I was raised to always tell the truth. I thought everyone was bound by that same nagging morality, that no matter what, it was always better to tell the truth. But shame can convince anyone to tell an untruth. It can choke even the best of the honest into spluttering an unmistakeable lie. In history class, I learnt of the Vietnam War. A necessary termination to abolish the spread of communism internationally. My teacher robotically recited the script of untruth handed to her by the state’s education department. We were afforded the right to transcribe the narrative, being allies of the winning side. Harsh things were done, but for the greater good, they said. In the heart of Ho Chi Minh City, the very name tarnished with political history, was a tall building holding the truth of a country; an offering to us, if we chose to enter. It was almost as if I owed it to my education that I made my way into the War Museum that day. The war on display for a small entrance fee. The first few rooms were covered by newspapers spreading the communist revolution. I had seen some of these in class. It wasn’t until deeper within the museum, when confronting truths began to reveal themselves to me. Hung on the walls were images of American soldiers who collected the skulls of the Vietnamese they had killed, combatants and non-combatants alike. One man proudly exhibited a skull that looked as small as an orange. Transcripts of American Commanders saying that they will bomb the Vietnamese back into the stone ages. Desecrated churches. Women dead on top of dying babies, smothered by loves instinct to protect. Children running, chemicals incinerating their clothes down to their skin. Infants, from both sides of the war, born deformed years later. Civilians were forced to be soldiers when presented with the tip of a gun, in their kitchen. They had just put on a soup to boil. In that same history class, I learnt that the United States adopted their Declaration of Independence on July 4th, 1776. In that declaration they said, that “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”. Yet, in a shameful proclamation, the US ignored such truth and the consequences of such were then laid out before me, organised by the museum’s curator. And we, Australia, followed. Each room of the museum was filled with tear-stained people. Did they just learn their country was lying to them too? Or was I the only one naïve enough to believe what I was taught in school. I looked around for some sort of comfort that maybe we spoke ignorantly unaware of our lie. The collection hosted a single Australian photographer. Each photograph was pinned delicately to the walls, appropriately spaced. The pixels collated his truth. Images could not lie as people could. I had learnt that walking through the gallery. Why weren’t these images in my textbooks or copies hung in my museum? We knew and yet stayed silent. My naivety haunts me wherever I go. The complexities of war could not be collated into one museum, or one narrative. But as I exited the museum, overcome with juxtaposing emotions, I knew I wanted to learn every truth and every interpretation. At the end of my Vietnam trip, weeks after I learnt of the untruth, an elderly man sat next to me, rather uncomfortably, on a bench in Hanoi’s Old Prison, home to American political prisoners. My friend had gone to the bathroom and I sat waiting for her next to the old guillotine. “Tourist?” he questioned. My white skin loud in any room here. “Yes, Australian,” I said, nervously. “Vietnam is a beautiful place,” he smiled “filled with beautiful people. What happened in this country, will never happen again.” It wasn’t until the man walked away did a volunteer at the prison tell me that was Nguyễn Tấn Dũng, former Prime Minister of Vietnam. I hope Nguyễn Tấn Dũng was telling me the truth, so help him God.