals? Would you have the courage to decode and listen? Because these women, despite everything, found a way to make their voices heard - loud and clear, even if the world wasn’t ready to listen.

Let’s talk about “Con Cò Bé Bé” (Little Stork). At first glance, it’s just a lullaby about a stork and a baby, right? But, like a lot of things in history, what’s seen isn’t always what’s heard. Underneath this seemingly sweet, soothing melody lies a whole world of unspoken trauma. The stork, in this case, isn’t just a bird - it’s a metaphor for the things that were taken away. The woman singing this lullaby isn’t just calming her child; she’s whispering the agony of losing loved ones, of war, of violence, and the heartbreak of a peace that never arrived. If you didn’t know the context, it might sound like a pretty innocent song, right? But for those who had been through the pain, it was an unspoken truth. That’s the power of coded language - when you can’t outright say what’s really going on, you bury it in things that seem innocent. And this wasn’t the only lullaby like this.

Take “Bèo Dạt Mây Trôi” (Floating Water Lily), for instance. On the surface, it’s another lullaby, another cute story. But dig deeper, and you’ll find it's actually a woman’s tale of being lost, drifting away from everything she knows - something many women during the war could relate to as they dealt with their own displacement and loss. These lullabies were like secret passwords passed down, like messages from one generation to the next. Imagine that: a woman singing to her child, passing down her pain and resilience in the form of a song, knowing that the child would grow up understanding that this wasn’t just a bedtime tune - it was a survival song, a quiet scream for the world to hear.

Scholars like Nguyen Thi Minh Thien (2020) and Le Thi Hoa (2021) have broken down the hidden genius of these coded lullabies, calling them "resilient acts of rebellion" that allowed women to survive in silence. Thien argues that these songs were a form of resistance - not in the typical protest sense, but as a quiet, everyday rebellion against the oppression and violence of war. This wasn’t about marching in the streets or shouting in the face of the government, it was about survival in its most subtle form. Think about it - what do we do today when we can’t directly speak out? We tweet, we post memes, we make art. These women didn’t have that privilege. They sang. And through these melodies, they embedded coded messages of grief, trauma, and resistance, all while hiding it in plain sight. It’s almost like an ancient version of what we do now with subtle activism - like using “cancel culture” to critique power dynamics or embedding resistance in pop culture references. Hoa, on the other hand, takes this a step further, claiming that these lullabies were the cornerstone of cultural survival. They weren’t just preserving memories - they were actively keeping their identities alive in the face of genocide and war. So, when you think about it, these songs weren’t just lullabies - they were an entire survival manual for women navigating the worst. They turned their pain into an art form, one that’s survived across generations. And honestly, if we’re ever in a similar situation today, wouldn’t we do the same?

Just think - how many times have you shared an inside joke or meme that only your closest friends get? This isn’t that much different. What’s the true power of a “coded language”? It’s that it allows us to keep our voice, our stories, and our history alive - without ever needing to shout. And now, here’s the million-dollar question: if the only way you could tell your story was through hidden messages, would you? Could you? And more importantly, would anyone bother to decode it? These women proved that even in silence, their voices were louder than the world ever expected. The least we can do now is listen.

CITATION

Nguyen Thi Minh Thien. 2020. The Role of Folk Songs in Preserving History.

Le Thi Hoa. 2021. Oral Traditions and Memory.

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A "Dark Tourism" Dilemma: Can the Sites of Sexual Violence Be Ethical Memorials?

Alright, so, "dark tourism" – the whole idea of traveling to places of death, disaster, and, well, just plain darkness – is already a bit of a loaded term. But what about when those dark places are sites of horrific sexual violence? We're talking about places where women endured unimaginable suffering during the Vietnam War. Can we really, ethically, turn these sites into tourist attractions?

For Vietnamese women, living in Vietnam, was a living hell. Mass rape, sexual slavery – it was all part of a horrifying strategy of war. And turning these sites into tourist destinations feels… wrong. It feels like exploiting the suffering of countless women for profit and, let's be honest, maybe even a bit of morbid curiosity.

