“If it weren’t for the American soldiers, I wouldn’t be alive today. They saved my life. They raised me. They taught me how to cook, how to be resourceful and how to be compassionate.”

Meet Tam.

Now, she’s not your average 60-year-old Vietnamese woman born n’ raised in Da Nang. She’s small but full of spunk, wears thick rimmed glasses with funky patterned dresses, has a squeaky giggle and raspy voice you could spot from anywhere; probably from years of storytelling. When you walk into her restaurant, she’s either doing one of two things: barking food orders at her family members (lovingly, of course), or sitting down with someone like me.

Unlike most other Vietnamese restaurateurs who own traditional noodle houses and rice joints passed down generations, Tam owns a small surf shack near the beach in the heart of Da Nang’s expat neighborhood. From the outside, it blends in with all the other Western-style pubs and burger shacks on the street. But take a step inside, and you’re transported back in time 50 years. Back to the heart of the Vietnam War. The walls are covered with black and white photos of soldiers Tam had once befriended, snapshots of her days living on US bases, old TIME magazine covers from the ’70s, and colored photos of old American friends who have come back to visit 50 years later.

Since I arrived to Vietnam, I’ve been struggling with the fact that I can’t communicate with the older generation. I mean for peep’s sake, I’m an American living in Vietnam – the history to be told! Very, very few older Vietnamese speak English, and my Vietnamese is limited to knowing how to order street food, count to 10 and ask for the bill (can I get an “em oi, tính tiền!). Talking to locals, learning their stories and how it was like “back then” is what I travel and live abroad for (okay, well that and food). Not being able to talk to such a large portion of the population here has been a constant internal struggle for me over the past year; it’s as if I’m an outsider peering into a country through a panoramic window, but I’m unable to open it. When I heard about Tam, I made a b-line to Tam’s Pub.

Tam doesn’t have your average war story. But then again, she’s not your average lady.

I told her I wanted to hear her story. She sat down, looked at me and without hesitation started talking.

“I was 4-years-old. I remember laying in front of my house that afternoon, weak and dizzy. My nose was bleeding, and the scorching sun felt like it was melting through my clothes. I can’t recall a lot of the details from that day; maybe it was my age, or maybe it was my sickness. But the next thing I remember, I was being scooped up by a huge American man and was thrown over his shoulder like a rag doll. He started running. He ran and ran and didn’t stop until we arrived at the American hospital at the nearest base.”

When Tam’s father was told she was at the hospital being treated for a terrible sickness and she couldn’t leave for a few weeks, he started panicking, yelling at the American officer to let her go. The doctor told him, “I’m sorry, we’re keeping your daughter here. If not, she will die.”

“I was released a few weeks later,” Tam shared as her voice started to crack. “But I would never be the same.”

She started running away from home at every chance she got. She would spend hours upon hours at the bases. And those consecutive hours turned into consecutive days.

“I would run from one base to another, befriending the soldiers. They cared for me – gave me a place to sleep, food to eat, and more food to take home to my family. So much food, we couldn’t eat it all! So we started selling it to our neighbors in my village.”

“We couldn’t eat like those big, tall Western men!” she said as she chuckled and glanced across the restaurant at two hefty Western guys devouring a massive plate of fries.

“My family accepted that they had lost a piece of their daughter. They knew I was a product of the Americans now, and I couldn’t be convinced otherwise. I followed my soldier friends around. I was their little sister. They played with me, taught me American games, and watched after me. They kept me safe.”

Tam was 12-years-old when she started working for the US army.

“I spent so many years watching them cook, that I picked it up. We used to eat those terrible canned spaghetti things together (shout out to SpaghettiOs!). I thought, this can be better. So, I started cooking the canned spaghetti with fresh tomatoes, fresh vegetables and spices, and the soldiers started begging me for it. I began to cook everyday for the soldiers. They offered to pay me. But I didn’t want money.” She smirked and looked at me. “I wanted their helmets.”

“Helmets!? What did you want with their helmets?!” I asked, utterly perplexed and downright intrigued.

“I cooked with them,” she said frankly. “My family didn’t have the right pots to cook the food they gave us, and the metal helmets were the perfect shape to boil potatoes. My helmet potatoes became famous!”

Helmet potatoes. Now, that’s one helluva smart kid.

“One day, their was a village raid and one of the civilians was terribly hurt. At that point, my English was nearly perfect. The doctor came rushing to me, and asked if I could help interpret for the hurt civilian.”

After that incident, the doctor asked little 12-year-old Tam to be his interpreter. “Do you know I’m only 12-years-old?” She recalled saying to the doctor. “I don’t care,” he replied. “You’ve got spunk and perfect English.”

And just like that, began her war-long career working as a medical interpreter.

“I was 16 when I fell madly in love with an American soldier. He was 18, and we had an immediate connection. After a year, he was called back to the US and I never saw him again. I was terribly sad to see him go, but so happy he was leaving. He made it.” She said blankly.

“I became desensitized to seeing things. I lost many dear friends and saw many terrible things that I will never forget.”

When the war ended, she cried. “I was happy it was ending, but devastated that my American family was leaving. I didn’t know how to live my life otherwise.”

She concluded, “the war was terrible, but the Americans have some of the biggest hearts that exist in this world. I slap people who say different…”

“…Governments are bad but people are good. Americans will always be family.”

Growing up with a hippie, Woodstock-attending, burn-the-bra mom who was a thriving anti-war teen in New York in the ’70s, I always heard about the faults, fallacies and tragedies of the Vietnam War from one very strong perspective. I heard countless times from my Guacamomma about how she used to watch the gory Vietnam War reports at dinnertime with her family, and how those images will forever scar her.

Living in Vietnam now, I’ve done my best to learn about the war from the other side – I’ve visited war museums in Vietnam, watched the PBS Ken Burns documentary (well, most of it…it’s really freakin’ long), and I’ve done my best to talk with Vietnamese, young and old, about their family’s stories and perspectives. Surprisingly enough, it feels as if the Americans are more eternally scarred and resentful from it all than the Vietnamese. Man, are these guys true survivors. I still feel very, very strongly that the war never should’ve happened. But Tam is a reminder, that lost in the cruelty and violence of war are stories like Tam’s, of kindness, generosity and humanity in times that were anything but.

Remember when I said she’s a special lady?

Tam now dedicates her life to welcoming Americans and other Westerners into her restaurant. If you’re in Da nang and want to visit Tam and her wall’s worth of memorabilia, go to Tam’s Pub and Surf Shop on An Thuong 5.

What do you think of Tam’s story? Do you have your own Vietnam War story to share?