Exploring history from the opponent's view: the CuChi tunnels

The CuChi tunnels

As one can see from my previous post, I am very interested in examining how nations confront and retell their past. In light of this topic, one of our most interesting experiences occurred when visiting the CuChi tunnels. The CuChi tunnels are located about 60 miles from Ho Chi Minh City, where the Vietcong dug an extensive tunnel system when engaged in guerilla warfare during the Vietnam War. This tourist attraction was supposed to be the highlight of our day, and I was certainly excited to see the tunnels for myself.

Upon our arrival, we were immediately escorted to sit down and watch a movie to introduce us to the tunnels and their history. The movie spent the first few minutes to show CuChi as an idyllic place with expansive fruit orchards and where children loved to go on picnics, while happily untouched from the outside world. Suddenly, the "American white devils" appeared on screen, described as seeking to disturb the peaceful area of CuChi. The Vietnamese children who were formerly going on picnics then were portrayed as being forced to defend their country and learn how to sharpen sticks and dig holes to create gruesome death traps for the American soldiers. For these efforts, these children were lauded as heroes for their efforts in defeating the "devil" Americans and protecting CuChi.

Obviously, the movie was unnerving and uncomfortable for us, especially for my parents who had lived through the Vietnam War era. If that weren't enough, Vietnamese workers dressed up like the Vietcong army and demonstrated how effectively these bamboo death traps worked, just as casually as one would show an audience how well a food processor blended vegetables. To further add to the uncomfortable ambiance, continual gunshots rang out from a shooting range that offered tourists to use the same guns as those in the Vietnam War.

While walking through the site, I felt pangs of anger as to how the CuChi tunnels treated history in such a way that I interpreted as insulting and wildly reductive. I have been to Normandy Beach with my grandfather who landed on D-Day, and I remember seeing how the French took great care to maintain the German graves. I have been to Pearl Harbor, where the tour guide not only explained the attack, but also went into great length to explain the suffering the Japanese went through in the internment camps. While visiting Turkey, I recall seeing the respect the locals gave to the Australian tourists who wanted to visit Gallipolli, the site where thousands of Australian soldiers died at the hands of the Turkish during WWI. While these sites may not be perfect, a feeling of peace can be felt there, as the area decides to move forward and recognize soldiers in war are merely pawns of their leaders' politics and ideals.

But at the same time, I also considered how my American upbringing and education has influenced my own knowledge of how I choose to interpret history. I, for one, was unaware of the American's use of Agent Orange, a powerful set of chemical defoliants sprayed over 4.5 million acres of land to deforest the area and find the Vietcong's whereabouts. While effective, these toxins also destroyed crops and water sources for civilians, and were the main cause of birth defects, psychological symptoms, and other sicknesses for the Vietnamese people. As our tour guide pointed out just how young the surrounding trees were as a result of Agent Orange, I felt ashamed to be unaware of this truth that was obviously deeply embedded into the Northern Vietnamese consciousness. I began to wonder how a British tourist might feel while visiting the Freedom Trail here in Boston. Or how a Southerner may respond to Gettysburg and Antietam.

It is certainly a moving experience to visit a war site where your "side" emerged as victor. But these CuChi tunnels certainly served as a stark reminder of the need to consider the losers' perspective as well.
 

In Memoriam to Lives Lost: Visiting S-21

Mugshots of Cambodian child prisoners in S-21.

  Last week, I returned from an incredible trip to Vietnam and Cambodia with my family. The trip was special for many reasons: my brother spoke Vietnamese from his LDS mission to Australia, my mother worked with Cambodian refugees during her LDS mission, and it was my first time returning to Asia after returning from my LDS mission to Hong Kong six years ago. Despite visa issues, food poisoning, a stolen and returned passport, squatting toilets, crossing frenetic streets without stoplights, and striving to understand tour guides with limited English, it was a truly memorable and wonderful experience to be together.

Whenever I travel, I am always fascinated with how an area confronts and retells its history. In my opinion, Berlin has set a high standard for doing this in a remarkably transparent manner. The city includes memorials to the Jews, homosexuals, the burned books, the politicians who opposed the Nazi Party, and even to the man who attempted to assassinate Hitler. If that were not enough, the Nazi Museum next to the Berlin Wall gives visitors all of the information they would need to understand the rise and fall of that nefarious party and its leaders.

