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On April 30, 1975, Vietnam achieved national reunification. That same year, as if to breathe new life into an era of peace, many children were born – children who turn 50 this year. I am one of them.
Though I’ve known about the sorrows of war through schoolbooks, literature, and poetry, the remnants left behind in my hometown gave those stories a piercing depth. I came to understand the pain of war not as abstract knowledge, but as something woven into the land itself.
My early years passed quietly in a home nestled in central Vietnam, a place bathed in wind and sunlight. After the war, the villagers worked tirelessly in the fields, devoted to reviving agricultural production. At dusk, after long days of labour, young men would whistle to gather the village girls, and songs of love would fill the evening air. Beneath the moonlight, the sounds of guitars blended with youthful voices—an impromptu concert that remains vividly etched in my memory. I recall the children laughing as they bathed in the rain, the green expanse of rice paddies and farmland stretching into the distance. Just thinking of these scenes fills me with deep nostalgia.
Yet even though the gunfire and roar of helicopters had ceased, the hills and fields were still laced with landmines and unexploded ordnance. These hidden remnants of war continued to endanger lives. Curious children, drawn to the gleam of a shell casing with a live fuse, sometimes paid the ultimate price.
The fear I felt as a child when I heard an explosion still haunts me. Because I knew what came next: someone in the village would lose a limb or face a lifetime of disability. In this way, I came to understand the legacy of war not through history lessons, but through lived experience. The end of the war did not mark the end of suffering. Poverty remained—and at times, it stole the very future from people.
In my village, there was a child who lost an arm. His family lived in deep poverty, and he was never able to work or find employment throughout his life. Even today, five decades later, the newspapers still carry reports about unexploded ordnance. During home construction, bombs have been found two metres underground. For large infrastructure projects, demining is still a prerequisite before work can begin.
For decades, the Vietnamese government has quietly and persistently worked to clear these remnants of war. The end of a war is not defined by the silencing of guns. It takes years of tireless effort to return the land to safety, to ensure that children born in peacetime can live without fear.
I was still a graduate student when, on November 16, 2000, President Bill Clinton became the first U.S. president to make an official visit to Vietnam since the war. His visit was watched with a mix of anxiety and anticipation, closely covered by the media. American friends asked me, “How will the Vietnamese people receive a U.S. president, after such a devastating war?” But Vietnam chose a path forward. A nation that had lost so much to war understood more deeply than anyone the value of peace.
We chose not to be bound by the past or let pain become a barrier to the future. Even as the scars of war remained around us, Vietnam welcomed President Clinton with warmth and sincerity. It was a quiet declaration to the world: Vietnam seeks peace, moves forward with hope, and embraces mutual understanding and respect beyond the borders of nation and ethnicity.
In 2004, I began work on my doctoral dissertation on rural poverty in Vietnam, which included fieldwork in central Vietnam. Nearly three decades after the war, I saw evidence of change: life seemed to have improved, and the scars of conflict appeared to have faded. But during a household interview, a woman suddenly looked off into the distance and said softly:
“The war may be over, but not for me. I still fight that war every single day.”
Following her gaze, I saw a man standing with a crutch, having lost an arm, and two children nearby suffering from the effects of Agent Orange.
Sitting silently in the car on the way back to the hotel, I watched the scenery blur past the window. Her calm voice and eyes remain vivid in my memory. A crushing heaviness settled in my chest. That day, I realized: some pain cannot be healed by time. Some wounds, even in peace, do not fully fade.
The damage of war is not only measured in lost lives. It is found in the long-lasting poverty, the disrupted livelihoods, and the futures stolen from generations who never even held a weapon. Like that family, many in Vietnam continue to suffer from the consequences of Agent Orange. War’s losses are not confined to one nation’s story. They reflect deep, structural issues—poverty, vulnerability, and intergenerational inequality. What these people have lost goes beyond material hardship. They have lost dreams, futures, and faith in justice.
War does not end on the day the guns fall silent. It is the beginning of a long, painful journey that spans generations.
Today, on April 30, 2025, the Vietnamese government held its largest military parade to date. Some have voiced criticism over the scale, cost, and constraints of such an event. But I see it as a message to future generations: the independence and freedom we enjoy today came at a tremendous cost of blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. War brings only the deepest loss and suffering, regardless of who claims victory.
