A Resolve to Remember

Jungwon Kim is a Program II major in the class of 2029. Jungwon is one of our 2026 Human Rights Summer Research Grant winners and a featured guest blogger. Grant winners will be sharing an inside look into their experiences on the Duke Human Rights Blog this summer and fall as part of our Student Stories: Summer Research Series. Read Jungwon's first blog post from earlier this summer, The War That Never Ended: Tracing Memory in Central Vietnam.

The two weeks I spent in Vietnam, tracing the remnants of civilian massacres committed by Korean soldiers during the American War in Vietnam, made me question different forms of violence. I began to question not only the physical violence that took place decades ago in Quang Nam, Vietnam, but also the violence created in the absence of memory — the violence I felt simply from being a foreigner and being Korean, holding up a camera at the places where massacres had happened. 

On the fourth day of my field research, I visited the Thiệu Grandmother’s Air-Raid Shelter Mass Grave in My Binh village, Duy Trinh commune, Duy Xuyen district, Quang Nam province. It is the mass grave of 14 of the 32 people killed in a civilian massacre committed by Korean soldiers on Aug. 14, 1968. The gravestone lists the victims killed in Thiệu Grandmother’s air-raid shelter and states that three families were affected by the Duy Trinh massacre.  

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Unlike the other monuments and graveyards I had visited over the past few days, this grave was located right next to a family home. After placing fruit, lighting incense, and bowing, I asked my driver (FYI: in Vietnam, if you rent a car, they normally arrange a local driver) if he could ask the people living in that house whether they were relatives of the victims. Whenever I needed clarification or permission to take pictures, I had to go through my driver, who did not speak English either, and step back. Whenever my driver pointed at me, I assumed he was referring to me and tried to look as innocent as possible, smiling. All I could do was point to my camera and ask, “OK?” 

The grandpa and grandma next door turned out to be relatives of many of the victims, but they had not been there at the time of the massacre because they had evacuated. They had been born and raised in the village and had lived there since 1936. I tried using Google Translate to ask them questions, but because they spoke a local dialect, it was really difficult to capture the meaning. So, I decided to record the conversation and ask my Vietnamese-speaking friend to translate it afterward. Instead, Grandpa spoke with my driver for a while. I assumed they were talking about the massacre and their relatives, as they constantly pointed toward the graveyard and made gestures as if they were shooting a gun. Although I could not fully understand the conversation, I tried to show that I was listening, nodding occasionally. But really, I felt solemn and humbled, not knowing what to say, especially knowing that I was Korean — carrying the same label that Grandpa would use to describe those who had committed the massacre.

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That same day, I also visited Go Noi Island, where Operation Allen Brook took place from May 4 to Aug. 24, 1968. During the operation, units of the U.S. 1st Marine Division suffered heavy casualties: 138 Americans were killed, and 686 were wounded in May alone. By August, the total had risen to 172 killed and 1,124 wounded, while the U.S. military claimed that 917 enemy soldiers were killed. The following year, another operation, Operation Pipestone Canyon, was conducted from May 26 to Nov. 7, 1969, during which 852 enemy soldiers were reportedly killed, at a cost of 71 U.S. fatalities. From June 3 to Aug. 15 of the same year, South Korean forces also carried out Operations Seungnyong 12-1, 12-2, and 13 on Go Noi Island, as part of Pipestone Canyon. The 2nd Marine Brigade committed nearly all of its available forces, including the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 5th Battalions and an artillery battalion. According to South Korean military records, the operations resulted in 566 enemy killed and 17 captured, while only 10 South Korean soldiers were killed. 

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The monument states: “On the morning of February 20, 1968 (the ninth day of the first lunar month in the Year of Mu-sin), at 9 a.m., U.S. soldiers searching the area from National Route 1 to Dien Phong gathered civilians in the yard of the home of an elderly woman named Tran Thi To and shot 32 of them with R15 and R16 rifles. Five others were killed with grenades inside a nearby secret bomb shelter. The massacre in the yard of Tran Thi To’s home is one of the tragic pieces of evidence and traces of the war that took place on Go Noi land.” 

When the driver read the inscription, he told me I had come to the wrong place because the massacre described there had been committed by the “imperialists,” not the Koreans. I explained that many villagers regarded the South Koreans as mercenaries or auxiliaries of the U.S. forces and therefore did not necessarily distinguish between American and South Korean troops. In their recollection, the Korean troops were part of the same U.S.-led military presence. After reading the translation on my screen, he nodded and handed me the incense stick. I felt humiliated and bitter at the same time, as though I had exposed yet another cruel side of my own people. 

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I thought I could hide behind the camera, behind the label of “researcher” or “student,” or even the fact that I now live in the United States. But none of these identities could erase the fact that I am Korean. If anything, they have reinforced my need to confront this history face-to-face. 

Through my research this summer, I came to understand that remembrance is more than passively incorporating historical facts into my understanding of the past. It requires action: an active acknowledgment of what happened and a willingness to carry that history forward. We should not be content simply to satisfy our own curiosity. Remembering can take many forms, from sharing what we have learned with those around us to choosing to visit Quang Nam Province while traveling to Da Nang, one of Vietnam’s most popular tourist destinations. 

Contrary to what I expected, the villagers welcomed this seemingly random young woman from Korea with bright smiles and extraordinary hospitality. What seemed to me like a small act of returning to and learning about a painful history meant something to them. They appreciated knowing that young people in Korea care about this history and are trying to relearn what previous generations were not always allowed to discuss openly. My presence could not undo what happened, nor could it heal the wounds left by the violence. But it reminded me that remembrance itself can have meaning. Sometimes, simply showing up, listening, and refusing to let a history disappear can offer a small measure of recognition — and perhaps, in some way, peace. 

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