Berlin's attempt to confront its past was on my mind when my family and I visited S-21 in Pnom Penh, the capitol of Cambodia. S-21 was a former high school that was converted into one of the Khmer Rouge's* most terrifying secret prisons from 1975-8. As religion and education was decried by the new government, doctors, monks, government officials, teachers, students, engineers, and their subsequent families were rounded up here and tortured into producing false confessions of how they were an "enemy" to the state. Classrooms were converted into crude cells, playground bars became terrible torture devices, and children who should have been in school were cruelly beaten and starved. Out of the 20,000 prisoners who entered S-21's doors, only twelve survived to tell the tale. The prisoner's haunting mugshots, rows of skulls behind glass, and the blood residue on the walls bear witness to the terror and horror that should have never occurred.

 Cambodian folklore says that those who die without a proper burial are forced to wander the earth aimlessly, which, understandably, only adds upon the grief of those who have no way of tracking their loved one's bodies who were killed. In light of this belief, the presentation of S-21 was particularly striking, as the prison is virtually the same as it was back in 1979. With the explanations, pictures, and some lone survivors of S-21 who wandered around to answer tourists' questions, the area does seem to serve as a make-shift burial ground to ensure that the world and even the locals do not forget what happened.

                                                                  The prison cells in S-21. The size was probably equal to a third of my bedroom.
In walking the somber hallways of S-21, I was quietly reminded just how many of the world's most brutal leaders think and act in a surprisingly similar fashion. Indeed, Pol Pot carried out an incredibly similar "Great Leap Backward Forward" with massive irrigation and rice production projects, leading to massive starvation and the death of thousands (millions, perhaps?). But our tour guide then pointed out that while Mao and Pol Pot's tactics were similar, they still had remarkably separate views. Mao intended to propel his country toward the future to similar economic grounds as his Western counterparts. Pol Pot, on the other hand, was looking towards the past, desiring to restore Cambodia to the former splendor of its Angkor Empire days. In visiting the magnificent Angkor Wat several days later, it was easy to see how a revolutionary who saw his country ransacked by civil war, desired to restore his country to attain the same kind of respect and glory it once enjoyed a thousand years ago. Hitler too, seemed nostalgic for the old Germanic Empire and desired to restore the "Aryan" nation, as his nation was thrust into poverty post WWI.  

Forty years later, Cambodia still seems to be grappling with Pol Pot's legacy, making it even more obvious as to why the S-21 edifice was desperately needed. I recall how one of our Cambodian tour guides explained how Pol Pot was not actually such a bad guy; he was only trying to take back their territory from Vietnam. The animosity he had toward Vietnam was palpable, but our family exchanged glances at one another, unable to process what he had said.

"Have you been to S-21?" one of my brothers asked him.

He answered that he knew about it. My hope is that he can enter its walls one day and really get it. Fortunately, with S-21 still standing, he is able to do so, in a similar way that the Germans who enter Berlin can understand their painful past. Maybe someday, Mao's mausoleum in Tianneman Square will be torn down to create a space for a museum that explains just how this leader is viewed as responsible for at least 45 million deaths--in the name of progress.

*Khmer Rouge was the name of the political party that came to power after a long Cambodian civil war. The leader of the Khmer Rouge was Pol Pot. The Khmer Rouge is estimated to have killed over 3 million people in their quest to produce the most pure socialist regime the world had yet seen.
 

The World Is Wide Enough: the message of "Hamilton" is more relevant than ever

The past few weeks, I have been living in the 18th-century with my non-stop listening to "Hamilton": a new musical by Lin Manuel-Miranda that retells the life of Alexander Hamilton (the first Secretary of the Treasury) with a delightful assortment of rap, hip hop and jazz. Probably one of the most poignant lines comes from Aaron Burr, Hamilton's bitterest enemy due to decades of ranking jealousy, misunderstandings, and vehement political differences. Yet after shooting Hamilton in America's most notorious duel, he mournfully sings:

I was too young and blind to see
I should’ve known
I should’ve known  
The world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me.


The phrase "the world was wide enough" speaks to me on multiple levels. On the obvious note, it rings back to the show's juxtaposition of Hamilton as an impoverished immigrant from the Caribbean who "got a lot farther/By being a self-starter," with Burr's privileged American roots (his father was president of Princeton). When Hamilton and Lafayette proudly rap, "Immigrants! We get the job done," the play is a not-so-subtle reminder of America's indebtedness to foreigners like them. So, as our nation's leaders debate whether to accept Syrians and Muslims into our country, the play's tribute to an indigent, parentless refugee who founded our nation's economic systems is nothing short of powerful. America should be wide enough for the firmly established American Burrs and the Hamiltons desperately seeking a better life in this nation.

