From war to peace: Nguyen Thi Binh’s memoir and Vietnam’s April 30 legacy

She recalled the evening of 29 April 1975: “While receiving the American historian couple Gabriel and Joyce Kolko, we listened to Liberation Radio call on the Saigon government and army to surrender.” Tears came. The three of them sat in silence, holding hands tightly. Her memories of 30 April were not focused on the front lines, but on the support from the North, on the solidarity of international friends, on the courage of her comrades and fellow citizens. In her memoir, she wrote: “People from all over the country poured into the streets, hugging each other and crying, tears of joy! This was the inevitable result of the sacrifice of the entire nation, the glorious achievement and common merit of the entire nation, from the armed forces, the political forces operating openly or secretly, from the children leading the way to the people of all classes, the heroes with names and millions of unknown people.” (pp. 156–157)

Through the way she told it, I felt that in that moment, she was thinking not only of victory, but of the need to bring the people together, to begin the long process of healing. For her, it was more than the conclusion of a military struggle; it was the close of a time of division and foreign rule.

It was that spirit which led me to understand something quietly profound: the greatest victory lies not in defeating an adversary, but in building a shared future. For Mrs Binh, 30 April marked more than the conclusion of a war; it was the beginning of a long pursuit of peace and unity. Her memoir reveals that she and her generation never saw victory as an end point. It was a threshold. What lay ahead was a far greater task. That task was the healing of a wounded nation and the rebuilding of lives.

To have worked alongside Mrs Nguyen Thi Binh for more than a year remains one of the great privileges of my life. I had come prepared, I thought, with facts and history: her resistance against colonial and American forces, her pivotal role in the Paris Peace Accords, her life before and after 1975. Yet none of that quite readied me. Each working session felt like a class without walls, where stories surfaced that had never made it to print. And so, I found myself researching further, delving into the lives of those she spoke of with such quiet reverence. The memoir’s smallest details—those that might seem incidental—painted a vivid portrait of a woman who led with intellect, quiet resolve and a generous heart.

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I recall one particular afternoon, as we reviewed the chapter on the Paris negotiations. She lingered over a passage, her eyes reflecting a deep contemplation. It was there I caught a glimpse of her philosophy on leadership—one not rooted in the pursuit of absolute triumph, but in inspiring belief in peace. Those were the moments that stayed with me. Her sense of innovation wasn’t confined to the battlefield; it emerged in her political thought, in her choice to favour dialogue over conflict, compassion over division.

She still keeps up with current affairs. Still reads and writes. Still shows a deep, genuine interest in the youth of today. Her stories are never declaimed from a pedestal; they are shared like a conversation. Whenever she asked me what the younger generation thought of the war, of the country, I felt even more certain that her leadership was something organic that reaches outward, never forced, never fixed.

What Mrs Nguyen Thi Binh left behind is not defined by position or rank, but by how she lived and the values she quietly passed on. Hers is a legacy that never bowed its head, yet never closed its heart.

The memoir forms a part of that legacy. Within its pages, she devoted her finest words to friendship, family, and the comrades she lost during the war. It serves as a gentle reminder that legacy is not carved in stone. It endures in memory and in the stories we carry with us.

She once shared her wish that, one day, people would speak of the war not with tears, but with gratitude for having come through it. Swedish writer Sara Lidman once wrote of Madame Nguyen Thi Binh in her book In the Heart of the World: “Wherever Mrs Binh is, people will not see anyone else… when listening to Mrs Binh, people will not want to listen to anyone else… she is mysterious… delicate…”

Her legacy is a quiet invitation to the generations that follow: to live with care, and to write in a way that helps us understand where we come from.

After the book was completed, something shifted. Not just in my role as editor, but within me. I felt a new sense of responsibility: to nurture the culture, history and memory of a nation with care, so that history no longer feels distant, but close, alive, and deeply human.

In our conversations, it became clear that for her, the greatest legacy of 30 April 1975 was never about military triumph. It was about what came after. The opportunity to build a peaceful, united and forward-looking country. That responsibility, she believed, belonged not only to her generation, but to every generation that came next.

The greatest lesson I learned from her was this: leadership is not about command, but more about influence. True influence is when, long after your presence fades, the values you represent continue to shape how others live.

When I asked what message she would offer to the young people of today, she paused, thoughtful. It felt as though she wanted to say: treasure peace—it was paid for in blood across generations; learn to listen, and to respect different points of view; and, whatever the circumstances, let the spirit of independence and true patriotism be your guide.

In a world that feels increasingly uncertain, where faith is often tested and division runs deep, I believe the legacy of 30 April, through Mrs Binh’s story, offers an essential reminder of connection. That history, when we listen to it with openness and respect, is never truly behind us.

Following the publication of Family, Friends and Country, I continued working with her for several years on the English and Japanese translations, and on events introducing the book. During our last conversation, nearly a decade ago, she shared a thought—simple, yet deeply moving. What I took from her words was this: no one can live forever in a single victory, but if we live with kindness, history will remember us gently.

Mrs Nguyen Thi Binh carries that gentle gaze—the gaze of a small woman, who once held a whole nation in her heart.

Each time I hear her speak of those momentous days, I find myself wondering: in her place, would I have had the same strength, the same wisdom to choose rightly? And perhaps that is the most enduring gift of remembering and sharing history—it invites us to question, to understand, and to grow.

30 April 1975 stands as a symbol of the Vietnamese people’s spirit: independent, self-reliant, and committed to peace. And through the life and words of Mrs Nguyen Thi Binh, we see that this spirit continues to live on within each of us.

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