'Never Forget the Sacrifice:' A Visit to Chu Van An High School in Hanoi, Vietnam.

Our Social Studies Education Delegation to Vietnam, a group of American educators sponsored by the Citizen Ambassador Program of People to People International, was well received the afternoon that we visited Chu Van An High School, located in the Ba Dinh District of Hanoi. We were greeted hospitably by Pham Dinh Dau, the principal of the school, serenaded with American and Vietnamese songs by the students, and given tours of the school by the students and teachers. Women students, decked out in their best ao dais, presented each of us with a bouquet of flowers. Our first visit to a Vietnamese school could hardly have been a more pleasant occasion.

Chu Van An had, of course, been well chosen for a school visit by the Vietnamese Ministry of Education and Training, where that morning we had engaged in our first academic exchange. Founded by the French in 1907 as the first high school in Indochina, Chu Van An developed an impressive academic reputation over the years. The school history proudly proclaims that "the school has produced the best student groups from amongst the 53 high schools in the city. . . . Since 1982-1983 until now, the school has been the absolute leader in competition for the whole city" (Chu Van An, 80 Nam: Truyen Thong Ve Vang, 1988, 12 [hereinafter, Chu Van An, 80 Nam]). Today, Chu Van An has a faculty of 135 teachers for some 2,400 students in grades 9-12 who take courses across eleven different subject areas. Indeed, Chu Van An's students have gone on to great heights. Her most famous student, Pham Van Dong, the compatriot of Ho Chi Minh and Vo Nguyen Giap, eventually became the premier of Vietnam.

Displayed in a small room off the reception area on the first floor of the main building of the campus, the awards and honors bestowed upon Chu Van An served as testaments to her academic reputation. Emblazoned with strong gold letters on a blood-red background and fringed with gold trim, the banners and pennants that mark the academic achievement of the school and her students cover the walls of the small room. One such award reads simply, "Students Who Won the International Prize" and lists the nine students who have won the International Prize. Another award from the Ha Noi Education Service read as follows: "First Prize among Comrades-in-Arms, Best Students, Literature."

"Since 1961-1962 [the year starting student competition in the north]," reads the school history, "Chu Van An students have obtained more than 50 awards in math, physics, Russian, literature, and technology" (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 12). The number and the variety of shapes, and the red and gold of the banners and pennants focused our attention on the honors and awards of Chu Van An School at the expense of the faded and austere photographs that loomed in the background. At first glance, these photographs appeared somewhat incongruous in such a setting, and we had to look more closely to read the simple captions.

One photograph showed students in a sort of formation in a courtyard, standing in front of several thatched huts in a rural setting. The contrast between such structures and the present campus of the school was dramatic. A translation of the caption to the photograph told us that this was a view of the school at the Place of Partial Evacuation, 1965-1970. A second photograph showed a group of students and teachers, and the caption on this photograph read: Chu Van An students at the Place of Partial Evacuation, checking the trenches again before entering class. Other captions designated the communal kitchen of the school at the Place of Partial Evacuation, 1972, and the male and female teachers during the school council with the cadre and local authorities at the Place of Partial Evacuation in the year 1966.

After we looked at the pictures and the captions and talked further with our Vietnamese hosts, we realized that between the years 1965 and 1970, Chu Van An High School was moved to the town of Hung Yen, some fifty kilometers southeast of Hanoi in the Red River Delta area of Hai Hung province. The school was moved because of the American bombing of Hanoi and the concern over the possibility of many student casualties if American bombs fell upon the school. As visitors, we knew nothing of the movement of this school and many other Vietnamese schools out of the city to avoid the bombing. Instead, we accepted the graciousness and hospitality of our Vietnamese hosts who made no mention of the war between our two countries.

