Joan Baez in Hanoi: Navigating mortality and the human cost of war
Around 7.30am on Christmas Eve in 1972, Joan Baez was singing the Lord’s Prayer into a tape recorder. She was in Hanoi when America launched its worst bombing raids since the Second World War, having travelled to Vietnam with three others to experience the unrest first-hand and deliver mail to US prisoners. That morning, the unexpected sound of an exploding bomb interrupted her singing, leaving many to grapple with the unmistakable dilemma of fight or flight.
“Sing on,” a voice yelled, and Baez resumed her performance, strong, brave, and like anyone except someone under the pressure of facing mortality. In the whirlwind of air-raid sirens and grumbling fear, Baez refused to back down. America had just launched what would be 12 days of bombing with Phantom Jets and B-52 bombers against Hanoi and Haiphong in what would be labelled “the biggest aerial operation in the history of warfare.”
At first, Baez noticed the ripple of the devastation in small ways, like ruins and mourning bands worn by those who had lost loved ones. However, the more time passed, the more she realised the tragedy that she suddenly found herself at the forefront of. Not only did she witness the injured, but she connected with those who had lost everything. Holding their hands and beckoning togetherness, she shed tears for all.
Vietnamese women “don’t cry very much,” Baez explained at the time. She noticed that when they do, they make themselves subtle, covering their faces with their hands or items of clothing. This time was different. This time, Baez heard the wails before she saw them, followed by the image of women clenching their fists, unable to stop the sobbing that trailed the sound cemented in Baez’s mind for an eternity. A nearby bomb shelter had been hit, leaving no survivors.
Baez is often linked to the counterculture movement of the 1960s, but beyond occupying the figure of someone willing to go against the artistic grain, her integrity and demand for greater justice made her one of the most impassioned campaigners of all time. After the war, she fought against human rights abuses by the Communist government, her willingness to exist alongside those hurt and scorned becoming a beacon of resilience and hope for the oppressed, even as she faced relentless persecution herself.
Just over ten years ago, she stayed in the same hotel where she and the rest of the peace delegation had been accommodated by the North Vietnamese government, which, aside from a name change, had remained much the same. The moment she arrived, she leaned her warm hand against the cold cement wall of an old bunker that she used to cower under and began singing ‘Oh, Freedom’. Not only did she often sing this song during civil rights rallies in the 1960s, but as an African-American freedom song, it held deep personal and historical significance for her.
“That was my first experience in dealing with my own mortality, which I thought was a terrible cosmic arrangement,” she explained, sitting in the hotel, reflecting on her experiences. Baez’s talent and resilience meant she could have become one of the most prominent musicians ever. While that undoubtedly graced her path on more than one occasion, she often placed her activism before her art; she proved that intertwining both aspects could be just as powerful.
For Baez, committing to anti-war messages and supercharging peace efforts wasn’t just a performative act. Any musician can speak out against unrest or prejudiced ideologies, but becoming a part of it, witnessing the bombings firsthand, spending nights in bomb shelters, and experiencing the terror that the Vietnamese people endured allowed her to use fear as a powerful conduit of peace, bringing attention to the horrors and human cost of the war.
