I grew up in the village of Trang Bang in South Vietnam. My mother said I laughed a lot when I was a little girl. We had a simple life, with plenty of food, because my family had a farm, and my mother ran the best restaurant in the place. I remember that she loved school and playing with my cousins, jumping rope and chasing each other happily.
All that changed on June 8, 1972. I have only flashes of memory of that terrible day. I was playing with my cousins ​​in the temple courtyard. The next moment, a plane flew by with a deafening noise. Then there were explosions, smoke and excruciating pain. I was 9 years old.
Napalm sticks to you no matter how fast you run, causing burns and excruciating pain that lasts a lifetime. I don’t remember running and yelling, “Nóng quá, néng quá!” (very hot, very hot!). But film footage and other people’s memories show that I screamed.
You’ve probably seen my picture taken that day, running away from the explosions with the others – a naked girl with her arms outstretched, screaming in pain. It was taken by South Vietnamese photographer Nick Ut, who worked for the Associated Press, and published on the front pages of newspapers around the world. She won the Pulitzer Prize. Over time, it became one of the most famous of the Vietnam War.
Nick changed my life forever with that remarkable photo. But he also saved my life. After he took the picture, he dropped the camera, wrapped me in a blanket, and carried me running to get medical attention. I am eternally grateful.
However, I also remember hating him at times. I grew up hating that photo. I thought to myself, “I’m a little girl. I’m naked. Why did he take that picture? Why didn’t my parents protect me? Why did he print that picture? Why was I the only naked child, while my brothers and cousins ​​in the picture were they dressed?” I felt ugly and ashamed.
Growing up, I sometimes wished I could disappear not only because of my injuries—the burns covered a third of my body and caused intense, chronic pain—but also because of the shame and embarrassment of being disfigured.
I tried to hide my scars under my clothes. I felt horrible anxiety and depression. The kids at school ran away from me. I was a pity figure to the neighbors and, to some extent, to my parents. As I grew older, I feared that no one would ever love me.
Meanwhile, photography has become even more famous, making it more difficult to navigate my private and emotional life. Beginning in the 1980s, I participated in endless press interviews and meetings with royals, prime ministers and other leaders, all of whom hoped to find some meaning in that image and my experience. The child running down the street became a symbol of the horrors of war. The real person watched from the shadows, afraid that he would be exposed as a damaged person.
Photographs, by definition, capture a moment in time. But the surviving people in these photos, especially the children, must somehow move on. We are not symbols. We are human beings. We need to find work, people to love, communities to embrace, places to learn and be nurtured.
It wasn’t until adulthood, after defecting to Canada, that I began to find peace and fulfill my mission in life, with the help of my religion, my husband, and friends. I helped set up a foundation and began traveling to war-torn countries to provide medical and psychological care to child victims of war, offering, I hope, a sense of possibility.
I know what it’s like to have your village bombed, your house destroyed, to see family members die and the bodies of innocent civilians lying in the street. These are the horrors of the Vietnam War evoked in countless photographs and videos. Sadly, they are also images of wars everywhere, of precious human lives being damaged and destroyed in Ukraine today.
They are also, in a different way, the horrible images of the school shootings. We may not see bodies, as we do with wars, but these attacks are the domestic equivalent of war. The idea of ​​sharing the images of the carnage, especially of children, may seem unbearable — but we must face it. It’s easier to hide from the realities of war if we don’t see its consequences.
I can’t speak for the families in Uvalde, Texas, but I think showing the world the real consequences of a shooting can make the terrible reality concrete. We must face this violence head-on, and the first step is to look at it.
I carried the results of the war in my body. You don’t get rid of scars, physically or mentally. I am grateful today for the power of this photograph of mine at the age of 9, as well as for the journey I took as a person. My horror –of which I remember little– became universal. I am proud because I have become a symbol of peace. It took me a long time to embrace that as a person. I can say, 50 years later, that I’m glad Nick captured that moment, despite all the difficulties that image created for me.
This image will always serve as a reminder of the unspeakable evil that humanity is capable of. Still, I believe that peace, love and forgiveness will always be more powerful than any kind of weapon.