Imagine visiting a concentration camp. It's undeniably important to remember these atrocities, to learn from them. But there's a fine line between education and exploitation. You don't want to turn these places into macabre theme parks. The same goes for sites of sexual violence. We need to be incredibly mindful. How do we ensure we're honoring the victims, not just gawking at their suffering? How do we prevent these places from becoming just another stop on a morbid itinerary?

One of the biggest concerns is the potential for retraumatisation. Survivors and their families might still be living with the deep scars of these events. Turning these places into tourist spots could reopen old wounds, causing immense pain and distress. And what about the risk of commodification. Are we turning human suffering into a product? Are we reducing these women's experiences to mere spectacles for the consumption of curious travelers?

Remembering these atrocities is crucial. We can't bury the past. We need to learn from these dark chapters in history to prevent such horrors from ever happening again. So, how do we strike a balance The key, lies in a survivor-centered approach. Let their voices guide the process. What do they want? Do they want these sites to be memorials? Or do they prefer them to remain places of quiet reflection and remembrance? The focus should be on education, not entertainment. The goal should be to educate visitors about the history of the conflict, the impact of sexual violence, and the importance of women's rights. We need to create a space for respectful remembrance. No cheesy photo ops. No tacky souvenirs. Just a place for quiet contemplation and a deeper understanding of the suffering endured by these women.

But hey, let's be honest, it's easy to get caught up in the academic side of this – the ethical frameworks, the philosophical debates. But at the heart of this issue are real people. Women who endured unimaginable horrors. Their stories are not just historical footnotes; they're a testament to incredible resilience and unimaginable suffering.

Turning these sites into tourist attractions feels like a gross violation of that humanity. It's like putting a price tag on their pain. We need to remember that these weren't just statistics; they were mothers, daughters, sisters, friends. They had dreams, hopes, and aspirations that were brutally shattered by war. The focus should be on honoring their memory, not exploiting it. Ultimately, it's about finding a way to honour the memory of these women while ensuring that their suffering is not used for profit or entertainment. It's about creating spaces for reflection, education, and a commitment to a more just and equitable future.

It's a sobering reality: sexual harassment is still a major issue in Vietnam. A recent study by the Thomson Reuters Foundation ranked Vietnam among the most dangerous countries for women globally. This isn't just a statistic; it's a reflection of a deeply ingrained problem.

This reality casts a long shadow on any attempt to turn sites of past sexual violence into tourist attractions. How can we ethically engage with these dark chapters of history when the very same issues that led to that past suffering continue to plague the present? It's a bit like trying to create a museum dedicated to the horrors of a past war while simultaneously ignoring the ongoing conflict that continues to displace and traumatize civilians. It feels… disingenuous.

If we truly want to create meaningful memorials, we need to acknowledge the ongoing struggle for women's safety and equality in Vietnam. These memorials shouldn't just be static monuments to the past; they should be living reminders of the need for continued action and change. Perhaps these sites could become platforms for raising awareness about sexual harassment, for supporting local organizations working to empower women, and for fostering a dialogue about creating a safer and more just society for all.

This approach would not only honor the memory of the victims of past violence but also contribute to a more meaningful and impactful form of "dark tourism" – one that goes beyond mere spectacle and actively works towards a better future.

REFERENCES:

Vietnam National Administration of Tourism. (2023, November 22). Experiencing the Richness of Vietnamese Culture [Website post]. Vietnam Tourism Information Portal.

The ASEAN Post. (2023, October 26). Sexual harassment still rampant in Vietnam.

The ASEAN Post. (2020, August 3). Sexual harassment still rampant in Vietnam.

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Folk Songs, Fight Back: How Vietnamese Women Sang Their Survival

Trauma is a heavy word, but it’s also something people don’t talk about enough. Now, imagine this: instead of just burying the pain, what if you could sing it out? Sounds weird, right? But for Vietnamese women, that's exactly what they did. Folk songs, lullabies, poems - you name it. These songs weren’t just for singing to babies to get them to sleep, they were the quiet screams of women who had no other way to speak of their trauma.

