Vietnam: An Epic History of a Divisive War 1945-1975. Max Hastings
Читать онлайн книгу.
a year. The British, still important allies and increasingly expert at retreats from empire, deplored this: they believed that no quantity of guns and bullets could avert looming French expulsion from Indochina. The government of Winston Churchill was alarmed by what it considered an ill-directed US obsession. Selwyn Lloyd, a Foreign Office minister, wrote in August 1953: ‘There is now in the United States an emotional feeling about Communist China and to a lesser extent Russia which borders on hysteria.’ The Vietminh were branded, of course, as instruments of the satanic forces in play.
3 PEASANTS
A small minority of Vietnamese who were sufficiently educated to think beyond their own villages witnessed the brutalities of the Vietminh, and welcomed the promise of foreign succour. A schoolboy in the north wrote: ‘From the books I read, I believed that the Americans might be at least better than the French … I was sure that like any other country the US must have some interest when it helped its allies, but … the Americans seemed to be generous in assisting poor countries.’ However, it is easy to understand why many Vietnamese adopted a contrary view, and supported a revolutionary movement that promised the removal of an oppressive colonial regime, together with an assault on a landowning class, French and indigenous, that had exploited the peasantry for generations.
Such was the poverty of rural Vietnam that a man with a primary school certificate was respected as an ‘intellectual’. Some couples owned only a single pair of trousers, which husband and wife took turns to wear. Much of the peasants’ daily labour involved paddling water uphill to irrigate the paddies, often by moonlight because the days became so hot, in good times singing as they worked. The rice had to be fertilised once, weeded three or four times, cut twice. The spring crop accounted for three-quarters of the harvest, because it profited from higher rainfall. Poor villagers might supplement their income by trekking into the wildernesses to gather firewood for sale. Some migrated to towns to work. Those burdened by the worst indebtedness hired themselves out as field labourers.
Family and village were the dominant social institutions. Beside nearly every hut stood its wooden altar, containing offerings of fruit and sweets: the richer the family, the grander its altar. Few parents felt embarrassed by establishing a hierarchy of affection for their many children, rooted in a judgement about which were the ablest and most hard-working. A father’s word was law, though mothers arguably wielded the real power. There was a popular saying: ‘Without a father you could still enjoy rice and fish, but without a mother you might expect to eat only fallen leaves.’ Beyond family, peasants said, ‘The king rules – subject to village regulations.’ Most Catholic communities had a bell tower, Buddhist ones a temple and magnolia trees. There might also be a meeting hall called the dinh, and maybe a carpenter’s and a tailor’s shop.
Villages were subdivided into hamlets in which much of life and labour was shared: at new year people worked together to make rice cakes that were cooked overnight, then threaded on fine strands of bamboo. They gathered to wish parents long life, health and wealth: the Vietnamese, like most Asians, believed that each year conferred upon the old an additional accession of wisdom. After a pig had been slaughtered, children might beg its bladder as a plaything. They played hide-and-seek, shot ‘jute guns’ made from bamboo pipes – like Western pea-shooters – or competed at another game, ‘hitting stick’. At festivals they might taste jam, sweets, peanuts, birds’ eggs and squashes coated in sugar. For the most part, however, they knew only rice and vegetables – and were thankful to get them.
Some Vietnamese later idealised the simplicity of peasant life before war descended. One said: ‘Everybody knew each other and never closed doors.’ She waxed lyrical about ‘the beauty of togetherness’, shared tasks and pleasures. Yet such nostalgia was rare among the vastly greater number who recalled only hardship, persecution and near-starvation. Nguyen Thi Thanh Binh was born east of Hanoi in 1948, daughter of a poor peasant who cultivated four hundred square yards of rice. Her parents and their six children occupied a thatched hut in a hamlet of some thirty families, none of which owned a radio set or bicycle. Few inhabitants could read: when an occasional newspaper reached them, people gathered under a tree, while a literate villager with a good voice perched on a branch to read aloud to them interesting items.
Such people grew up without photographs of parents or children, because none owned a camera. Pyjamas, ba ba dress, brown in the north and black in the south, was the clothing of peasants which only incidentally became the uniform of guerrillas. Infant mortality rates were appalling, partly because it was customary to sever umbilical cords with fragments of broken glass. Villages frequently had to be abandoned because of flood or famine. Binh had no memories of childhood happinesses: life was merely an unremitting struggle for existence, in which children gathered snails to supplement the family diet. At twenty she became a lifelong member of the Communist Party, regarding Ho Chi Minh with quasi-religious fervour as ‘the indispensable, incomparable leader’.
Although Ho’s armed supporters in the south-west never matched the spectacular military successes achieved by Giap’s formations in the north, his movement won widespread support on the single issue of land redistribution. Even prosperous tenant-farmers craved ownership: many were hopelessly in thrall to creditors who appropriated up to half their production. Debtors could become body-slaves, enlisted to rock a landlord’s hammock. They eagerly supported the secret land-redistribution plan of the Vietminh, one of whose cadres told Norman Lewis in 1950: ‘Our enemies are slowly converting us to communism. If it is only by becoming communists that we shall achieve our liberty, then we shall become communists.’
A historian has described Giap’s soldiers as ‘simple men whose world view was formed entirely by their own and their families’ immediate experience … coloured by oppression and hardship over generations’. The foremost strengths of Vietminh fighters were discipline, patience, ingenuity; a genius for fieldcraft and especially camouflage; tolerance of hardship and sacrifice. Above all there was motivation: they yearned to share the fruits of a political, economic and social revolution. Itinerant communist cadres launched political-education programmes and composed folk songs to help villagers learn their alphabets. There was a ‘learn through play’ programme for children. Virtuous as that may sound, it was reinforced by compulsion: cadres caused villagers to display banners decorated with flowers, proclaiming ‘Long live the fighters against illiteracy’. In some places non-readers were wantonly humiliated, forced to crawl through mud to go to market. As ever when communist doctrine was imposed, victims were reminded that this was cruelty with a purpose, for the ultimate good of The People.
As for more drastic penalties, even an official Party history admitted later that ‘not a few innocent people were killed’. Simple country folk serving the Vietminh assumed that any man who affected blue trousers and a white shirt with a tailor’s label must be a French spy. Whereas the Mafia employed the euphemism of sending an enemy to ‘sleep with the fishes’, in the equally watery words of Vietnam’s communists he was dispatched ‘to search for shrimps’. Killings were conducted with maximum brutality and publicity: Vietminh death squads favoured burying victims alive or eviscerating them in front of assembled neighbours. ‘Better that a possible innocent dies than that a guilty man escapes,’ ran a Party catchphrase. In the ‘liberated zones’ the Vietminh established notorious punishment camps. When Nguyen Cong Luan’s father died in one of them, a cigarette lighter was the only possession his jailers grudgingly returned to the widow.
In 1947 the Vietminh conducted an ideological ‘cleansing’ campaign, in which a large though never quantified number of ‘class enemies’ were murdered. Any landlord or government office-holder lived under threat of a death sentence which extended to his family. The Catholic religion bore the taint of foreign ownership, and thus its adherents were vulnerable. Local denunciation sessions – dau to – held in the courtyard of a pagoda or landlord’s house, inspired the dread their organisers intended. Farmers or peasants, often impelled by grudges, rehearsed landlords’ alleged crimes before people’s courts run by Vietminh cadres. If death sentences were pronounced, a victim might there and then be shot, stoned to death, hanged, or face a crueller death. At My Thanh in the Mekong delta a Cao Dai functionary, about to be buried alive, pleaded for a merciful bullet. His killers observed contemptuously that ammunition was being