THE HANOI TIMES — Released in mid-April, Dia Dao (The Tunnel) quickly became a phenomenon in Vietnam, with sold-out theaters, TikTok edits, and passionate discussions among university students. More than just entertainment, the film struck a deep chord with its audience.
Set during the war against America, The Tunnel follows a group of soldiers as they navigate a network of narrow, suffocating underground passages. Audiences were captivated by the raw portrayal of their struggle—crawling through mud, evading explosions, and engaging in silent combat just beneath the enemy’s feet. “I’ve visited the Cu Chi tunnels,” a student reflected online, “but this movie made me feel something the history books never could.”
The impact of the film went beyond the screen. A young man in Hanoi attended a screening dressed in fatigues, not as cosplay, but as a tribute. “I come from a town with its own tunnels,” he shared, “and now I want to go back and learn more.”
The Tunnel stood out not just for its direction and effects, but for the emotional ownership it inspired in young audiences. They didn’t merely observe—they actively engaged with the story, choosing to remember and reflect.
As Vietnam approached its 50th Reunification Day on April 30, this energy found a new outlet. The night before the parade in Ho Chi Minh City, the downtown streets buzzed with anticipation. Families, workers, and children gathered, turning the city into a giant slumber party. On social media, the event was dubbed the “national concert,” reflecting the sense of communal celebration.
At sunrise, Nguyen Hue Boulevard was a sea of red and gold as the parade commenced. While the marchers were a spectacle, the crowd itself was equally remarkable. They clapped, livestreamed, and expressed gratitude to the veterans. Their presence mattered.
Among them was Kim Oanh, an office worker holding a small flag, proud to be Vietnamese. Le Thanh Son, a military officer, had cycled into the city the previous day to soak in the atmosphere. Vo Nhu Hao, a university student, had taken the last metro into the city the night before, eager to be a part of this historic moment.
April 30 has always been a politically and emotionally charged date in Vietnam’s history. But this year, it took on a new dimension—it became a popular celebration. National pride, once expressed through formal ceremonies and scripted slogans, now found voice in social media captions, spontaneous applause, and all-night vigils.
The veterans noticed this shift. Ngo Trong Que, sitting quietly on the roadside with a flag, observed the interaction between the young people and his fellow veterans. “We didn’t get this kind of welcome before,” he remarked with a smile. My uncle, a veteran himself, recalled marching in a parade years ago, only to return home unnoticed. But now, it seemed, things were different.
Vietnam is witnessing a transformation in how it remembers its past. The Tunnel and the Reunification Day parade didn’t replace old stories but gave them new life through cinema and shared experiences. Some may dismiss this as superficial, arguing that emotional responses don’t equate to understanding.
However, they overlook a fundamental truth: feeling is the precursor to understanding. Without emotion, memory fades, and history becomes a distant, academic exercise. This isn’t about a single parade or film, but a cultural shift.
History is no longer confined to textbooks and lectures—it’s alive on the sidewalks and screens. It’s in the conversations between generations, in the applause for veterans, and in the personal choice to bear witness. Even the city itself bears the scars of the past, now illuminated by lights and metro lines.
Rather than questioning whether young people care about history, we should embrace their curiosity and emotional connection to the past. They are ready to carry these stories forward, in their own unique way.
