A few weeks ago, shortly after the death of Nguyen Phu Trong on July 19, the late general secretary of the Communist Party of Vietnam (CPV), I penned a commentary about Trong for Radio Free Asia. In it, I argued that Trong’s legacy leaves the party increasingly vulnerable to a dictatorial takeover due to the weakened state in which he left the institution. Normally, I don’t engage with correspondence, but this time, I noticed a significant number of emails and social media posts condemning me for daring to write critically so soon after his passing. Some asked how I could speak ill of the dead so soon. Others questioned how a foreigner could have the audacity to opine on the death of their leader.
Mai Truong wrote an excellent essay here in the Diplomat a few days ago on the moral pressure the Vietnamese have exerted on each other to mourn his death properly.
On a personal level, I had never met Trong, nor did I have any desire to. By all accounts, he was a humble man who upheld his mantra of seeking an “honorable life, above wealth and money.” I have never suggested that Trong was motivated by selfish motives or a desire for power. In fact, I have consistently portrayed him as a deeply moral, if misguided and destructive, figure.
However, when I first heard of Trong’s death, my thoughts were not with him or his family. Instead, they were with the many Vietnamese people I’ve met over the years who are now in hiding, exile, or prison – or worse – because of the regime he led. I thought of those who won’t marry, won’t have children, won’t be able to see their parents before they die and won’t be able to attend their funerals because they are wasting away in jail cells or forced to live abroad simply for daring to raise their voices against the regime that Trong established to make more power. Indeed, under Trong’s leadership, the CPV became even more repressive and censorious. Human Rights Watch reports that “more than 160 political prisoners are currently locked up simply for exercising their basic rights.”
Indeed, my thoughts were with some of these individuals: the journalist I knew who was sentenced to decades in prison, the environmentalists who are likewise wasting their best years behind bars, and the families I met who now live in exile, who likely will never return to their homeland out of fear that their loved ones would be jailed for life if they ever set foot in Vietnam again. I thought of people like Do Cong Duong, a citizen journalist who died in prison in 2022.
I cannot claim to be a close friend to these people; I don’t want to overstate my connection. Our interactions were brief, occurring during my many reporting trips to Vietnam over the past decade. I shared beers with some, was invited to dinner by others, played football, or met for coffee in discreet locations. Some I only communicated with via email. Yet, each was brave enough to talk to me, putting their own liberty at risk. I do not attempt to speak on their behalf – although, now imprisoned or worse, they can no longer speak freely for themselves. Perhaps some mourned Trong’s passing; perhaps they did not.
On social media, I noticed some voices, who would ordinarily oppose the censorship of those who question prevailing orthodoxies, fiercely condemning anyone who suggested that Trong should not be mourned in anything other than the most reverent tones. But to pretend that an entire nation mourns uniformly is not only naive but also offensive. Vietnam is a one-party state in terms of political power; it is not a one-party state of thought.