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Interview with Phan Nhật Nam

2024; University of California Press; Volume: 19; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1525/vs.2024.19.2.97

1559-3738

Alex-Thái Đình Võ, Nguyễn Nguyệt Cầm,

Japanese History and Culture

Phan Nhật Nam is both my name and my pen name. I go by Rốc at home. I was born on September 8, 1943 (although my birth certificate says December 28, 1942), in Phù Cát Ward, Hương Trà District, Thừa Thiên-Huế Province. My ancestral village is Nại Cửu located in Triệu Phong District, Quảng Trị Province.I attended Mai Khôi Elementary School in Huế, then Saint Joseph Middle School, then Phan Châu Trinh High School in Đà Nẵng.I enrolled in the Vietnamese National Military Academy of Đà Lạt in 1961. After graduating from the eighteenth class in 1963, I enlisted in the Paratrooper Corps. From 1963 to 1975, I served in the following units: the Seventh, Ninth, and Second Battalions and the Second Paratrooper Division, Phước Tuy Subregion, Long An. I also served in the Vietnamese Rangers. During the Paris Peace Talks, I was assigned to both the Central Four-Party Joint Military Commission and the Central Two-Party Joint Military Commission.During the fourteen years between 1975 and 1989, I was incarcerated in various prisons and reeducation camps in northern Vietnam. This included eight years in solitary confinement (from February 1979 to August 1980 and from September 1981 to May 1988). Following release, I remained under formal police surveillance and was compelled to live in Lái Thiêu Ward, Bình Dương Province.In 1993, I immigrated to the United States. I initially lived in San José before moving to Washington, DC; Houston; Minnesota; Arizona; and Colorado. I've lived and worked in Southern California since 2005.I grew up with my family at 3 Bis Rue Trung Bộ, Huế (after 1954, the street was renamed Tô Hiến Thành Street), located in the Gia Hội area—the first Chinatown in central Vietnam.Because both my parents joined the Việt Minh in 1945, I lived for a brief period, between 1950 and 1951, in the Southwestern Resistance Zone along the Perfume River in Huế. It was during this period that I first became aware of the ruthlessness of the communists.From 1952 to 1954, I attended Saint Joseph, a Franco-Vietnamese mixed school in Đà Nẵng, which inspired in me an appreciation for French literature, culture, and society. I received training at the Vietnamese National Military Academy of Đà Lạt from 1961 to 1963, which reinforced this sentiment. In addition, from 2000 to 2002, I had an opportunity to study French literature at the University of Minnesota. Nevertheless, French literature and culture left only a superficial influence and was not as impactful as the knowledge of Vietnamese culture that I gained through self-study.In terms of English, I am self-taught due to my involvement with American military forces from 1968 to 1975. As a result, I lack some fundamental skills necessary for in-depth research.However, I have gained a certain understanding of American culture and politics through media and books since my arrival in the United States in November 1993, and particularly from 2005 after I returned to California.I joined the military because my material circumstances and family situation left me no other choice. I had no father or mother at that time, and I was responsible for supporting two younger sisters.1 I had no profession, or education, or wealth to help me to pursue a different kind of life. I had no opportunity to pursue higher education.During my youth, starting in 1956, I had been involved in the scouting movement, and therefore, I was accustomed to communal life and military culture.Furthermore, I felt that the Vietnam War had to be resolved by the Vietnamese people.Perhaps my mother. She was born in 1922 and had an elementary-school education. She used to read poetry and prose fiction from the romantic literature movement [phong trào lãng mạn] before 1954, but to be frank, no one person had a significant impact on my later literary endeavors.I was never the introspective type, completely absorbed in literature and reading. And financial constraints during my youth prevented me from buying books. However, in a stroke of luck amid misfortune, during the two years before I enlisted, I stayed in a residence at 5 Tô Hiến Thành Street, which belonged to the Phan family, where there was a small bookcase with books purchased by family members. There, I read the series Quê hương [Homeland] published by Hoài Bão Publishing House, an important cultural-political institution founded by Ngô Đình Nhu. This series opened my eyes to social and political issues facing the Republic of Vietnam (RVN) in the fight against communism. I was also deeply influenced by the French book The 25th Hour [La Vingt-cinquième Heure] by Constantin Virgil Gheorghiu. It inspired me to write about pain and suffering and to address the evil nature of communism. Thus, from the time I graduated from the Đà Lạt