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I almost didn't go to My Lai. I wasn't
doing the War Tour - the DMZ, the Cu Chi Tunnels, or Khe Sanh. I
didn't have to go. I didn't want to go. Yet
something compelled me to turn east off the highway. Only the foundations of burned houses bore testimony to
the senseless atrocities of one afternoon. In front |
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of each foundation was an unadorned granite marker inscribed with the
names and ages of the family murdered in that home. I was not yet
three years old in March 1968. Why then, standing alone in the
tranquil glen, did I feel so
guilty? Why did I feel that the shame was mine, the responsibility
mine, mine the need to atone? |
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