Vinh Moc

We find our way north to the Vinh Moc tunnels,
where the lines on the map grow thin
and then disappear completely.
Thuy, our guide, stands in front,
telling us in her proper
Hanoi University English
of her birth here in the underground.
Armed with rapid-fire facts,
she guides us as we wind through
the five-mile labyrinth of tunnels
meticulously carved out, inch by inch,
with sticks, pieces of metal—
by neighbors working secretly together
under their houses in the night.
Over one thousand Vietnamese spent
four of the war years here in this dank earth.
Thuy tells us how resourceful they were—
creating schools, a theater, and a hospital with a nursery
where she and sixteen other babies were born.
We hunch over and travel through narrow tubes,
making sure to cover all three tunnel levels.
We touch cool, moist walls,
peer into dark, carved out rooms,
each no more than an American’s
arm-length wide, assigned one to a family.
We move quickly to follow Thuy
and try to imagine what life was like here—
how the incessant bombing above ground
must have sounded, how they lived and relied
on one another every minute of every day—
and how, years later, they adjusted to
the light,
the space,

the silence.


©Marilyn Johnston, 2003