Indeed, we knew nothing about the history of Chu Van An, a school founded in 1907 by the French as the "Protectorate High School" to train Vietnamese civil bureaucrats to work under the French colonial government (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 10). In fact, the Protectorate High School was founded by the French to counter the Dong Kinh Nghia Thuc School (literally, Eastern Capital Free School) opened by the Vietnamese earlier in 1907 to promote the idea of public schooling in traditionally elitist subjects for everyone. Based upon a Japanese model, the Dong Kinh Nghia Thuc School soon became the focus of a popular movement for mass public education and the drive toward modernization and Vietnamese nationhood (Jamieson 1993; Kelly 1978; Marr 1971). In her discussion of colonial schools in Vietnam, Gail P. Kelly (1978) wrote that the French colonial regime convened the Council for the Improvement of Native Education to develop plans for education in Vietnam:

The Council's deliberations clearly indicated that colonial schools in Vietnam were developed to substitute for autonomous Vietnamese education. and to preempt any independent formulations of Western, or modern, education . . . Vietnamese initiative for autonomous educational reform, as exemplified in the Dong Kinh Free School, and demands for French education prompted the government to define educational policy precisely . . . The Dong Kinh Free School and others like it represented a political threat of a nature perhaps different from Vietnamese traditional education but nonetheless a real challenge to French authority if uncontrolled. (99, 102-103)

Alarmed at the influence of the Dong Kinh School on the Vietnamese populace, the French closed the school down in 1908. The Vietnamese, in their resistance to French colonial authority, renamed their new counter-school, Truong Buoi or the Grapefruit School, a name so typically Vietnamese as to obfuscate the very name of the Protectorate High School (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 10). As the only high school in the whole of Indochina after the closing of the Vietnamese-initiated Dong Kinh School, the Buoi School attracted the best and the brightest of Vietnamese students who educated themselves in the ways of the West, the better to understand their French oppressors. Their aim was the eventual expulsion of the French from their country.

John T. McAlister, Jr., wrote:

Intent on putting its cultural stamp on Viet Nam, France decided to create a Western education system to train Vietnamese in French traditions and technical knowledge, The eider Mus [Cyprien Mus] was selected for the seminal post of establishing the system, and in 1907 he opened the first high school in Viet Nam, from which, over a decade later, his son Paul would graduate along with his Vietnamese childhood friends. Such was the confidence in education in that era that the eider Mus could not have realized his freshly built schools would become the breeding ground for a new generation of revolutionary nationalists. . . . (McAlister and Mus 1970, 7-8)

McAlister could only have been writing about Chu Van An as the first high school in Vietnam, whose students became the revolutionary activists of Vietnamese anticolonialism in their struggle against the French for the independence of Vietnam. Indeed, Chu Van An simply took on the traditional role of schools in Vietnamese society in their resistance to colonial rule. "When French armies invaded southern Vietnam in 1858, Vietnamese schoolteachers organized and led the fight against foreigners. It was natural that such a role befall teachers. Throughout Vietnamese history they had integrated the village with the nation" (Kelly 1978, 96). Thus, Chu Van An School took on the banner of resistance as "a revolutionary patriotic tradition" that carried over to their struggle against the Americans in what the Vietnamese perceived as their continuing struggle for the independence of Vietnam (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 10).

The Grapefruit School became Chu Van An School during the August Revolution of 1945, and the Provisional Government of the Democratic Republic of Viet Nam was established on September 2 of that year. On that day, Ho Chi Minh read the Vietnamese Declaration of Independence from the balcony of the French municipal theater to some 500,000 people gathered in Ba Dinh Square in the center of Hanoi. According to Major Archimedes L. A. Patti (1980), who led the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) mission to the Viet Minh and who was there at the time, Ho's first words were, in literal translation:

All men are created equal. The Creator has given us certain inviolable Rights; the right to Life, the right to be free, and the right to achieve happiness. These words are taken from the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America in 1776. (250)

Citing Patti, among others, Neil L. Jamieson (1993) wrote about the beginning of Ho's speech in more figurative terms as a literal translation of the Declaration of Independence of the United States:

All men are created equal. They are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights; among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. . . . (196)

Once Ho had finished his address, General Vo Nguyen Giap, whom Americans would come to know well during subsequent years, delivered a speech in which he stated:

The United States of America . . . has paid the greatest contributions to the Vietnamese fight against fascist Japan, our enemy, and so the great American Republic is a good friend of ours. (Jamieson 1993, 196)

Archimedes Patti's translation reads, "and so the Great American Republic is our good ally" (1980, 251). Against the background of World War II, Jamieson (1993) places that day, which today is the Vietnamese National Day on September 2, in perspective:

