There’s something quite exciting about setting an alarm for 1:30 a.m. It reminds me of going on holiday as a kid. It reminds me of waking up on Christmas morning to find a filled stocking at my feet. This time was slightly different, but that buzz—that palpable tension—was still in the air, just as it was when I was a wee nipper.
A quick bell from my buddy Thai let me know he was outside, and we were off. The walk from my pad in District 3 to Bến Thành Market should’ve taken 35 minutes on paper, but after passing Võ Thị Sáu Street, we quickly realised we’d have to revise our estimations. The intersection was teeming with flag-wielding celebrants, cheering on the boys in uniform crammed into the back of an army wagon driving by.
With each passing block, the crowds thickened. Edging closer to District 1, we encountered our first roadblock—an inevitability we’d hoped to avoid. We circled back and tried an alternative route. Roadblock. And another. Each detour chipped away at our optimism. The darkest thoughts arose. Was District 1 completely closed off? Several reroutes and kilometres later, we finally penetrated the boundary lines of District 1. Bến Thành Market was in sight.
I thought I knew a thing or two about managing crowd dynamics, having been a frequent attendee of Glastonbury Festival over the years—but I was an insignificant drop in an ocean of red T-shirts, yellow stars, and black hair. Thai on one side, a Honda Wave on the other. Sardines.
Realising we’d never reach our friends, we sat ourselves beside the market—the only place we could park our asses. As the sun began to light up the Saigon skyline, the faces of the patriots around me came into focus—each one telling its own tale.
The uniformed ông, face wrinkled from decades of sun, smiles, and struggle. The young couple, holding each other, sharing a cà phê sữa đá and something unspoken. The opportunistic bà bán vé số, taking advantage of the huge surge in footfall—not just selling tickets but selling the idea that tomorrow might be different. The em bé, clutching its nation’s flag with a titan’s grip. A purity in its eyes that can only be embodied by someone who has only ever known peace.
That morning, I realised: 30/4 is not only a celebration of reunification, independence, and victory, but a testament to the beauty of peace. Vietnam’s history is rife with over 2,000 years of struggle—from Chinese imperial rule to dynastic invasions and colonial oppression. And yet here it stands: a country that extends a hand to its former adversaries. A nation that looks forward without bitterness or resentment.
While the scars of war are still present, they haven’t defined the future. They stand as symbols of resilience—and reminders that peace, love, and compassion are everything.