Military Academy on November 23, 1963, through uninterrupted years of military service from 1964 to 1968, and then after the Tết Offensive, I felt compelled to raise my voice.From 1968 to 1974, I wrote six volumes of personal essays [bút ký] about the war, fueled by indignation and a deep feeling of anguish in my heart. What I had witnessed during my years as a soldier further compelled me to write.Prior to April 30, 1975, I served as a soldier and saw combat frequently. Consequently, I pursued writing and journalism as independent activities, separate from my military obligations. My literary pursuits helped to ease my family life and my social life by providing additional income. The political and military authorities in the south paid scant attention to the literary and journalistic pursuits of an ordinary captain; they largely left me alone. This would surely not have been the case had I lived in a communist setting such as Hà Nội.I began writing after being transferred from the Ninth Battalion to the Second Division following the Tết Offensive in 1968. That was when I wrote my first book, Dấu binh lửa [The Flaming Wound of War], published by Đại Ngã Press in Sài Gòn in 1969. Dấu binh lửa depicts my personal experience of the war in South Vietnam from the early 1960s to 1968. My next book was Dọc đường số 1 [Along Highway One]—published in 1970, also by Đại Ngã Press, under the direction of my friend Vũ Ngự Chiêu (pen name Nguyên Vũ). These first two books reflected my own deep personal demons, which I tried to describe with sincerity. "For me, writing these personal essays was a spiritual quest undertaken in profound solitude. Writing allowed invisible tears to flow freely after a long period of silent restraint. These personal essays were, for me, a long sigh in the dark."2Due to its content and its authentic, simple language, Dấu binh lửa left a deep impression on readers, particularly soldiers, when it was first released in November 1969. According to the assessment of my friend—Dr. Ngô Thế Vinh from the Paratrooper Special Forces—although Dấu binh lửa might be seen as little more than a straightforward, first-hand account of war, it revealed the writing prowess of "a true literary talent." But in my honest opinion, I am not a writer in the conventional sense; I am just a soldier expressing frustration and indignation. Dấu binh lửa was reprinted in 1970 and sold five thousand copies.Dấu binh lửa has since been translated into French by friends in Paris and was titled Stigmates de guerre [War Stigmata]. I treasure Dấu binh lửa because it was written with genuine emotion when I was in my twenties. After more than fifty years, I can still feel that emotion. Naturally, this feeling has calmed down after nearly sixty years, but it still inspires my desire to live and to write. I only feel true peace and happiness when sitting in front of my writing desk, even when I am writing about an "unpeaceful" subject. Sometimes it feels that I have no other life, material or spiritual, beyond books and the flow of written words.I don't set overly ambitious goals for what I write because I see myself as an ordinary soldier and as a fairly gruff person. This remains true even today, despite the fact that I haven't worn a uniform in a long time and am now 80 years old. I feel compelled to write because I want to explore the inherent sorrow of the "human condition." "Sorrow" in English and "douleur" in French, but "nỗi khổ" in Vietnamese may be more accurate. I'm interested in suffering as a lived reality; not the doubtful, pessimistic, and tragic states of mind found in literature and philosophy, but rather the tangible suffering that comes from real-life encounters with war, imprisonment, and hardship that every Vietnamese person, regardless of age, social context, family, or personal origins has experienced.There are no big changes in my work but rather an overarching consistency, like flowing water, always shifting and changing while remaining true to its unique characteristics. I have repeatedly emphasized that I write to portray the great pain and anguish of human beings, particularly the pain of Vietnamese people, who have been destined to bear these sufferings in life.Thus, the suffering of children in the devastated village of Đầm Trà Ổ, Bình Định Province, or Bồng Sơn, Quảng Ngãi Province, during the winter of 1966 is no different for me than the anguished look of a young mother that I observed while imprisoned in the northern mountains on the second day of Tết, 1978. Similarly, the people of Huế who endured the catastrophe of the 1968 Tết Offensive are no different from the panicked villagers fleeing along the "Highway of Horror" in Quảng Trị on April 29, 1972, and again on March 16, 1975, fleeing over two hundred kilometers during their escape from the Central Highlands. The burning house in Bình Đại, Kiến Hoà, that I saw in August 1964 is no different from the tragic land confiscation that took place on the thirtieth day of Tết, 2019, in the vegetable garden