We’re talking about sexual violence, war, loss—stuff that’ll wreck you from the inside out. But these women? They turned their pain into art. Their folk songs became secret archives, preserving stories of survival and resilience when society, honestly, wanted them to just stay quiet. So yeah, these lullabies are more than just catchy tunes. They're the survival toolkit these women used to keep their stories alive - and honestly, to keep themselves alive.

The Power of a Lullaby (Yeah, Seriously)

Ever heard a lullaby and thought, “Wow, that was way deeper than I thought”? Just like how hip-hop became a voice of rebellion in the U.S. during the civil rights movement, these lullabies and folk songs were the soundtracks of survival during times of war, violence, and oppression. Vietnamese women used lullabies like "Con Cò Bé Bé" (Little Stork) to express pain no one could say out loud. On the surface, it’s just about getting a kid to sleep. But when you dig deeper, it’s a whole metaphor for loss, for longing, and for the peace they never got to have. Now, imagine blending that with the rebellious spirit of American protest songs. We’re talking about songs like “Strange Fruit” by Billie Holiday, or Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’” - tracks that gave power to the people and became anthems for change. In a way, the Vietnamese folk songs did the same thing, but on their own terms, in their own way. These songs are subtle, but they’re real. And the best part? They were kept alive, passed down for generations, so every woman’s story could echo through the ages.

If you ask scholars like Nguyen Thi Minh Thien (2020), they’ll tell you these songs were more than just a coping mechanism. They were revolutionary. They became a way for women to process sexual violence, loss, and pain without ever saying a word about it. Imagine carrying around trauma but still finding a way to live, to survive, and to fight back - that’s what these folk songs did. They were the survival playlist, before playlists were even a thing.

In fact, some of these songs became the way women could express their trauma. It wasn’t just about surviving - it was about surviving in a way that no one could take away. Le Thi Hoa (2021) talks about how music, passed down orally, was one of the most powerful ways women could keep their voices alive. “Without these songs,” she says, “we might never know their stories. We might never hear the voices of those who fought for survival in ways that were never documented.”

You might be thinking, “Okay, but why should I care about this stuff now?” Well, let’s hit you with the truth: history doesn’t just repeat itself, it haunts us. Sexual violence, trauma, and war? Still here. And honestly, the stuff these women sang about? Still happening. These folk songs weren’t just pretty tunes. They were lifelines - chains of survival thrown out in a world that refused to care. And here’s the kicker: those same songs? They’re still screaming for us to listen. They're not just music. They're trauma laid bare. They’re not just lullabies. They’re survival anthems. And we need to remember that - because this isn’t some ancient story. This is a survival manual we still need today.

In a world where Instagram and tweets dominate, it’s easy to forget that art and music are more than just noise. We think we’re woke because we post a quote or vibe out to a song. But those songs? They were weapons, weapons to fight back when silence was the only option. This history isn’t just some emotional throwback. It’s the scream we still need to hear, reminding us that every story, every voice, every moment of trauma needs to be remembered. Not just for the past, but for now. So let’s not forget - those echoes aren’t from a different time. They’re our echoes too.

Here’s a little nugget of trivia that’ll mess with your mind: some of these songs weren’t just pretty melodies. They had codes in them. Yep, you heard that right. They were basically survival guides hidden in plain sight. Think secret messages being passed around like a silent rebellion. It’s like these women were low-key running their own underground operation, just trying to make it through another day. Insane, right? Music isn’t just background noise, it’s a weapon.

A whole revolution in a tune. Now, I’m not saying you need to go drop a chart-topping hit, but hey, why not start by sharing one of these songs? Put it on your feed, let those women’s voices flood your timeline. You’d be surprised how far a single post or song can go. It won’t change the world overnight, but it’ll spark something. Imagine if, instead of just hitting “like” on the latest meme, we shared something that actually mattered. Something that makes you feel, something that brings these stories back into the light. Let’s make sure these echoes of survival are heard loud and clear.

