The Hanoi Hilton

On our first full day in Vietnam, we visited the infamous Hỏa Lò Prison, better known as the Hanoi Hilton. The imposing structure loomed before us, its entrance marked by the chilling inscription Maison Centrale—a relic of its colonial origins. Built by the French in 1886 and operational even before its completion in 1901, this prison became a symbol of oppression long before the Vietnam War. During the war, it housed American POWs—whom the Vietnamese ironically dubbed “special visitors”—including John McCain, whose flight suit remains on display as a stark reminder of the prison’s layered history. The Hỏa Lò Prison complex, now a museum dedicated to its grim past, opens with a stark reminder of its colonial legacy. That legacy can be summed up in one word: torture. Prisoners were crammed into suffocating cells, packed shoulder to shoulder, while others were subjected to isolation chambers so inhumane they seemed designed to break the spirit before the body. In these chambers, ankle shackles locked captives onto a declining slope, forcing them into agonizing positions where sleep was nearly impossible. The French perfected the art of suffering, ensuring that imprisonment here was not just a sentence—it was a slow, calculated destruction of the human will. Designed to hold 450 inmates, the prison regularly housed more than 2,000, the vast majority being political prisoners. But the overcrowding was just the beginning. Towering over the exhibits, one of the most menacing relics of this era remains: the guillotine. Beside it, haunting photographs of its victims stare out from history, silent witnesses to their own brutal fate. The horror did not end at execution—prisoners were often paraded back to their home villages, their severed heads displayed as a warning to others. The French even took photographs of the heads, a grotesque trophy of colonial dominance, as if cruelty itself was something to be immortalized.  The prison didn’t shy away from its role in the Vietnam War—but the portrayal of American POWs was noticeably sanitized.  Their suffering was conspicuously absent, replaced with a carefully curated narrative that framed them as “special visitors” rather than prisoners. The exhibits were hesitant to even call them prisoners, with terms like “special visitors” used instead. The exhibits downplayed the brutal conditions and interrogations, instead choosing to highlight moments where Vietnamese doctors and civilians saved American lives. While I expected some degree of revisionism, this version of events felt like a deliberate erasure of the harsher realities. It was history—just not the whole truth.One aspect that did stand out as more balanced, however, was the museum’s recognition of John McCain’s post-war legacy. Unlike the whitewashed portrayal of POW experiences, McCain’s efforts to rebuild U.S.-Vietnam relations were given notable respect. His multiple visits back to the prison, once a place of his greatest suffering, were framed as acts of diplomacy and reconciliation. The museum even honored his contributions, acknowledging his role in normalizing relations between the two former enemies. In a space so reluctant to acknowledge American hardship, it was striking to see McCain’s name treated with such regard. As Nelson Mandela once said “No one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails.” Few can claim to know Vietnam as intimately as John McCain, a man who endured years of imprisonment within its walls. Yet, when given the chance to hold onto resentment, he chose a different path—not vengeance, but reconciliation. Instead of letting his suffering define his legacy, he worked to heal the wounds of war, proving that even in the face of unimaginable hardship, peace is a choice we can still make. Perhaps that’s a lesson worth remembering.   -John