In the past few days, I have received an outpouring of material support and emotional comfort. Cash, clothes, personal items — even instant noodles, painkillers, mosquito repellent, and... air freshener — all came flooding in, leaving me even more overwhelmed, for I’ve never been one who could carry heavy loads. Physically, that is what I mean.

Alongside that came countless words of sympathy from so, so many people.

I couldn’t possibly respond to them all and can only hope everyone will understand and forgive me.

Yet, there was one message—from a journalist, a younger colleague—that I read and tried to reply to, even though it was nearly 2 a.m. at the time:

“Sis, I’m terrified. I’m tormented by the thought of being here, in Việt Nam, as a writer—what for? What’s the point, when every idea is thrown into silence? Looking at you, I can’t comprehend what’s happening, or what’s about to crush all of us who write.”

I sat there in a daze for several minutes, unsure how to respond—because I myself did not understand.

It’s unthinkable that in 2018, at the end of the second decade of the 21st century, Vietnam’s authorities and police still behave exactly as they did in the 1950s: dragging a writer to the station to investigate and clarify their motive for writing, demanding a summary of their book, asking where it was printed, to whom it was given, whether they knew anyone whose books had been confiscated, and so on.

And, the police were both startled and irritated when such author replied:

“Yes, I wrote that book. As for what it contains, you’re welcome to read it yourselves. And whether I give it away, gift it, or sell it to someone is my private matter—you have neither the right nor the authority to ask.”

It’s simply that Vietnam’s police—and especially those police who want to control people’s thoughts in general—are unaccustomed to being refused.

They cannot imagine that there could exist spaces, realms, where they cannot poke their heads in, stick their noses into, to manage, to control, to dictate…

In any case, saying they “behave like it’s the 1950s” refers only to the government’s side.

As for society, it has become far, far better—immeasurably so.

I am not like the writers of decades in the past, who had to handwrite their works, wrap them in banana leaves, and bury them in earthen jars, hoping that someday their descendants—or some kind soul—might dig them up and print them.

I don’t have to sneak off to fish illegally like writer Phùng Quán, nor haul stones and bricks in my hometown like poet Hữu Loan.

I’m not shunned or ostracized by neighbors, relatives, or friends as were the dozens of victims of Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm [3] and Xét Lại.

On the contrary, I’ve been extraordinarily fortunate to receive help from countless people—both those who openly supported me and those who did so quietly.

Yet, no matter what, I wish to be the witness of the last generation of Vietnamese writers to be hunted down like this.

I hope that from now on, there will be no more crackdowns bearing names like Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm, Xét Lại, Đổi Mới Văn Nghệ [5] as in the past, or Dân Chủ (Democracy), Xã Hội Dân Sự (Civil Society) as we see today.

References:

1. Phùng Quán was an author and got involved in the Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm Movement (1956-58), a movement of writers and intellectuals pushing for greater freedom and discussion in North Vietnam.
2. Hữu Loan, author of Màu tím hoa sim (The Purple Color of Sim Flowers), whose life and work embody the hidden cost of literary dissent in mid-20th-century Vietnam.
3. The Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm Movement, a literary-political campaign for freedom of expression in North Vietnam during the 1950s.
4. The term “Xét Lại” (literally Revisionism or Reconsideration) refers to a political-ideological campaign in North Vietnam during the 1960s–1970s that targeted intellectuals, party members, and military officers accused of “revisionist” thinking — that is, deviating from strict Marxist-Leninist orthodoxy or showing sympathy for Soviet reformist ideas.
5. Đổi Mới Văn Nghệ was a Party-led ideological campaign intended to “purify,” “re-align,” and “re-discipline” artistic circles after the reunification of North and South Vietnam (1975).

/Phạm Đoan Trang, 3 March 2018