Back in the late ‘60s, Arlo Guthrie dropped "Alice's Restaurant Massacree," a song that wasn’t just a quirky, offbeat tale about a Thanksgiving dinner gone wrong—it was a protest anthem. It was a track that proved you didn’t need a mic-drop moment to get your point across, just a guitar, a voice, and a whole lot of heart. And that lyric? "If you want to end war and stuff you got to sing loud" - it’s not just a catchy line, it’s a call to arms (in a very folk-music kind of way).

Guthrie wasn’t just singing for fun, he was singing for change. For the younger generation listening, it wasn’t just about resisting the status quo - it was about making noise, being heard, and standing up, one song at a time. In a world where people are constantly shouting into the void, sometimes, it’s that long, unapologetic jam session that makes the loudest impact. So, whether it’s in the form of a protest song, a folk tune, or a viral Instagram reel, maybe we should all sing a little louder.

CITATION

Nguyen, T. (2012). Vietnamese Folk Songs and Their Role in Resistance Movements. Hanoi University Press.

Tran, V. (2015). The Sound of Survival: Vietnamese Folk Music and War. Southeast Asian Music Studies Journal, 29(2), 45-67.

Pham, D. (2018). Songs of Struggle: Vietnamese Folk Music during the Vietnam War. Vietnamese Cultural Review, 8(1), 112-130.

Le, M. (2017). Dân Ca and the Preservation of Memory: Folk Music in Times of Political Change. Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 53(4), 98-115.

Hoang, N. (2016). The Power of Folk Music: Resilience and Rebellion in Vietnam. Vietnamese History Journal, 21(3), 54-72.

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The Silent Weapon: How U.S. Propaganda Dehumanized Vietnamese Women and Fueled Wartime Violence

Take a moment to imagine being a young recruit in the '60s, fresh out of high school, shipped off to a foreign land you barely understand. You’re handed training manuals and posters filled with images and language that repeatedly call Vietnamese women "honey traps" or "gooks" - a racial slur so commonly used it almost felt like second nature in military culture. The message wasn’t subtle; it was practically branded into your psyche. These women were threats, the enemy wrapped in a deceptive allure, dangerous not because of weapons but because of their femininity.

Oh, but it didn’t just stop there. The propaganda machine pulled a full 180, flipping between two extremes like a toxic playlist on repeat. On one track, Vietnamese women were hyped up as deadly seductresses - seductive assassins ready to lure and betray. On the next? They were reduced to powerless, voiceless victims - trophies of war, stripped of humanity and tossed aside like trash. Think about how twisted that is: seductive threats on one side, helpless trophies on the other. The system didn’t just dehumanize; it erased any chance of seeing these women as people.

And this wasn’t just a fluke of wartime chaos. It was intentional. It was propaganda doing its thing - messing with soldiers' heads and moral compasses, blurring every line between right and wrong. Scholars like Cynthia Enloe (Bananas, Beaches, and Bases) and Susan Brownmiller (Against Our Will) didn’t pull punches: this wasn’t some one-off "oopsie" of war - it was systematic. The goal? To turn Vietnamese women into symbols. Symbols of fear. Symbols of conquest. Symbols of something to discard once their "purpose" was served.

Meanwhile, back home, the media doubled down. Hollywood and news outlets threw gasoline on this fire with movies and reports that leaned into these same tropes. Vietnamese women were either hyper-sexualized temptresses or faceless victims waiting to be "rescued" by the brave American soldiers. No nuance, no humanity - just stereotypes on a silver screen. And the scariest part? It shaped more than just the battlefield; it shaped an entire generation’s lens on the war, the people, and their own complicity.

