A Building to Remember
By Kevin Moe Myint Myat
Written on 29 December 2025
The queue was long.
Longer than expected for a Saturday morning.
My parents stood beside me.
Their faces showed curiosity and fatigue.
We came to see Ho Chi Minh's preserved body. The line snaked around the complex.
All three of us had mobility issues. Legs and hips protested against standing.
We didn't go inside.
We walked around instead. Took photos with the building in the background.
I thought about preservation. About keeping a story alive.
There's a song. "We're going down, down in an earlier round,
and sugar, we're going down swinging." The line came to me standing there.
It's a song about a failing relationship, about going down before the final fight,
before you see how it ends.
Built to Last
The mausoleum demands respect.
Massive. Gray. Imposing. Brutalist architecture in Soviet style,
all concrete and stone, unadorned and unapologetic.
Brutalist architecture is raw and honest, stripped of decoration.
It doesn't try to be beautiful—it tries to be permanent.
It tries to stand against time, against weather, against forgetting.
The queue was too long, so we walked around the complex instead.
I found myself more interested in what surrounded the mausoleum than what was inside it
—the way the building sits in the landscape,
the way it feels both sacred and solemn.
The Last Request
Ho Chi Minh had expressed a wish to be cremated, his ashes scattered across the country.
History took a different path—he was preserved, a mausoleum was built,
a way for the Vietnamese people to honor their leader.
The relationship between the man and his memory is layered.
The man is a body in a mausoleum, but the memory is a story,
something that can be retold, passed down, remembered.
The man who had wished for cremation is now preserved in glass.
The man who had wished to be scattered is now honored in stone.
Ho Chi Minh knew about exile.
He spent thirty years away from Vietnam, wandering through France, China,
Thailand, working as a cook, a photographer, a revolutionary.
He left as Nguyen Ai Quoc and returned as Ho Chi Minh—"He Who Enlightens."
He left in defeat and returned in triumph.
On September 2, 1945, he stood in Ba Dinh Square,
the same square where his mausoleum now stands.
He read the Declaration of Independence:
"Nothing is more precious than independence and freedom."
Twenty-four years later, on September 2, 1969, he died.
The same date.
The same square. A heart attack in Hanoi, before he could see his country unified,
before he could see the war end, before he could see victory.
Six years later, in 1975, the year of the cat, Vietnam was unified.
Victory came, but he was already gone.
He went down in an earlier round, before the victory,
but he went down swinging—fighting for independence, fighting for freedom,
even when he knew he might not see it.
The fight continued. The cause won.
Uncle Ho: The Godfather
There's a photo of Ho Chi Minh holding a little girl—his goddaughter, Aubrac.
He's picking her up, smiling.
This is the human side of a revolutionary: the man who fought for independence,
who wrote poetry, who worked as a cook, who held children, who showed hospitality,
who was kind.
The body is preserved. Monuments are built.
His face is on Vietnamese Dong notes.
He becomes a symbol—a way for the Vietnamese people to honor their leader,
to remember the man who held children, who showed kindness, who was human.
Just beyond the mausoleum, there's his stilt house—the simple wooden structure
where he actually lived. Humble and unassuming, built on stilts over a pond,
surrounded by trees.
The opposite of the mausoleum in every way: small instead of massive,
wood instead of stone, life instead of death.
The man who lived in a stilt house is now honored on currency,
a way for the Vietnamese people to remember their leader in daily life.
The man who had wished for cremation is now remembered in paper and ink,
passed from hand to hand, a constant reminder of the values he stood for.
Memory Over Monument
The mausoleum will stand for a long time,
the body preserved for as long as science allows.
The story will continue to be told, retold, passed down through generations.
The Vietnamese people have chosen to honor their leader in many ways—through the mausoleum,
through monuments, through currency, through memory.
Each way is valid. Each way honors the person who lived inside the body.
Most people say palms are natural.
Palms are not equal. Palms are not fair.
That's just how it is—some palms are longer, some shorter, some have different lines,
different fates. That's nature. That's life. Accept it.
But I attest: the star is equal.
Not the palms—the palms are not equal.
But the star is. The star on the flag is equal.
The nations are equal. The people are equal. That's not nature.
That's belief. That's what we fight for.
The Same Date, Different Year
On September 2, 1945, Ho Chi Minh stood in Ba Dinh Square and read
the Declaration of Independence.
He began with words from another declaration, from another country, from another time:
> "All men are created equal. They are endowed by their Creator with
certain inalienable rights, among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."
Then he expanded it, made it universal:
> "In a broader sense, this means: All the nations on the earth are equal from birth,
all the nations have the right to live, to be happy and free."
He quoted the American Declaration of Independence,
then the French Revolution's Rights of Man.
He used their words to claim his own country's freedom.
He used their principles to deny their colonial rule.
He ended with those words: "Nothing is more precious than independence and freedom."
Twenty-four years later, on the same date, he died—before he could see victory,
before he could see his country unified.
Six years later, in 1975, the year of the cat, victory came.
The fight continued, and the cause won.
His body is preserved.
Monuments are built.
His face is on currency.
The Vietnamese people have chosen many ways to honor their leader.
And what they honor is the victory, the independence, the freedom,
the words he spoke, the declaration he made, the fight he fought.
The body honors the victory.
The monument honors the declaration.
The currency honors the values.
The memory honors the person.
The mausoleum stands there,
a monument to a man who went down in an earlier round. But the fight continued.
And it won.
We came to see a building.
We changed our plan—we didn't see his body,
we walked around the monument instead.
We took photos of stone and concrete.
We thought we'd remember the building.
But we walked away remembering the person—the one who lived in a stilt house,
who held children.
The one who believed in something even when he knew he might not see it.
I will remember the brutalist architecture.
I will remember the preserved body.
I will remember the monument that will stand for centuries.
But most importantly,
I will remember the man.
Is This Communist?
Some might read this and ask: is this communist? Is this pro-communist?
No. This is not about communism. This is about the person, not the ideology.
This is about memory, not monuments.
This is about how history remembers people,
how memory works, how symbols are formed.
This is about the man who quoted the American Declaration of Independence,
who quoted the French Revolution's Rights of Man, who used their words to
claim his own country's freedom.
This is about universal equality—not communist doctrine, but human belief.
The star is equal.
Not because any ideology says so.
Because we believe it should be. Because we fight for it to be.
This is humanist.
Individualist.
Universalist.
It reflects on how memory works, how symbols are formed, how people are remembered.
This is about remembering the person:
Just the person who fought, who believed. And who won.
*"Nothing is more precious than independence and freedom."*
*Written in Hanoi, December 27, 2025*
*After visiting the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum Complex with my parents*
*This is a personal reflection on memory, legacy, and preservation.
It is a philosophical meditation, not a political statement.
All historical references are based on documented facts and public records.
Any observations about preservation, monuments, or symbols are
personal reflections on universal themes of memory and legacy,
not critiques of any institution, government, or decision.*