But as Aaron Burr laments his former feelings of acrimony towards Hamilton, this phrase also speaks of making room for people--not removing them. It calls us all to recognize that our world's beauty and complexity is rooted in differing--even opposing--opinions. And while we may no longer formally duel our opponents, I do worry that we are taking an increasingly Burr-like approach to ousting or shunning those with whom we disagree. Our love of man seems to be waxing cold.

My concern is largely rooted in the burgeoning student protest culture that focuses on dismissing those who may present challenges to their worldview of diversity. I certainly believe in inclusivity; I loathe racism and prejudice as anyone else. But something is wrong about a mildly-written email about Halloween costumes that warrants a student to scream and curse at their administrator. Something is awry with student activists (and a professor!) imtimidating a student journalist from entering a protest on public space.Whatever happened holding discussions with leaders? Writing op-eds? What lesson does it teach these students when they can simply oust others for having a differing perspective, rather than learning to calmly discuss and work with others toward a solution? While I hope that our nation becomes safer for traditionally marginalized groups, I simultaneously worry just how far my generation will go to maintain their views of "political correctness," which seems to justify sanctimonious bullying.

Indeed, recent student protests only seem to reinforce the Atlantic's landmark article, "The Coddling of the American Mind," arguing how teachers are reluctant to present the less popular point of view--for fear of causing offense. On a similar note, Arthur Brooks cogently argues that academia is increasingly biased against conservatives in his piece, "Academia's Rejection of Diversity," and calls for more ideological diversity. It is a painful irony that our educational system, rather than widening our world, may actually be narrowing it.  

We can all work to make our world a little wider. One can only hope that we don't end up like Burr and realize this lesson too late.

Making sense of political extremism: my view of "Suffragette" as a 21st century woman

Until last night, I had always envisioned the suffragette movement as organized marches, conventions, and disseminating numerous pamphlets. However, after watching "Suffragette" Friday night, I was introduced to a more violent stream of events than I had ever dreamed possible. After decades of peaceful campaigning for the woman's vote,  these British suffragettes resort to property damage on a grand scale: cutting telephone lines, shattering business windows, destroying mailboxes, and even blowing up a residence--nearly killing a housekeeper. Apparently, even Winston Churchill's face was slashed by a fuming suffragette. Indeed, these women had declared war on the government and the men who ruled them.

Were these women justified in their actions? As a woman who has all of the rights that they fought for, am I supposed to show some respect for the crimes that they committed? And if so, were the Ferguson and Baltimore riots justified? What about the Palestinian suicide bombers? In short, is there ever a political cause that authorizes the perceived disenfranchised to conduct property damage and even injure others in the process of making their cause go forward? Where, if at all, do we draw the boundaries?

As one averse to political extremism, I had a hard time watching this film. That being said, perhaps it is unwise for me to judge these women from my position of privilege and 20-20 hindsight. These women lived in a very different world with little to lose: they earned one-third less than their male counterparts, had less access to education, and enjoyed no rights to their property or even their children.

But perhaps the most disconcerting experience of watching the film was a realization that in some ways, our society is not that different from a century ago. The main character, Maud Watts, explains to a policeman that violence is "the only language men could understand." And today, commentators on the Ferguson and Baltimore riots explained that these riots and looting are "a language of the unheard." Indeed, extremist acts are still perceived as the only way to express frustration with the status quo. But rather than immediately placing blame on the disenfranchised, what does it say about our nation and media that will only turn its head when violence and rioting occurs? Would MLK or Gandhi's tactics be as effectual in influencing policymakers today? While I would like to say yes, I can't be sure. 

Though I am glad this film portrayed a more holistic view of woman's suffrage, I'm not entirely sure how to interpret these women's legacy. But, in a world like ours with groups that have been--and remain disenfranchised--I think this film reminds all of us to show a little more compassion to those who are overlooked. And if there is any semblance of injustice, people in positions of power have the responsibility to ensure that grievances are met and restitution is made.

Photo by Leonard Bentley.