of Lộc Hưng in the heart of Sài Gòn—a city now named after a man called "Hồ Chí Minh the Glorious."Yes, but it is important to distinguish clearly between different periods. When I was in the military before 1975, I lived among family and friends whom I incorporated into my books. For example, in Ải trần gian [Hell on Earth, 1970] I wrote about my close friend Phan Chánh Dinh (aka Phan Duy Nhân, 1941–2017) and his circle of friends. I was inspired by and wrote about soldiers from my graduation class from the Military Academy of Đà Lạt and other soldiers whom I knew from the Army of the Republic of Vietnam in Mùa hè đỏ lửa [Summer of Raging Fire].During the period after 1975—which includes my years in prison (1975–1989), the brief interregnum after release from prison (1989–1993), and the time that I have lived in the United States—I have often found myself, either inadvertently or on purpose, living in a state of isolation from the outside world. During my second period of solitary confinement, I experienced absolute solitude that resembled the Tibetan Tantric School's way of "not speaking, not listening, not doing!" But miraculously, it was during this period of absolute solitude that I discovered a deep connection with many of my loved ones, near and far, dead and alive—even strangers that I had only ever met in passing. All these people have been incorporated into my literary works. All of them are fully present with their identities, personalities, behavior, words, and emotions. This includes people who appeared in my dreams or in conscious and unconscious memories.My only goal has been to describe the truth, and I don't understand why others can't see it the way that I do despite their greater intellectual capacity, loftier positions, higher degrees, and longer experience. Typical examples include left-leaning newspapers in Sài Gòn before 1975, such as Đối Diện and Trình Bày and prominent "intellectuals" such as Lý Chánh Trung, Lý Quý Chung, Nguyễn Văn Trung, Nguyễn Viết Khai, Chân Tín, Ngọc Lan, and Nhất Hạnh, all of whom made very shallow and misinformed judgments about the communists in Hà Nội. They claimed that the war was essentially an "anti-American war," but they never mentioned that communist troops almost never captured prisoners from the American infantry, armored divisions, or special forces. What kind of anti-American war was this?If allowed to start over, I would write the exact same way. I would still write about the Battle of Đồng Xoài in June 1965 involving the Seventh Airborne Battalion in which fourteen of our officers were killed and huge numbers were wounded or captured as prisoners of war. I would still write about the Battle of Tây Nguyên, at High Point Charlie in 1972, which was marked by the remarkable combat prowess of our southern paratroopers.3Before 1975, RVN soldiers received no praise, nor did they demand compensation or gratitude. In the early moments of April 30, 1975, they were shot dead in their beds in Cộng Hòa Hospital and Đỗ Vinh Hospital if they resisted being moved due to their battle injuries. Many survived only because they had no strength left to commit suicide.4After April 30, 1975, the entire nation, north and south, suffered the same misery because there were no more soldiers dedicated to the defense of the nation. Vietnamese people became refugees, dispersed over the world in refugee camps, washed up on uninhabited islands, or surrounded by dangerous Thai pirates. How can one capture the full extent of this misery?I can offer the following points: Even though many activities in the RVN were seen as "anti-government," the Sài Gòn authorities responsible for censorship treated southern writers and newspapers with relative leniency. For example, the following "anti-government" publications and individuals were allowed to operate freely:After April 30, 1975, communist authorities only permitted these third-force factions to survive for another year!During the republican era, there were two famous episodes in which writers and journalists were persecuted. The first was the arrest of Vũ Hạnh, a communist official who collaborated with the journal Bách Khoa, managed by Lê Ngộ Châu, with help from Nguyễn Hiến Lê and Võ Phiến. The literary and journalistic community in Sài Gòn, along with the priest Thanh Lãng, chairman of PEN Vietnam, pressured the government to free Vũ Hạnh. In 2007, thirty-two years after 1975, when Phương Nam Publishing House reissued, for the first time, works by the RVN writers Dương Nghiễm Mậu and Lê Xuyên, Vũ Hạnh, now over 80 years old, opposed the republication, issuing a ruthless denunciation of RVN writers and journalists. Vũ Hạnh disparaged both authors, labeling Lê Xuyên's work "decadent" and saying that Dương Nghiễm Mậu's writing exhibited a "reactionary nature that corrupts the younger generation and inspires counter-revolutionary activities."The second episode involved writer Ngô Thế Vinh, who was the editor of the Tình Thương newspaper for Sài Gòn medical students from 1963 to 1966. Vinh