Where Fracture Meets Solidarity

By Seoyeon Claudia Kim ‘28  • Dec 5, 2025

History is too often written from the perspective of the victors whose national narratives ignore the suffering of victims. Viet Thanh Nguyen’s story begins where those two emotions meet - in the uneasy space between Vietnamese and American, between being remembered and being forgotten. He argues that identity is something shaped and nurtured rather than something intrinsic. Nguyen addresses his identity as a Vietnamese American and how he came to realize his identity by embracing his culture and history. While disclosing his struggles as he came to understand his identity, he explores the notion further, saying that simply belonging as a minority isn’t enough; true unity requires solidarity and decolonization. 

Viet Thanh Nguyen Portrait

Nguyen’s struggle to understand his identity is a sheer example of how identity is something cultivated. Although he was born in Vietnam and raised by Vietnamese parents, his upbringing in the United States left him grappling with his dual identity. What deepened his void of feeling as if he didn’t belong anywhere were the Hollywood interpretations of Vietnam. Vietnam portrayed as voiceless victims of the war made him ashamed of his roots. He realized that his confusion came from erasure, the selective appreciation in history. It was only after joining a club in college that Nguyen could be Asian-American. Learning the history written by his own people, feeling rage due to the mistreatment his people received, and forming a sense of solidarity: allowing him to be Asian American. 

Ideally, societies should engender national unity that is inclusive and sensitive to pluralistic identities. National identities manufactured by dominant groups often alienate minorities whose historic experiences fail to be represented. For instance the United States perpetuates a historical narrative based on religious freedom and immigration. This narrative of a ‘melting pot’, however, conflicts with the victimized experiences of many immigrants, such as Nguyen’s heritage. Each community deserves to be more than simply belonging in society; they shall be equally represented in the national narrative. Only when we “reconcile national unity with cultural diversity”; can solidarity be accessible for all in a polity. We, as collective human beings, should work to promote inclusivity by reshaping national unity in a way that minorities can feel genuine membership. Asian Americans should be more than just a label; it should transcend into a bridge that leads humanity to cohesion.

Vietnam War Civilian Massacre

Glorifying one’s own achievements is prevalent, yet many individuals and nations fail to recognize what they are guilty of. Reading Nguyen’s story pushed me forward to confront the shadows in the history of my own country. Growing up in Korea, I acquired a very specific narrative: we were the victims of Japanese colonization, the nation of suffering, resilience, and strength. We were only seen as the colonized, never as offenders. This narrative was embedded in me so deeply that I never questioned the norm. But as I faced the underside of my nation through the civilian massacres committed by Korean troops during the Vietnam War, I began to question this identity. Reading articles about the suffering of Vietnamese civilians, and realizing how Korea never admitted that we are culpable for the crimes provoked a feeling of unease and discomfort. Now I could truly understand what Nguyen had felt: the painstaking discomposure felt through realizing the past of his nation. By confronting my nation’s past, I ascertained that a better understanding of one's nation isn’t built solely on the aggrandizement of glory, but rather on the courage to embrace the stories of guilt. 

Yet, there is one point at which I find myself diverging from Nguyen. His definition of identity is primarily political: something built through collective struggle, solidarity and decolonization. Nguyen’s framework captures the collective dimension of identity - as citizens of a country with a shared heritage; however, it overlooks the deeply intimate dimensions: personal experiences, inherited pride, shame. My great-grandfather’s story complicates Nguyen’s framework. He was separated from his family during the Korean War, a split that left a fragment of him forever longing for his family. That void was what shaped how me and my family began to understand the silent fracture of Korea. When I later discovered Korea’s role in Vietnam, it echoed a similar narrative: the realization that a nation can both wound and be wounded; how it holds both guilt and grief. This is where I diverge from Nguyen. Identity is formed not only through collective struggle but also through private grief and inherited memory. 

Confronting both pride and guilt in a nation’s past can foster a perspective that leads to genuine solidarity. Pride allows us to carry on the heritage of our ancestors to a broader norm, while guilt anchors us of our faults, leading us to gain a modest nationality. Learning about Nguyen’s fractured historical identity, and Korea’s violence in Vietnam reshaped my sense of national identity: it cannot solely rely on celebrated stories, but must include the stories we have long avoided. By harnessing the entirety of our histories, we can develop moral maturity by recognizing the vulnerabilities that connect us and to an equitable world that facilitates more cooperative and humane ideals.