Abstract
Vietnam’s draconian censorship regime is well painted in numbers. Yet, be it the regime’s dismal rankings in the Freedom of the Press reports or the counts of dissidents that it arrested, numbers only reveal superficial outcomes of censorship with little insight into where, how, and why censorship occurs. To address these questions, Thomas Bass eschews data and the bird’s eye view, offering instead the voices of those who directly experience censorship. Censorship in Vietnam is rich, poignant, and comes complete with perspectives from both sides of the fight, the censors and the censored.
The first chapters of the book recount Bass’s excruciating sparring with his Vietnamese editors over seemingly minute details in the translation of his earlier work, The Spy Who Loved Us. Behind each and every edit, Bass surmises, is an attempt to steer the political narrative in the government’s favor. The Swamp of the Assassins (Rung Sat) would have to be the Swamp of Seacoast Shrubs (Rung Sac), so that noble guerillas operating here would not be confused with “swamp-dwelling assassins”; and Ngo Dinh Diem, the first president of South Vietnam, would have his birthdate moved a few years backward, lest he became the youngest governor in Vietnam’s colonial history. The fight over the ever-increasing list of “corrections” would last well over half of a decade, and in its aftermath there was no winner. The book was published, but under a different name, and with sentences, paragraphs, even pages, missing from the original work. On the opposite side, the editors, caught between an incensed author and the government’s iron fist, were “scared,” “tired,” and “frustrated.” One even quit his job.
Bass emerged from the ordeal with an unabashed pessimism about Vietnamese censorship, a view that was only reinforced during his fieldwork for Censorship in Vietnam. Vietnam is “a culture in ruins,” he observes.
Vietnam’s best fiction writers no longer write fiction. Its poets no longer write poetry, except for those who circulate their work in underground samizdats. Journalism is a corrupt enterprise controlled by the government. Ditto for publishing. History is a subject too dangerous to study. Freedom of religion, thought, speech–none exists.
While many, whom Bass dismisses as the “sunshine lobby,” would object to such negativity, the voices featured in the book echo his sentiment.
Among Bass’s interview subjects are the usual suspects: well-known regime dissidents whose stories have been extensively publicized, albeit in corners far from the government’s reach. However, taking the main stage is a much broader chorus hailing from all different professional circles, from literature and the arts, to journalism, and even politics. Most interesting, still, are Bass’s conversations with the Vietnamese editors, censors, and publishers, the very hands that carry out acts of censorship. What they reveal, crucially, is how censorship takes place. “The government does not censor”—his respondents declare. Instead, self-censorship drives the whole machine. Through guidelines that are at times specific but for the most part intentionally vague, the government nudges individuals to silence their own voices as well as those of others around them. Vagueness keeps everyone on their toes, while the government makes good on its threat from afar by dishing out punishment sparingly, but ruthlessly.
The strategy works. Bao Ninh, the anti-war novelist, stopped publishing new books in exchange for the safety of his family. Many others would follow in his footsteps. Those who keep trying, like Pham Hong Son, the businessman turned democracy advocate, are discouraged, even opposed by their own friends and families. So pervasive was the fear mentality that when the author himself published an online article detailing his experience with censorship, much of the outrage was directed not to censorship itself but to his endangering of those he named—a danger that, at least according to the author, never materialized.
The book is a sober view into the suffocating life under censorship, a life of resistance, frustration, and ultimately resignation. It is not without shortcomings, however. While letting his respondents speak in their own voice, quite often the author lets paranoia cloud his judgment, and assumes ulterior motives behind others’ actions. The Ivy League Vietnamese graduate student who criticizes his work, he suspects, is “on a mission,” and corrections over spellings and word choices are clearly made to fulfill sinister political objectives. But even this is insightful. Censorship obscures truth and erodes trust, and Bass, like his censor, cannot escape its grasp. As one doubts the sincerity of his critics, the other guards his mouth while glancing around for hidden recording devices.
This shortcoming notwithstanding, Censorship in Vietnam remains a valuable work for those interested in the human perspectives of life under authoritarian regimes and who seek what figures and statistics cannot portray. To academic circles, it demonstrates thorough interview work and astute observation; to advocates of liberty and freedom, it calls to action; and to those living under authoritarianism, it honors those who lost the fight, and those who keep on fighting.