Horrors of the past relived at My Lai

Pham Thanh Cong, survivor of the My Lai Massacre, greets Stephen Harrison in front of the main statue of the memorial site.

Stephen Harrison

Pham Thanh Cong, survivor of the My Lai Massacre, greets Stephen Harrison in front of the main statue of the memorial site.

Early on the morning of March 16, 1968, three U.S. platoons landed in the rice paddies just outside Son My, a group of hamlets that includes My Lai. Within a few horrible hours, 504 villagers, mostly women, children and the elderly, were murdered. Many were raped and tortured before their death. The hamlet was razed to the ground in the process. Lieutenant William Calley was eventually court-martialed in 1971, the only American to be convicted. He was pardoned by President Nixon in 1974. The My Lai Massacre can be found in history books, but in 2002 there is still a real place called My Lai with people in the area who managed to survive. The nightmare for them is relived everyday.

My Lai sits close to the coast, nine miles off Highway One and about sixty miles south of Danang. It is an isolated and very quiet hamlet in Quang Ngai Province where there was much VC activity during the war. Upon our arrival at the hamlet, which is now a landscaped memorial ground with neo-realist statues and a small museum, I was invited into the office of the memorial Director, Mr. Pham Thanh Cong. Pham Thanh is a survivor and was requested by the government to tell the story of that day to visitors. With my guide, Quang, as our interpreter, he proceeded to tell me in graphic detail about that unthinkable event. With a calm, steady voice he described how he, his mother and his siblings were pulled from their shelter by three G.I.’s. Since his father was not in the village at the time, they were forced into another bunker, whereupon grenades were tossed in with them. After that, the soldiers opened fire with machine guns, killing everyone but him. He sustained grenade fragment wounds. Pham Thanh was eleven-years old. One year later his father was killed, too. He also lost many friends that day, and he has been alone in this world ever since.

Now he works every day on the spot where it all happened. He says some people stayed, but most left. Yet every aspect of this man’s demeanor and outlook defies human nature as I know it. First, he has maintained his sanity while reliving the memory with visitors over and over. But most incredibly, he spoke to me, an American, as a friend. He served me tea and told me he was appreciative of my visiting My Lai. I asked him how he is able to forgive. According to his culture, he says, he tries to maintain an open mind while trying to live a better life now and in the future. He respects Americans and doesn’t think of them as an enemy. “We love peace,” he says, “and we pray that peace comes to everyone and that nobody has to experience such a thing.” This is the message everyone receives, from foreigners like myself to Vietnamese children. U.S. veterans return here, too, to find a peaceful welcome. After our visit I had my picture taken with Pham Thanh in front of the main statue, where he instigated a handshake that describes the people of Vietnam much more poignantly than any words I can write.

From there I had a look at the museum. Some of the photos I recognized, some I did not. Almost all of the pictures were taken by an American photographer. It was a highly disturbing display and I began to feel ill. Quang and I then walked around the memorial grounds. Trees scarred with bullet holes still stand. Bunkers are scattered about. One of the many unsettling elements of this place is that the bunkers, the slightly elevated plots where homes once stood, and even the trees have signs on them with the names of the people who once lived there. I tried to imagine if it were the neighborhood where I grew up: “Jim and Sally Reynolds lived here with their four children. All were shot dead,” “This tree stands in front of where Blair and Betty Carmichael lived with their only son – all killed,” “The Harrisons lived here…” Three hours evaporated wandering around. Then we got in the car and drove seven more hours into the Central Highlands in relative silence.