No Hhonors.

Not a gate you would have wanted to cross.

Hanoi, Vietnam – Rounding the bright yellow wall topped with crushed bottle glass and barbed wire, you discover there’s very little left of the original, infamous Hỏa Lò Prison, also derisively known as the Hanoi Hilton.

Modernity and high rises, and all.

I actually found the tone of the museum to be relatively lighthearted, in part because the propaganda has been laid on so thick and planted between pictures of US Presidents attempting to reconcile with the country it once invaded.

Victors write history.

It’s not until the end of the tour, though, you reach the death chamber’s cells, where one of two original guillotines looms overhead – its history less dull than its blade.

Doors, shorter and narrower than I, frame the cells: dark, dank and desperate. The musty odour clings to your bones in a way that speaks in voices that pass through the years. And through your soul.

Door number two? Don't want to know.

Unlike the polished display cases – including one containing Senator and former presidential hopeful John McCain’s jumpsuit – this part feels very real.  This, despite the stylized mannequins with hollowed cheeks and ribs that have been installed within them.

The doors are painted with European-styled red numbers, faded like the hopes of those who once resided there. Peeling, they speak of a bygone era, and of an anguish that hasn’t fully seeped from the concrete walls. They immediately remind you where you are.

As a knot formed in my chest, I could only hope it wasn’t from the ghost of a hangman’s noose. I felt chills.