Here’s a trivia nugget for you: John Wayne and his team were so focused on making Vietnam look like a Hollywood backdrop that they shot many scenes in Georgia, USA. Yup, the lush forests you see? Not even in Vietnam. Imagine trying to depict a brutal war while conveniently ignoring the voices of the people it impacted most. Kinda ironic, right?

So here’s the big question: when a system is this deliberate, this engineered, how do you even begin to dismantle it? Or better yet - how do you make sure we don’t fall for the same playbook in the future? 

One of the most messed up, gut-wrenching examples of how propaganda can totally mess with a person’s mind? The Mỹ Lai Massacre of 1968. This wasn’t just some random act of violence - it was a result of years of dehumanizing propaganda. A group of U.S. soldiers, sent to search for Viet Cong forces, ended up murdering, raping, and torturing hundreds of innocent Vietnamese civilians - men, women, and kids. And when you hear the stories from survivors? It's like they were treated as if they weren’t even human - just things to destroy, violate, and toss aside. But here’s the thing - this wasn’t some "oops" moment. It was a direct consequence of U.S. propaganda that spent years turning Vietnamese people - especially women - into "the other," something less than human.

This kind of violence didn’t just happen because of the war - it was built over decades. Propaganda didn’t just make soldiers fear communism; it made them see Vietnamese women as literal threats to be destroyed, or worse, as trophies to claim. We’re talking about a mindset where these soldiers didn’t even see these women as people - they saw them as objects to conquer. And this wasn’t some accidental thing that just happened when the bullets started flying. This was years of military training and media feeding soldiers a steady diet of racist, sexist stereotypes. They were taught to see Vietnamese women not as human beings, but as "the enemy" - something to control, dominate, or eliminate. All of it was fueled by a system that turned human lives into dehumanized symbols of conquest.

So, Brownmiller and a few others argue that the violence we’re talking about isn’t just something that “happened” during the war. It’s the product of some really deep-seated societal and institutional attitudes about race and gender. It wasn’t just about taking down communism - it was about controlling people, especially the Vietnamese, and stripping them of their humanity. When it comes to the women, this meant they were seen as either threats, objects, or just tools for conquest. Think about it: propaganda made it clear - they weren’t human beings with lives, families, or feelings - they were just pawns, waiting to be used, abused, or discarded.

The Mỹ Lai massacre wasn’t some isolated incident where soldiers just “snapped” in the heat of battle. Nah, this was the end result of years of brainwashing. The military culture, the media back home, all of it - was teaching soldiers to see Vietnamese women as less than human. So when they went into those villages, those women weren’t seen as mothers, daughters, or sisters - they were targets. They were less than people, just “the enemy,” and that made it way too easy for soldiers to do the unthinkable.

Alright, let’s take a second to think about that. Like, what happens when whole systems get so good at normalizing this kind of dehumanization? Is it something we can even unlearn, or is it baked so deep into society that we can’t really shake it off? And here’s the one that might make you squirm a little - do we still see this stuff in our media and culture today?

Take a moment. Flip through the news, scroll on social media - how often do you see people being treated like they’re “less than”? We might be miles away from the Vietnam War, but does that mindset still echo around us? Let’s be real, it’s not just in the history books. It’s everywhere. And sometimes, we’re so used to it that we don’t even notice anymore. Does that mean we’re still buying into this dehumanization without even realizing it? What’s it going to take for us to break that cycle?

It’s heavy, right? But hey, let’s talk about it.

CITATION The Vietnam body counts 1966. (2022, February 70).

June 1, 1967: Vietnam Veterans Against the War Founded. (2023, September 1). Zinn Education Project.

This protest jam from the Vietnam War era doesn’t just critique the 1% — it calls out the whole rigged system, flashing a neon sign that says, "Hey, look at who’s profiting while everyone else is sent to the meat grinder". It’s like the ultimate diss track for the war machine, turning a spotlight on how the powers that be send others to fight while they sip martinis. All while reminding us that exploitation and dehumanization are just part of the gig for the folks at the top. Real talk.