We must share this understanding. We must unite our hearts in the pursuit of peace and freedom. This parade is also a message to the world: no matter what hardships we endure, the Vietnamese people will never lose our resolve to defend our homeland. Vietnam’s strength does not lie in military might alone. It lies in the hearts of its people and their determination never to forget our history.
This year, troops from China, Laos, and Cambodia joined the parade. Their presence symbolizes regional solidarity, the maturation of Vietnam’s diplomacy, and a shared aspiration for a peaceful, stable, and prosperous Asia.
I have walked alongside Vietnam for 50 years. Through the trials of war, Vietnam launched the Doi Moi reforms, embraced economic renewal, and joined the global community. Now, we aim to become a high-income country within 20 years. As we mark 50 years since reunification, memories of wartime pain are gradually fading, replaced by growing hope for the future.
（人民軍隊新聞提供の資料写真）
Today, April 30, 2025, my homeland is filled with joy. Young and old alike carry flags of red with yellow stars, proudly celebrating in the streets. Social media is adorned with logos commemorating the 50th anniversary of Southern Liberation and National Reunification. I once asked my grandmother what she was doing on that historic day 50 years ago.
“Grandma, on the day the country was reunited—when everyone was celebrating independence—what were you doing? And why have you never told me about the war?”
With a gentle smile, she looked into my eyes and said: “That day? I was sitting here, just savoring the quiet of a day without helicopters and bombs. I never wanted to talk about the war. If you keep remembering it, you lose the will to live.”
Only those who lived through war can truly understand the sanctity of silence, the preciousness of peace. My grandmother, like so many elderly Vietnamese, lived through two wars. Though deeply wounded, they chose silence over bitterness and nurtured hope. They never taught us hatred or resentment. As a child, I thought perhaps they had simply forgotten. But now I understand: they tried to forget, because they had to, in order to survive.
Her quiet words, “If you keep remembering it, you can’t go on living,” now pierce my heart. Fighting for peace is not about clinging to pain. Peace means moving forward, embracing mutual understanding, and building a shared future.
Fifty years ago today, my grandmother sat quietly, savoring the serenity of peace. And today, her once little granddaughter, now with graying hair, writes this reflection from a university campus in Japan. As I remember her and my homeland, I am filled with gratitude for those who gave their lives for our nation, and for Japan—the country where I now live and work, which has walked with Vietnam on the path of recovery and growth.
Even if I am but a speck of dust, I tell myself: let me become someone who can continue contributing to the two nations that have given me so much. Because of those who stayed silent instead of crying, we are able to smile today.
It is precisely because we are a people who have lost so much to war that we understand the value of peace so deeply. We must not let the past bind us, nor allow pain to obstruct the future. I want to live a life that honors that precious silence.
Looking back on these 50 years, I have learned: war leaves not only physical scars, but quiet ones embedded deep in the human heart. Sometimes, they are passed down across generations. But we must never use those old wounds to justify new hatred.
That stillness we often take for granted—peace—is the most sacred thing humanity must protect through shared understanding and compassion.
Today, I simply hope. I hope that this world—the one my grandmother once dreamed of—will never again echo with gunfire or explode in violence. That it will be a world where no one cries tears of hatred, but instead, all live together with kindness, understanding, and joy.
Perhaps my grandmother’s only dream was to witness a single day without the sound of helicopters or bombs. My dream, today, is to see Vietnam walk steadily toward responsible and peaceful development, never taking freedom for granted. More than that, I dream of a world where people truly understand one another, a world without war, without death, without scars.
Through a conversation with my grandmother, and the sudden roar of an explosion in a central Vietnamese rice field, I learned how sacred, fragile, and worth protecting peace truly is. Within me live fragments of postwar memory, a spirit of forgiveness, and a quiet determination: to remain honest to the past, devoted to the present, and committed to shaping a better future. And with that, I continue writing toward tomorrow. (Written in Tokyo, April 30, 2025)
Published in the World Economic Review IMPACT on May 5, 2025 (in Japanese)
http://www.world-economic-review.jp/impact/article3821.html
Nguyen Thuy
Associate Professor, Chiba University of Commerce
Vice Director, Institute of Economic Research
Chair, Asia Future Association (AFA)
