The question is whether the future, aside from the obvious advantages of peace, will be worth the sacrifices of the past. Is the period of anticolonial revolution–which Vietnam symbolized and so dominated our thinking in the ’60s and beyond–becoming an obsolete memory in the era of globalization? Has the promise of those inspiring revolutions faded with the decline of naked colonialism and the emergence of so many corrupt authoritarianisms in the Third World? Or are the supposedly scientific models of history long embraced by the left being replaced with a kind of chaos theory of unpredictability? Is this all that was ever possible?

Perhaps this was why I had stayed away so long but had to return after so many decades. Much as I still opposed war and imperialism, from Vietnam to Iraq, I no longer expected joyous endings.

I wanted to see my oldest acquaintances in Vietnam for personal reasons but also as guides in sorting out these troubling questions. I will call these people, now in their 80s, Vietnam’s old revolutionary generation. Their roots went back nearly a century, to young Ho Chi Minh’s odyssey to the West–in particular, France and America–to study the spirit of republican revolutions for lessons he might bring home. Ho, then known as Nguyen Ai Quoc, presented a petition to the 1919 Versailles conference asking for Vietnam’s inclusion in the call for self-determination. There he learned that Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points did not apply to the colonies. In the period of the Russian Revolution, Ho was waiting tables in Harlem and making diary notes on lynchings. He embraced Marxism-Leninism because of Lenin’s opposition to colonialism. Twenty-five years later, Ho collaborated with American intelligence agents in resisting the Japanese occupation. Then he cited the U.S. Declaration of Independence in declaring Vietnam’s freedom in 1945. From long tradition grew the practical, and even sentimental, belief that the “American people,” in Walt Whitman’s mythic invocation, could be appealed to against American imperialism.

Thus arose Viet-My (Vietnamese-American) solidarity committees and cultural exchanges from the very beginnings of the war with the United States, staffed by bright young Vietnamese who were asked to host American wartime visitors and in the process learned more about American culture and politics. Now long retired, many of these old revolutionaries went on after the war to become diplomats and ambassadors to European countries. These days in Hanoi many still arise at 5:30 for morning exercises at the Flying Dragon Club, an old building with a curved roof, then, with bodies limber and spirits balanced, go out for tea and conversation.

In general, the old revolutionaries are busy, active in community affairs, proud and nationalistic, and shared with me the unanimous sense that Vietnam has become too materialistic and acquisitive. “The new generation lacks a balanced approach,” said 81-year-old Nguyen Ngoc Dung, who runs shelters for street children in Ho Chi Minh City. “The situation is out of balance,” said one. “They are not looking–how do you say?–at the other side of the coin.”

Dung is a former deputy to the most well-known of the old revolutionaries, 81-year-old Nguyen Thi Binh, who presides over the Peace and Development Foundation in Hanoi. During the war, “Madame Binh,” as she was known, was a striking global icon and nemesis denounced by Henry Kissinger in the Paris peace negotiations. When she welcomed me for tea, she seemed smaller than the woman I remembered, but the energy remained vibrant. The formality of the reunion was derailed by the arrival of the “two Liams,” arm in arm. They sat on her grandmotherly lap while Binh held forth on the challenges of healing the damage of Agent Orange and developing Vietnam past the status of other poor countries. She showed a keen interest in sponsoring workshops with critics of globalization. Meanwhile, the two little Liams lobbied to be taken to the local Lego franchise.

On another morning, the sudden arrival of an older man in a blue windbreaker surprised me. He walked toward me peering carefully through wide spectacles. “Do you remember who I am?” he asked with an expectant look. Then he held before me a black-and-white photo of myself, ten pounds lighter and thirty-five years younger, staring at Vietnamese graves, notebook in hand. The man with glasses was Pham Khac Lam, an interpreter and photographer whom I last saw deep within a cave in rural North Vietnam, in 1972.

Lam, now 77, was the top assistant to Gen. Vo Nguyen Giap in preparing the battle plan for Dien Bien Phu in 1954. His father was a mandarin adviser to Emperor Bao Dai, the last Vietnamese king. Lam’s father is said to have written Bao Dai’s abdication speech in 1945. Lam, in other words, grew up in the absolute center of Vietnamese anticolonialism, joined the solidarity committees during the American war and participated in the postwar process as director of the country’s first television network. He was part of the Rose Garden ceremonies when Vietnam’s leaders met Presidents Clinton and Bush. He takes modest credit for the idea of flying both Vietnamese and U.S. flags on the stretch limousine that carried Hanoi officials to the White House door. And he once told Civil War buff Ted Turner, who opened media relations between CNN and Hanoi, that “it was important to let the past be ‘gone with the wind.’ ” Turner generously sold Lam the rights to broadcast CNN for a nickel.

Lam edits Viet-My, a glossy magazine that seems devoted to promotional reports on commercial and diplomatic ties with the United States, including critical commentary on issues like Agent Orange. Occasionally Lam inserts a strategic analysis of the U.S. quandary in Iraq, buried amid advertisements beckoning tourists to such attractions as health clubs at the beach. How did he really feel, I wondered, about the world he had done so much to shape?

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