The Americans had indeed been good friends of the Vietminh in their bid to grasp power in Vietnam. Americans in the field had consistently snubbed the French forces and refused, sometimes cruelly, to help them, while they had openly demonstrated their sympathy for the Vietnamese revolutionaries in Southern China, and especially for Ho. The Americans who had met Ho Chi Mirth liked him and wanted to help him in his struggle against both the Japanese and the French. (196)

What happened, we might ask, in some twenty short years, that we would somehow move from a sense of American support of the Vietnamese in their struggle for independence and the Vietnamese perception of "the Great American Republic [as] our good ally," to having over 500,000 American troops fighting a war against these very same Vietnamese led by the very same Ho Chi Minh we once liked and supported? This turn-around would lead to the deaths of over 58,000 Americans and approximately 1,921,000 Vietnamese--both enemies and allies, north and south, military and civilian, not to mention the wounded and the maimed, the displaced and the dispossessed, and the agony inflicted upon both our countries (Williams 1987, 7, citing the Indochina Newsletter, November-December 1982). In a presage of subsequent years, David G. Marr wrote that "the stage was set for thirty more years of upheaval and strife, in which first the French and then the Americans tried to ignore the August 1945 Revolution and to turn back the clock" (1984, 370).

The Vietnamese renamed the Protectorate High School after the fourteenth-century Hanoi scholar and teacher Chu Van An (1292-1370), "a respected and cultivated man" who exemplified the spirit of learning during the Tran Dynasty (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 11). The students of Chu Van An High School assumed their roles in the ongoing struggle against the French, who tried "to turn back the clock" after the August 1945 Revolution. Teachers and students established another high school in Dao Gia, located to the northwest of Hanoi in Vinh Phu province, as "a high school for the resistance" (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 11). Three Hanoi schools, Chu Van An together with Nguyen Trai and Trung Vuong schools, united toward this end. Through an organization entitled the "Young Saviours of the Nation," these schools worked to promote the resistance movement and involved themselves in the war effort.

Pham Van Dong, the school's most famous alumnus, returned to his old school on March 21, 1959, to deliver an address to the students of Chu Van An. Pham noted that he himself never graduated from Chu Van An. He left the school in 1926, at the time of the death of Phan Chu Trinh (1872-1926), the reformist scholar and patriot who had founded the Dong Kinh Nghia Thuc school, when the students wanted to honor Phan but were not allowed by the school administration to do so. Pham Van Dong's charge to the student body commemorated the sacrifice of those Chu Van An students who had waged the struggle against the French. "You can go to school at present thanks to the previous great sacrifice of thousands of soldiers and millions of people. . . . Children, remember this . . . so that you can contribute more to society in appreciation of this sacrifice" (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 22). Three short years hater, on February 8, 1962, the United States established the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) to organize and direct the American military effort in Vietnam, and Vietnam's "great sacrifice of thousands of soldiers and millions of people" would be replayed once again, this time against the Americans.

The tenor of these early years of the American intervention in Vietnam can be seen at Chu Van An School in a brief passage from Bao Ninh's (1994) eloquent novel about one North Vietnamese soldier entitled The Sorrow of War:

Kien saw the Buoi school as it had been back then, in April 1965, just before the outbreak of the war. It was late afternoon. By then its shady row of trees had been chopped down, its yard crisscrossed with deep trenches, anticipating war. The headmaster, wearing a fireman's helmet, boasted loudly that the Americans would be blown away in this war, but we wouldn't. "The imperialist is a paper tiger," he screamed. "You will be the young angels of our revolution, you will rescue mankind!"