was born in Thanh Hóa in 1941 and joined the Republic of Vietnam Military Medical Corps in 1968 after earning his medical degree from Sài Gòn Medical University. He held the positions of captain and chief medical officer of the Eighty-First Airborne Division. His published work includes Mây bão [Cloud and Storm, 1963], Bóng đêm [Night Shadow, 1964], Gió mùa [Seasonal Wind, 1965], and Vòng đai xanh [The Green Belt, 1970]. In 1971, Vòng đai xanh won the National Literature and Arts Award. That same year, Ngô Thế Vinh was served a summons to appear at a military court in response to an essay he wrote titled "Mặt trận ở Sài Gòn" [The Battle of Sài Gòn] that was printed in issue 34 of the left-leaning journal Trình Bày. Ngô Thế Vinh was charged with "incitement against public order and undermining the discipline and fighting spirit of the military." The trial of Ngô Thế Vinh attracted substantial media attention in Sài Gòn's civilian and military newspapers. But although Ngô Thế Vinh was found guilty, he was fined only one token Vietnamese đồng.5Another episode, which had a direct connection to me, was the 1970 publication of my novel Ải trần gian. It featured the dedication "To Phan Duy Nhân—A Hero." Before 1960, Phan Duy Nhân and I had attended Phan Châu Trinh High School together in Đà Nẵng. Phan Duy Nhân's real name was Phan Chánh Dinh, and from 1964 to 1970 he worked as a teacher in Điện Bàn, Quảng Nam, while also working covertly for the communists and infiltrating student activities there and in Huế between 1964 and 1967. Phan Duy Nhân, who openly supported the communists during the 1968 Tết Offensive, was wounded and was afterward transported to Côn Đảo as a prisoner. Phan Duy Nhân was returned to the communist side following the Paris Peace Accords in 1973, and, as part of my work for the Central Four-Party Joint Military Commission, I personally picked him up from jail and delivered him to Lộc Ninh in March 1973. Phan Duy Nhân, who sometimes went by the name Nguyễn Chính, advanced to important positions in Hà Nội before heading the government's religious affairs committee. He passed away in 2017 at the age of 77.6When the dedication to Phan Duy Nhân was brought to the attention of the minister of information, Hoàng Đức Nhã, he ordered me to remove it, stating, "It is not appropriate for an author from the Republic of Vietnam Army to dedicate a book to a high-ranking communist official." The request was reasonable, so I employed a deceptive strategy by leaving the dedication in the copies sold to the public but removing it from those submitted for review by the Ministry of Information. This episode reflects the porous nature of the censorship system under the Republic of Vietnam. Hard to imagine something similar occurring in the north.This question has also been on my mind since 1975, in prison camps (1975–1989), after my release from prison (1989), and in the rural area of Lái Thiêu (1991–1993). I also thought about it every day while living in Houston, Minnesota, Denver, California, Arizona, and again back in California. However, I must point out that I never thought of myself as having a "writing career"—to be quite honest. I never considered it a career because I had no other option but to live, fight, and write, all at once.Since moving to the United States, the process of producing, sharing, and publishing my work has changed in the following ways: Obviously, earlier forms of writing (such as handwriting and typing in the 1960s and 1970s) as well as printing methods have been rendered obsolete by advances in computer technology. Because printing and distribution are now so simple, quick, and convenient, anyone can sit at home, finish a book, and disseminate it worldwide.These technological advancements have provided new opportunities for writers and other creative types, but they have damaged Vietnamese American media. In Southern California, numerous publishing companies, media organizations, and printing businesses have shut down. The printing business for books and newspapers has nearly disappeared, while journalism, broadcasting, and television have all suffered sharp declines. Given this situation, I find that I now write more for myself than for anyone else.Today, I may be the only author remaining from the group of Sài Gòn–based writers before 1975 who is still active in the United States. The fact that there are still some readers of my books and essays, albeit in tiny numbers, provides me with some consolation.My writing, however, is driven by a specific mission, and I remain haunted by certain questions. Why do people suffer so much? How can people treat each other so cruelly? Why have I suffered so much? How can humans be saved? Where to start? With whom? In the blink of an eye, I have become an old man of 80—an elderly person in a precarious situation, whose country is lost and whose home has been shattered, like many soldiers of my generation. But ultimately, today, I continue to write.Of course I am distressed that the communist