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the bustling Con Market—amid hundreds of
stalls selling exotic fruits, souvenirs, and
suspiciously branded North Face gear—a
spontaneous celebration unfolded. A group
of middle-aged women paraded in a circle,
waving flags and singing what seemed to
be a patriotic anthem. Their joy felt less
about military victory and more about re-
silience, survival, and pride in how far their
country had come.
One woman handed me the now-famil-
iar red flag with the gold star. I accepted it
with gratitude. As I walked through the
market, flag in hand, I received warm
smiles and nods—reminders that warmth
doesn’t need translation.
Here in Vietnam, remembrance feels
different.
While the war is still taught in schools
and reflected in museums, it’s not worn on
sleeves. The Vietnamese—guided in part by
the forgiving and reflective values of Bud-
dhism—seem less interested in vengeance
and more focused on healing. Many simply
refer to it as “The War.”
Buddhism teaches that suffering is uni-
versal, that anger is poison, and that inner
A pre-arranged reunion with “English” peace matters more than external battles.
Tony O’Donnell—an old friend from San That spirit quietly permeates how the Viet-
Diego and fellow slow-travel enthusiast— namese remember the conflict. Though
was a welcome break from my solo rhythm. their losses were immense, many choose to
We traded stories while waiting for the honor the past through reflection and re-
fire-breathing Dragon Bridge to ignite over silience.
the Han River. The flames were impressive
at first but felt more sizzle than spectacle. Sacred Spaces and Suit Fittings
Still, the LaRue beers and conversation
flowed easily as we toasted former col-
leagues and miles traveled. A must-visit in Da Nang is the 30-story
The major celebration for the 50th an- Lady Buddha statue that towers over the
niversary of “Reunification Day” was cen- city. That afternoon, worshippers—mostly
tered in Ho Chi Minh City: parades, women—had gathered inside the temple at
fireworks, drone shows—broadcast nation- the statue’s base. Their chanting echoed
ally. In Da Nang, flags of the Socialist Re- through the open doors, rising and falling
public of Vietnam lined the streets, but the in unison. I closed my eyes and let the
overall atmosphere was surprisingly sub- sound wash over me. Just another unex-
dued. pected Zen moment in Vietnam.
That morning, while wandering through Nestled in the jungle about an hour and
a half from Da Nang, the UNESCO World
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