He pointed to a pupil among the tenth-form boys who were holding wooden rifles, spears, spades and hoes, showing childish bravado. "Life is here, death is also here," the boy said and the others sang noisily. Someone yelled, "Kill the Invader!" and everyone cheered. (108)

The imperialist, in Bao Ninh's terms, was hardly a paper tiger, however, and, while Americans would die in this war, death was also there for the Vietnamese in numbers perhaps thirty times those of the Americans. The sacrifice of the Vietnamese in their War of Liberation could be seen at Chu Van An School in those austere and faded photographs that rested between the banners and pennants heralding the academic honors. Those photographs were portraits of young men as soldiers, portraits of former students of Chu Van An, reminders of the "great sacrifice" we all make when we go to war. In many ways, these photographs reminded us of similar portraits on the walls of American high schools--portraits of young men as soldiers, portraits of ourselves as students, and portraits of our own students. The faded photographs commemorate the fallen soldiers of Chu Van An High School who died on the battlefield in the War of Liberation (what we Americans term the Vietnam War) fighting against us Americans. This school, perhaps the most prestigious secondary school in all of Hanoi, lost at least ten of its sons, at least nine former students, and one former teacher.

Some eighteen years after what the Vietnamese refer to as the liberation of Sai Gon (Saigon) in 1975 (and what we Americans refer to as the fall of Saigon), we American teachers came to visit a school that still commemorates its fallen sons who once fought against us Americans. We knew nothing of their losses from the war, of course, and avoided even a discussion of the war, much less how they teach about the war in their schools. Instead, we responded in marked ignorance to the graciousness and hospitality of our Vietnamese hosts.

The school's history reports the place of Chu Van An School in the history of the country and the sacrifice of her students for their country since the founding of the school. In a more particular sense, the history records the sacrifice of her students in the war against us Americans. "Never Forget the Sacrifice" commands the headline of one section of the school's history. A tribute to "Those Who Remain on the Battlefield" follows, extolling the contributions and the sacrifice of Chu Van An students during the American war:

Many teachers and outstanding students are absent in today's joyous gathering. Although you are still alive in the hearts of teachers and friends, we still feel handicapped for not being able to tell more completely about you, about your heroic sacrifice. Heroic deaths often bequeath endless thoughts in the hearts of the living.

The school's history is replete with the stories of those men who fought and died against us. We know that Nguyen Doan Hao, whose photograph is found on the wall, was a teacher at Chu Van An who joined the army only to sacrifice his life at the age of twenty-four. We know that Nghiem Tran Thanh, the son of a high-ranking party member, graduated from Chu Van An in 1967 and, although chosen to study abroad, instead entered the army. Nghiem died before he reached his eighteenth birthday in the Truong Son mountains from the bombs of B-52s while driving the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Nguyen Dai Hung was a student from the south who was awarded a declaration of special merit as a tenth-year student. He also was awarded a second-degree decoration of merit in battle because he died a heroic death on September 27, 1972, while holding his position against an American attack (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 22-23).

Some students fought against us through their poems, some through their songs, some as technicians; "thousands of people working silently throughout the nation, striving in order not to betray the education given by their teachers" (Chu Van An, 80 Nam 1988, 11). The school even brought some one hundred students to the north from the Hue area after the 1968 Tet Offensive to continue their education. Some returned to the south after graduation to continue the war "to liberate their country" (1988, 12). The history of Chu Van An cites additional academic honors awarded the school and her students and their many contributions to society. Yet, while the individual awards and contributions are hardly insignificant, they are most often viewed within the larger historical context of the liberation of the country from Western powers, first the French and then the Americans.

In this regard, Bernard B. Fall (1972, 134) wrote, on the repudiation of the protectorate treaty between France and Vietnam by Emperor Bao Dai on March 10, 1945, and the place of Vietnam within Japan's Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, that "France's rule over Viet-Nam had lasted a few months less than 60 years. Considering Viet-Nam's 2200 years of recorded history, it had been a very brief interlude." The French attempted unsuccessfully "to turn back the clock" to the years before the August 1945 Revolution. In the French image, David Marr notes, the Americans attempted to turn back the clock as well, and thus we have an American interlude in Vietnam even briefer than that of the French. Although considered the longest war in United States history, with American involvement extending at least back into World War II, the American experience in Viet-nam, as traumatic as it was for the United States, remains but a brief interlude within the larger flow of the Vietnamese historical experience. Frances Fitzgerald (1989) placed the American involvement in Vietnam in historical and cultural perspective. "The United States came to Vietnam at a critical juncture of Vietnamese history," she wrote, "a period of metamorphosis more profound than any the Vietnamese had ever experienced. . . . In going into Vietnam, the United States was not only transposing itself into a different epoch of history; it was entering a world qualitatively different from its own" (1989, 6-7).

