At every station a forest of skinny arms reached up toward the windows. Some of them offered things for sale: ragged youngsters sold hot water from battered aluminum teapots covered with straw, little girls offered pieces of sugarcane. Most offered empty hands. Amputees boarded the train to display their stumps, the blind to chant their singsong tales of woe. The police drove them all out again. They were undoubtedly victims of the war, but nowadays in Vietnam only the dead are honored as heroes. For them there is a monument in every town and every village. For the lame there is nothing but
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