Examining the relationship between the temple and Garden of Eden

Last Sunday, I was fortunate to be a part of an eye-opening discussion, where we examined the Garden of Eden and its relationship to our modern-day temple. I had been looking forward to this discussion for a while, particularly because a friend had asked me earlier about Mormonism's view towards Adam's fall, prompting me to explain our unique take on it (in short, it was a good thing). Below are some of the insights I gained and still pondering about from the discussion:

1. The Garden of Eden was a place where Adam and Eve were able to walk and talk with God, as well as gain instruction. The temple, then, is an opportunity for us to temporarily return to a Garden of Eden-like state, where we can gain spiritual instruction and be in God's presence. The temple is also a poignant reminder that as Adam and Eve's descendants, we are not punished for their transgression in the Garden, as the Lord has provided a means for us to be in his presence at least temporarily. 

2. Juxtaposed with Genesis 2-3, 2 Nephi chapter 2 in the Book of Mormon provides an enlightening (and necessary) perspective of the Fall.

First, the parallels between Adam and Eve's family and Lehi's family are quite striking. Both of these families had been forced to leave their comfortable state (Jerusalem, Garden of Eden), into the unknown wilderness. Their family culture was also divisive with attempted fratricide on both sides (one with a terrible outcome). But what's important to note here is that the Fall is just as relevant to Jacob as it is to us. We live the repercussions of the Fall every day; our afflictions are a direct result of being a part of this mortal experience.

Finally, 2 Nephi 2 provides necessary clarification to Genesis 3. Consider the implications of verses 22-24:

 22 And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever:

 23 Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.

 24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.

 Here, God seems to exhibit a similar reaction as Zeus when he discovers that mankind possesses fire, something reserved only for the gods, and he unearths terrible vengeance. Similarly, God views Adam and Eve as a distinct threat, as they have become like him--and they are expelled from his presence.

But reading 2 Nephi 2, a much different explanation takes place. Here we learn that  "the way is prepared from the fall of man, and salvation is free." We also learn that "all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things." Through Christ's atonement, God has prepared a way for his children to return to him. We are not a threat to God, rather, He wants us to return to His presence, and He has planned a way for us to return.

The temple then, stands as a reminder of God's desire for us all to come back to him and to be redeemed through making promises to Him.

Photo by Ted.

No Man is an Island: Lessons Learned in the Land of Fire and Ice

                                                        My mother and I hiking in Iceland. 

As many of you may know, our family went to Iceland for two full weeks this summer. It was an amazing trip for multiple reasons: we were all together after two years enjoying 22 hours of daylight, hiking, fishing, and losing count of all the waterfalls we saw each day.

But perhaps the most meaningful part of the trip was getting to better understand my roots. My grandfather is actually Icelandic, and his grandfather, Elias Eggertson, was one of the thousands of Icelanders who left their homeland for a better life in Nova Scotia and North Dakota. I have felt some connection to the country after helping my grandfather assemble our Icelandic family history almost seven years ago. Growing up in the American Midwest, Iceland held sort of an exoticism to me, as I tried to imagine an island nation clustered with glaciers, volcanic formations, and bizarre hours of sunlight. At the same time, Iceland also seemed like an enigma with its cumbersome language and a relatively insular past that had rarely come up in my history and politics classes in school. In short, it was a country that rarely intersected with my consciousness.

So, when I traveled to Iceland, I expected to have a similar experience as when I had traveled to destinations in Europe and Asia. I was excited to soak in a foreigner's experience, and visit the spas, eat fresh seafood, hike, and swim in the naturally heated pools. I wasn't disappointed. What shocked me the most, however, were its small moments of familiarity.

I had never realized, for example, how Icelandic my mother actually looks, until I saw the other Icelandic women. We couldn't help but chuckle as tourists would tap my mother for directions, assuming that with her high cheekbones and Icelandic sweater, she was a native. They were half-right. One of my younger brothers  suddenly seemed to blend in with the rest of the blonde-haired and blue-eyed Icelandic boys. The nagging question he had always wondered about which side of the family he looked like, had finally been answered.

As most people agree that I look like my mother, I started to wonder how Icelandic I looked. But after a while, I then started to wonder what else I may have actually inherited from my Icelandic heritage:

Do I love seafood because my ancestors fished for hundreds of years in the Arctic Sea?
Can my literary interests be partially attributed to my ancestors who told stories, read, and wrote poetry during the long stretches of winter darkness?
Did I inherit my occasional lack of patience from my Viking forefathers who were reputed for their hot tempers?
Do I prefer cold weather over hot because my ancestors learned to survive and acclimate to arctic temperatures?