In our distinctly narrow and short-sighted view of history, our group of American educators went to Vietnam to visit with our Vietnamese counterparts as participants on the contemporary historical and political scene. We visited Chu Van An School to accept graciously the hospitality and generosity of our Vietnamese hosts, to receive their flowers, and to hear their songs, intending to ignore the savage war fought between our two countries but twenty short years ago. We were interested in contemporary Vietnam and in how the Vietnamese educate their students today, but we had no understanding of Vietnamese education that is shaped as much by historical experience as it is by contemporary realities. What Chu Van An says to us is that underneath the glamour and glitter of the honors and awards lie the austere and faded photographs that represent the "great sacrifice" of her sons, of her students, of the school, and of the country, in the war against us as Americans. "You can go to school today thanks to the previous great sacrifice of thousands of soldiers and millions of people," said Pham Van Dong to the students of Chu Van An (Chu Van An, 80 Nam, 1988, 22). And we American visitors to Chu Van An, in our innocence and ignorance of all things past, smelled their flowers but failed to see their graves.

"Vietnam. This ancient word, originally meaning 'Viets of the South,' is a metaphor for recent American history," writes Thomas Banit in a recent article entitled "Vietnam Education in New England" (1990, 56). Banit is right, of course, leading us as American educators to ask ourselves, how is it that the name of another country, "Vietnam," or in Vietnamese terms, "Viet Nam," becomes a metaphor for contemporary American history? In more specific terms, we note that the theme issue of Social Education (1988), entitled "Teaching the Vietnam War" contained sixteen articles devoted to the war, none of which concerned the war from the Vietnamese perspective, none of which concerned the impact of the war upon the Vietnamese as a people, and none of which concerned the teaching of Vietnamese history and culture. We thus have added to our shortsighted historical perspective our shallow cross-cultural perspective whereby our focus in teaching Vietnam becomes an exclusive focus on teaching the Vietnam War viewed in narrow American terms. Bruce Weigl characterizes this very ethnocentric mindset in his foreword to Larry Rottman's book of poetry entitled Voices from the Ho Chi Mirth Trail: Poetry of America and Vietnam, 1965-1993. Weigl (1993) writes of the artistic responses of Americans to the war:

Suffice it to note that there have been far too many works of art produced in response to the war that have glorified in the suffering of others and romanticized the nightmare that war is. Among this cacophony of artistic responses, what's missing, ironically, is the presence of the Vietnamese themselves. Just as soldiers in training for war were tought to dehumanize the Vietnamese so as to make it easier to kill them, the American public has not yet been allowed or able to imagine our former enemies in any other light but that of faceless, nameless aggressor. Even in those works of art which have been widely accepted as accurate portrayals of the war, the Vietnamese have been so villianized that the most demeaning stereotype of yellow-skinned savages who have no regard for human life still pervades the minds of many Americans. . . . Many cultivate this image of the Vietnamese because they need to protect themselves from the unsettling truths of our involvement in that war: over fifty-eight thousand Americans dead, and more than three-hundred thousand wounded, and over sixty thousand Viet-nam vet suicides. And on the other side, as many as five million Vietnamese dead, two-thirds of whom were women and children. Allowing ourselves to see the Vietnamese as human beings would require us to accept more fully the responsibility for our individual and national actions during America's long involvement in Indochina. (foreword)

Although American social education hardly suggests that the Vietnamese are "yellow-skinned savages" in explicit terms, there is simply no question that the Vietnamese have remained nameless and faceless in our teaching of the war in Vietnam. We thus continue to dehumanize the Vietnamese as a people and consider Vietnam but a metaphor for recent American history. To recognize the humanity of the Vietnamese, as Bruce Weigl suggests, one must first acknowledge the war's impact upon the Vietnamese as a people and, in particular, acknowledge the suffering of the Vietnamese during the war and during the aftermath of the war. "Allowing us to see the Vietnamese as human beings" requires the acceptance of American responsibility for our intervention in Vietnam, regardless of the ideals for which we fought, which could not but help contribute to that suffering.