regime in Hà Nội, despite nearly a century in power, still lacks the courage to overcome its fears. These are fears that fester in the minds of those who have committed crimes of enormous cruelty against their own people, even their own comrades. The regime is a kind of criminal organization. I wrote Dấu binh lửa, Mùa hè đỏ lửa, and especially Tù binh và hòa bình [Peace and Prisoners of War, 1974] from my own heart; these are not political, diplomatic, or legal documents commissioned by an official organization. In my view, despite their frequent claims to the contrary, the Communist Party and the Vietnamese government have never implemented a policy to achieve reconciliation and national harmony. Moreover, the party-state suffers from a profound sense of inferiority and insecurity toward elements of so-called "reactionary culture," such as "nhạc vàng" [yellow music] or my works. Despite its brutal dominance over Vietnam's economic and financial system and the national machinery of propaganda, the communist regime continues to fear songs and writings that represent no threat to its authority in any meaningful way. I think that the party and the government would profit politically and spiritually if they disseminated my writings. The fact that they continue to ban my books strengthens my confidence, since it suggests that the work I produced when I was just over 20 years old was on the right track. I'm happy, at peace, and proud to know that a brutal and oppressive regime like the one in Hà Nội still takes seriously the writings of an ordinary soldier named Phan Nhật Nam.South Vietnam's literature may be divided into two periods. In the first period, from 1954–1965, its literature was an extension of the Tự Lực Văn Đoàn [Self-Reliant Literary Group] movement from the north, brought south by Phượng Giang Publishing House and the journal Văn Hóa Ngày Nay [Today's Culture]. This effort was led by Nhất Linh. From 1958 to 1960, the Sáng Tạo group led by Mai Thảo aimed to shape a new literature and cultural tradition in South Vietnam. Subsequently, publications such as Văn, Văn Học, and Thế Kỷ 20 continued to pursue the cultural program and objectives initiated by Sáng Tạo. Southern literature after WWII was part of a broader movement of petit bourgeois urban culture strongly influenced by the Western and (more specifically) the French tradition. From 1954 to 1965, it featured almost no writing about war or soldiers. One exception is Kỳ Văn Nguyên's Tìm về sinh lộ [Finding an Exit Route], which won the national literary award in 1957. That book focuses mostly on the psychology of anti-communist military personnel, in keeping with the author's personal background in military psychology.During the second period, from 1965–1975, US troops landed at Đà Nẵng in March 1965, escalating the war in both the north and south. The southern military suffered heavy losses in the countryside and in Sài Gòn during the Tết Offensive. As the war became an ever present reality, soldiers and their families emerged as the main subjects of this southern tragedy. However, publications that opposed the war and the so-called "American-Thiệu-Kỳ regime," such as Trình Bày, Thái Độ, Đất Nước, and Đối Diện, with authors like Nguyễn Văn Trung, Thế Nguyên, Diễm Châu, Nguyên Sa, Nhất Hạnh, Chân Tín, and Ngọc Lan, steadfastly carried the anti-war banner. Who would ever voluntarily welcome or encourage war?!During this same period, the global anti-war and anti-American movement in Paris; Washington, DC; New York; Tokyo; and London reached southern Vietnam. In Sài Gòn, the Vietnamese Women's Movement for the Right to Live spearheaded by [Mrs.] Ngô Bá Thành and Sister Huỳnh Liên together with anti-war student demonstrations led by the Sài Gòn Youth Union and the songs of Trịnh Công Sơn helped the movement gain more traction. Southern literature flourished in tandem with the growth of the anti-war/anti-American/anti-Thiệu movement. In this overall context, authors like Thảo Trường, Duy Lam, and Thế Uyên transitioned from writing reportage about the war to writing fictionalized and somewhat sanitized works about the war. Even my friend Nguyên Vũ, who helped publish Dấu binh lửa in 1969, novelized the conflict in works like Bi kịch vàng [The Golden Tragedy] and the Vòng tay lửa [Flaming Embrace] series. Văn Quang's war novel Chân trời tím [The Purple Horizon] was adapted into a romantic film in which Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) soldiers were urbanized, Sài Gòn–ized, and musicalized (i.e., depicted absurdly as singing fighters). While war-themed films like Người tình không chân dung [The Faceless Lover] and books like Vòng đai xanh [The Green Belt] and Mặt trận ở Sài Gòn by Ngô Thế Vinh depicted ethnic clashes in the Central Highlands and social turmoil in Sài Gòn, they failed to address the real suffering and tragedy of the conflict. Nhã Ca's Giải khăn sô cho Huế [Mourning Headband for Huế], although written about the lives of Huế residents during the Tết Offensive, didn't capture