In a small corner of central Vietnam, where a museum and memorial mark one of America’s most infamous wartime atrocities, a curious sight greets visitors: a cooler of strawberry ice cream for sale near the ticket booth. The incongruity of the sweet treat amidst the solemnity of the My Lai Massacre Memorial encapsulates the duality of this place — a site steeped in tragedy but also striving for renewal and reconciliation.
The memorial stands as a reminder of the horrific events of March 16, 1968, when soldiers of the U.S. Army’s Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 20th Infantry Regiment, massacred over 500 unarmed Vietnamese civilians in the hamlet of My Lai and nearby hamlets. Women were raped, children and elders were executed, and homes were set ablaze with families still inside. It was an event that scarred a village and reverberated worldwide, highlighting the horrors of war.
Decades later, the people of My Lai and its surrounding villages have found ways to remember, rebuild, and move forward — offering lessons in the delicate balance of honoring trauma without being consumed by it.
The Son My Memorial and Museum sits southeast of Danang on Vietnam’s eastern coast. At its entrance, a large map depicts My Lai as it was on the morning of the massacre, a haunting visual of a once-peaceful village turned into a slaughterhouse. For visitors, this is often the first step in understanding the depth of the tragedy.
Nguyen Hong Mang, now 71, vividly remembers that day. He was 14 when he spotted the soldiers and cheerfully shouted, “Welcome, Americans!” Moments later, he was lined up with his family and neighbors, witnessing their execution before collapsing into a pile of bodies. Mang survived by playing dead under the bloodied remains of others.
“I survived because the Americans shooting everyone ran out of bullets,” Mang recounted in his home, where white floral tiles now brighten his kitchen walls. He speaks of the massacre reluctantly, aware of the weight it carries but firm in his resolve to ensure that it is not forgotten.
“They killed pregnant women, small children,” he said, his voice breaking. “I will not forget.”
Mang’s story is one of many from that fateful day, shared by survivors who have endured the pain of reliving their memories to educate others. Yet, even in recounting the horrors, many in Son My exhibit a remarkable capacity for forgiveness and resilience.
Unlike many war memorials in Vietnam that focus on revolutionary heroism, the My Lai Memorial is a space of tragedy. It does not glorify war but instead confronts the senseless loss and suffering caused by it. The museum includes vivid photographs and exhibits, though the content has shifted over time to balance raw historical truth with a message of healing.
Pham Thanh Cong, 67, is the museum’s director and a survivor of the massacre. As the sole member of his family to survive after an American grenade was thrown into their hiding spot, Cong has dedicated his life to preserving the memory of what happened. Under his leadership, the museum’s narrative has evolved to emphasize reconciliation.
A key part of the museum’s display highlights instances of humanity amid the carnage. One exhibit recounts the bravery of a helicopter crew led by Warrant Officer Hugh Thompson Jr., who intervened to stop the killings and evacuated survivors. Another honors an American soldier who intentionally shot himself in the leg to avoid participating in the massacre.
“This museum exists to remind people what happened,” Cong said. “And to cherish and protect peace.”
He noted that over the years, some American veterans who participated in the massacre have returned to My Lai, kneeling in apology. While Lieutenant William L. Calley Jr., the platoon leader convicted for his role in the massacre, never visited, Cong expressed no anger upon learning of Calley’s recent death.
“I always kept the door open, welcoming him to return,” Cong said. “Now he is gone. I am not angry.”
For many in Son My, moving beyond hatred has been essential to their survival. The massacre left deep scars, both physical and emotional, but time, community, and deliberate effort have allowed residents to break free from its darkest shadows.
Pham Thi Tuong, 64, was a child during the massacre. Hiding in an underground shelter, she emerged hours later to a village filled with corpses.
“I was so small I didn’t know what to think,” she said. Decades later, Tuong still carries memories of the devastation, but she focuses on the future. “There’s no use for hatred now,” she said.
Her friend, Truong Thi Son, 67, lost her husband’s family in the massacre. While she once carried anger, the passage of time and the presence of Americans returning to Vietnam for work or education have softened her perspective.
“If we feel hatred now, what’s the use?” she asked.
Their resilience mirrors a broader Vietnamese approach to history. Edward Miller, a historian of modern Vietnam at Dartmouth, noted that many Americans are struck by the warmth and hospitality they receive in Vietnam, despite the war’s atrocities.
“In part, this is because time has passed,” Miller explained. “But it’s also because many Vietnamese hold fast to an idealized version of the U.S., shaped by relatives who moved there.”
Vietnam’s youthful demographics further contribute to this sentiment. With more than half the population born after the war, the collective memory of conflict is balanced by aspirations for prosperity and connection with former adversaries.
As the village of My Lai looks to the future, its residents are determined to redefine their home. The museum itself has embraced a less graphic presentation, adding dioramas and softer storytelling alongside its historical artifacts.
Outside the museum, life in Son My carries on. Farmers like Mang raise livestock and crops, while others, like Tran Thi Diep, have used their earnings from selling pigs and rice to provide new opportunities for their children. Diep’s son is now an electrical engineer, a symbol of the transformation the village strives to achieve.
“I want everyone to remember the pain, the brutality, the blood and bone — the losses,” Diep said. “But I also want this village to be known for transformation, for moving from hardship to prosperity.”
Concrete paths through the museum’s garden, stamped with bike tracks and boot marks, symbolize a journey — not just the footsteps of those fleeing in 1968 but the possibility of walking together today.
The My Lai Memorial stands as more than a reminder of past atrocities. It is a testament to the human capacity for resilience, a place where remembering and healing coexist. Survivors like Mang and Cong offer a model for processing trauma without perpetuating hatred. Their village, once marked by one of the Vietnam War’s darkest chapters, now seeks to illuminate a path forward.
As Cong reflected on the museum’s role, he emphasized the importance of peace.
“Ice cream may seem out of place here,” he said, nodding to the cooler near the entrance. “But it reminds us of sweetness, of life continuing. That’s what we want — to turn pain into something that helps us grow.”
In My Lai, the horrors of March 16, 1968, are not forgotten. But neither are they allowed to dominate. In the enduring spirit of the village’s people, there is a lesson for the world: remembering is vital, but rage need not define us.