We found on the wails of Chu Van An High School, as we might find on the walls of American high schools, a reminder of the losses and the pain that Vietnamese still carry with them from the war between our two countries. Our delegation of educators, most of whom had had no connection to the Vietnam War, failed even to acknowledge the Vietnamese sacrifice in their war against us. In curricular parallel, American social education fails' to acknowledge the Vietnamese as a people within their own country. "Vietnam is a country, not a war," suggested Nguyen Ngoc Hung, the vice director of the Vietnamese Language Center, Hanoi Foreign Language College, who once fought against us in the People's Army of Viet Nam, what we once knew as the NVA (Noah Vietnamese Army). In our teaching about the Vietnam War--if we even teach about Vietnam--we continue to dehumanize the Vietnamese in direct parallel to our dehumanization of the Vietnamese during the war, which we did, as Weigl says, in order to kill them.

Indeed, we seem to have learned very little over the past thirty years. We continue to perpetuate the very mindset that involved the United States in Vietnam in the first place, a mindset that suggests we fought the war for American political interests and ideals in ignorance of the Vietnamese cultural and historical tradition. American dehumanization of the Vietnamese is the continuing legacy of the American war in Vietnam, and until we as educators confront this legacy, we will continue to protect ourselves from "the unsettling truths of our involvement in that war" (Weigl 1993, foreword).

Viewed in these terms, the reorientation of American perceptions of Vietnam and the Vietnamese requires our understanding of the American war in Vietnam as but a painful American interlude within the larger context of the Vietnamese historical experience. To paraphrase Bernard Fall's description of the French experience in Vietnam, the American experience in Vietnam lasted perhaps thirty years. "Considering Viet-Nam's 2,200 years of recorded history, it had been a very brief interlude" (1972, 134). For us to move beyond the American war and recognize the humanity of the Vietnamese requires our recognition of Vietnamese history and culture, independent of the American intervention in Vietnam and American geopolitical interests. We must admit that Vietnamese perceptions of our intervention may indeed be different from the way we Americans perceive that intervention. Recognition of the humanity of the Vietnamese, as seen through the loss of so many Vietnamese lives can only suggest that such a great sacrifice was made for a purpose. If we view this through the history of the Chu Van An School, we will see this purpose within the context of the Vietnamese historical experience, an experience that perceived Americans as foreign invaders who carried on the legacy of French colonialism.

To an American educator who was once an enemy of the Vietnamese during their War of Liberation, the American interlude in Vietnam offers an opportunity to explore the place and meaning of Vietnam within American social education. I argue that we must acknowledge the humanity of the Vietnamese as the initial curricular step if we are to understand the significance of Vietnam for American social education. If, in Weigl's terms, we allow "ourselves to see the Vietnamese as human beings," we place the war in another context, acknowledging the purpose for which they sacrificed their lives. We recognize the Vietnamese perspective of their own cultural history in which the Vietnam War becomes the American interlude in Vietnam, viewed within the Vietnamese historical and cultural tradition and independent of American geopolitical concerns.

In this regard, we leave it to Lt. Gen. Harold G. Moore and Joseph L. Galloway to write of the heroism and the humanity of both Americans and Vietnamese in their moving reconstruction of the Battle of the Ia Drang in the Central Highlands of Vietnam entitled We Were Soldiers Once . . . And Young (1992). It would seem only natural that Lt. Col. Moore, the commander of the 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment, 1st Cavalry Division, should write of the heroism of his own men in the first major engagement between the American army and North Vietnamese Army regulars in November 1965. Yet in their testament to the 234 Americans who made the great sacrifice in the Valley of the Ia Drang, the authors gallantly acknowledge their Vietnamese enemy as well:

While those who have never known war may fail to see the logic, this story also stands as tribute to the hundreds of young men of the 320th, 33d, and 66th Regiments of the People's Army of Viet Nam who died by our hand in that place. They, too, fought and died bravely. They were a worthy enemy. We who killed them pray that their bones were recovered from that wild, desolate place where we left them, and taken home for decent and honorable burial. (1992, xx)

The author thanks Ho Dieu Anh, of the University of Ho Chi Minh City and presently a doctoral student in history at Texas Christian University, who assisted in the translations from the Vietnamese.

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