the heartbreaking cries of humanity in the war. It was in these circumstances that I, a soldier-writer, embarked on my solitary voyage.April 30, 1975, was like an earthquake that overturned everything. For more than twenty subsequent years, southern literature attempted to survive in exile in the United States, but by the start of the twenty-first century, due to various social, cultural, economic, and political factors, it gradually and quite naturally disappeared. Southern Vietnam's unique cultural essence could not survive in a new land for more than a generation or two.After 1965, the war intensified and images of soldiers appeared everywhere: within families, within the broader society, in music, and in movies. Books and poetry about the war, about South Vietnamese soldiers, and about communists and the communist regime became widespread and well-publicized. Novels by Văn Quang and Nguyên Vũ and poetry by Phạm Huấn and Nhất Tuấn gained popularity. Music about soldiers and the war flourished with musicians like Lam Phương, Nhật Trường, and Minh Kỳ and singers like Duy Khánh and Chế Linh. There were also awards given by the authorities to writers and actors, such as Nhã Ca for Giải khăn sô cho Huế (1968), Kiều Chinh for the film Người tình không chân dung (1969), Trang Châu for Y sĩ tiền tuyến [Frontline Doctor, 1969], Trần Văn Thái for Trại Đầm Đùn [Đầm Đùn Camp, 1969], Ngô Thế Vinh for Vòng đai xanh (1971), Trương Duy Hy for Tử thủ căn cứ 30 Hạ Lào [Defend to the Death Firebase 30 in Lower Laos, 1972], and Xuân Vũ for Đường đi không đến [The Road to Nowhere, 1973]. South Vietnam's urban population grew accustomed to this creative, cultural scene. However, these literary and artistic works did not address the true sorrow and suffering of those living through the war.After the chaos and flames of April 30, 1975, only a few works really endured, such as Ta về [I've Returned, 1985] by Tô Thùy Yên and the short stories by Thảo Trường in Tiếng thì thầm trong bụi tre gai [Whisper in the Bamboo Thicket] and Mây trôi [Cloud Adrift]. I should also mention Nguyễn Chí Thiện's Hoa địa ngục [Flowers from Hell], first published under the title Tiếng vọng từ đáy vực [Echo from the Bottom of the Abyss, 1980].To sum up, Vietnam's suffering is as large as massive mountains, but its literary and creative prowess can only describe tiny pebbles. This may be because, despite its sophistication and depth, the Vietnamese language is constrained by its Sino-Vietnamese roots. Not to mention the cultural catastrophe that the communist regime in Hà Nội brought about. This originated with the guidelines for a revolutionary Vietnamese culture produced in 1943 by Trường Chinh and enforced thereafter by the Central Propaganda Committee.My answer to this question must be divided into different periods.Even an experienced and determined dissident writer such as Dương Thu Hương bowed down and praised Hồ Chí Minh in her 2009 BBC article "Reflection on the Country and Hồ Chí Minh." There, she wrote, "[Hồ Chí Minh] is the greatest Vietnamese of the 20th century. He was a great man despite possessing normal human qualities and committing mistakes, and errors. He was the first figure to understand the value of democracy and to seek every means to introduce it into Vietnam."7 I agree with Dương Thu Hương that "Hồ Chí Minh was the greatest Vietnamese of the 20th century." However, saying this is not enough. We must also acknowledge that he was the cruelest Vietnamese man of the twentieth century.Hồ Chí Minh, before and after September 2, 1945, legitimized "murder" as a "revolutionary necessity." The list of his victims is extensive, from Nhượng Tống and Khái Hưng in the north to Phạm Quỳnh, Ngô Đình Khôi, and his child in the center and Tạ Thu Thâu, Hồ Văn Ngà, Trần Văn Thạch, Huỳnh Phú Sổ, Bùi Quang Chiêu, and their children and grandchildren in the south. He compelled us to accept the theory of "revolutionary necessity" (similar to Robespierre's reasoning during the French Revolution) at the start of the revolution on December 19, 1946, to the division of the country on July 20, 1954, and the takeover of Hà Nội on October 10, 1954. The process of killing was systematized and institutionalized within the party to an unprecedented level in 1945, 1946, 1954, 1968, and up to Hồ Chí Minh's death on September 2, 1969.Consider Trần Đĩnh's account in his memoir, Đèn cù [Revolving Lantern], of Hồ Chí Minh's precise behavior when the decision was made to kill Mrs. Nguyễn Thị Năm (Cát-Hanh-Long), the first victim of the northern Vietnamese land reform. She was the head of a family that had once sheltered Hồ Chí Minh and a group of Việt Minh officials at her house in Hà Nội in August and September 1945, before Hồ Chí Minh proclaimed the independence of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam on September 2, 1945. It is necessary to grasp the details of how Hồ Chí Minh handled Mrs. Nguyễn Thị Năm. She did not die in peace but in a horrifying manner. Trần Đĩnh wrote, "The land reform cadres co