Maybe some of these answers are yes, and some are no. Maybe it doesn't really matter. But whatever I did inherit, I did leave Iceland hoping that I possessed--or could hope to claim--some aspects of my heritage. When visiting the northwestern region where our ancestors lived, a sense of wonder and astonishment came to me as I surveyed the treeless land in front of me with the foreboding fjords, glaciers, and rocky cliffs. How could communities have lived in a land like this that seemed so inhabitable? I wondered. Millions of questions came to me: How did they stay warm without trees for firewood? Where are all the large animals that they could have hunted? How did they farm with abundant rocks and snow on the ground? And the ultimate: how did they survive in 18-22 hours of darkness for six months of the year?

                                                        Elias Eggertson's birthplace. Foss, located in the Westfjotds, Iceland

As I visited the birthplace of Elias Eggertson, my ancestor who was responsible for transferring my Icelandic roots to the United States, John Donne's words immediately came to mind:

No man is an island  
Entire of itself
Every man is a piece of the continent 
A part of the main.

The spirit of the Puritan work ethic, while making its mark on our American perspective, nonetheless remains myopic and inadequate on many levels. Of course, I have worked hard to gain the opportunities that I have been given. And yet, I owe something to the men who bravely climbed down 500 ft cliffs to snatch eggs from puffin nests. Or the women whose weary fingers and dimming eyes knit sweaters from sheep wool during the long, dark winter nights. And of course, I am partially here due to my ancestors' intense uptra (a longing for a distant scene) that made them leave their homeland for the unknown. As I stared at my ancestors' birthplace, it suddenly occurred to me that he, a ship captain by trade who had grown up by the sea and waterfalls his whole life, never saw the ocean again when he emigrated. How much he must have missed the water landscape, as he re-branded himself as a farmer in North Dakota.

No matter how many years ago these events occurred, a piece of this nation has made an etching on my soul. And I am glad that it does. I don't know if I have the same kind of hardy, rugged spirit that they did, but I hope I do. I'm sure there is an inner spark of their grit and determination somewhere that I can claim for myself as I navigate my own world and the unknown paths I currently face.

Charleston: A Violation of Sacred Space

I was not alive during the Civil Rights movement. But if I talked to someone who grew up then, it would be unnerving to realize how disturbingly similar our living experiences are. We could talk about conflicts that arise simply because that blacks can occupy the same swimming pool as whites. We could talk about the inexcusable police cruelty on unarmed black men. We could talk about the arrival of the National Guard to quell violence in areas rife with racial conflict.

And now, as of this week, we can now talk about our reaction to a white man, armed with a handgun and unspeakable hatred, who opened fire in a place of black worship.

I have no words to express how I feel about this terrorist event in Charleston (yes, it is a terrorist act) for myriad reasons. There are many directions one can take in response to this event, but for now, I am contemplating on having a sacred space ruthlessly and perversely violated like the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church just experienced this week.

I feel a deep connection to Clementa Pickney, Tywanza Sanders, Cynthia Hurd, Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, Rev. Depayne Middleton Doctor, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. Daniel Simmons, and Myra Thompson. Why? Because while they were sitting in their Bible study class on Wednesday evening, I was also in a scripture study class at my place of worship here in Boston. Like these victims, I understand how uplifting and edifying it can be to worship in a sacred space.

But what is it, one may ask, that creates this sacred space? Part of the answer is that churches imbue a spirit of trust that is quietly disappearing from American culture. Even in the most historically important and visually arresting edifices, there are often no cumbersome security lines. There are no background checks. There is seldom a suspicious glance at a visitor. And, in many cases, there is no entrance fee. Rather, a church building generally seeks to be a visual representation of God's presence and love, as it offers its inhabitants a spirit of respect and impartiality. And in return, the unspoken but expected rule is to treat fellow congregants in a similar manner as you pray and worship to this same God. As a group, we are responsible to ensuring that this space remains holy.

I have relied on this spirit of trust each time I go to my scripture study class and my Sunday worship services. I place deep confidence in the strangers whom I worship with that we will choose to see each other as God sees us and respect one another's humanity.

So, in the wake of Charleston:

I am deeply angered that someone chose to occupy--and violently destroy--churchgoers' sacred space.

I am infuriated that I was able to leave my church building safely on Wednesday evening, and others in this country cannot enjoy this same privilege.

May we all pray and work harder toward brotherhood, peace, and justice in this country.

Photo by Stephen Melkisethian.