Exploring the Intersection of Memory and Myth in Vietnam War Reenactments

This essay is part of a series titled The Big Ideas, where writers reflect on the question: What is history?

Born in Saigon in 1960, I witnessed the Vietnam War firsthand. After the conflict ended in 1975 and Saigon fell to Communist forces, my family was evacuated by the U.S. government via a C-130 cargo plane, eventually resettling in California. Now, five decades later, I work as a landscape photographer, using my craft not only to document past and present wars but also to explore the complex contradictions embedded within history itself.

A transformative experience in 1999 profoundly influenced my artistic direction.

That year, I reached out to a group of Vietnam War reenactors based in North Carolina and Virginia. Over several summers, I collaborated with and photographed them, resulting in a series titled “Small Wars.” This small community of predominantly young, conservative men meticulously recreated pivotal U.S. military operations and battles from the Vietnam War on a 100-acre wooded estate owned by one member. The group included individuals such as a product manager, a former National Guard driver, a mortician, and a carpenter. Although none had served in the war, their dedication to authenticity was intense—they carefully replicated every detail of equipment, attire, rations, and gear, whether portraying Vietcong, North Vietnamese Army, or American soldiers. Participation was strictly by invitation.

To gain insight into diverse viewpoints, I alternated roles between a Vietcong fighter and a Kit Carson Scout—an NVA soldier who defected to assist American forces. Equipped with a prop AK-47 loaded with blanks and dressed either in Vietnamese black pajamas or an NVA khaki uniform, I traversed trails and immersed myself in bamboo thickets planted by the reenactors. This Asian vegetation—a familiar symbol of Vietnam—was oddly placed within a landscape historically tied to the U.S. Civil War, surrounded by pines, spruces, horsetails, and kudzu. This striking blending of histories intertwined their secondhand perceptions, shaped by media and myth, with my own memories and ambivalent feelings about a devastating war—one waged by a government that ultimately saved my family from Communism and offered us a new life.

Our connection was spontaneous, forged through a shared fluency in the popular culture narratives surrounding the Vietnam War. We engaged in lively exchanges, testing each other’s knowledge of classic war films as well as fiction and nonfiction literature. Occasionally, reenactors from other states joined, and my involvement was sometimes revealed only at the last moment as a surprise to newcomers.