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Vo Nguyen Giap : Naissance d’une armée [5] – La terreur blanche à Cao-Bac-Lang

Giap_QDNDVN[ndlr] Suite du récit du général Vo Nguyen Giap. La répression s’abat sur les révolutionnaires de la Ligue Viêt-Minh et les villages suspects.

LA TERREUR BLANCHE A CAO-BAC-LANG

Il importe de préciser que pendant les années 1942-1943, le mouvement de la Ligue Viêt Minh dans les provinces du Cao-Bac-Lang (1), avait pris une envergure sans précédent.

Trois des neuf districts du Cao Bang étaient des « districts à cent pour cent » (Ha Quang, Hoa An et Nguyen Binh) et nous avions des bases partout ailleurs. Dans le Bac Can, le mouvement avait gagné quatre districts. Du côté de Lang Son, il atteignait déjà That Khe. Il était particulièrement fort dans les régions Man, notamment chez les Man Blancs dans la région de Thien Thuat et chez les « Man à sapèques » dans la zone Quang Trung.

Je prendrai comme exemple le district de Ha Quang, région de population clairsemée, constituée pour la plus grande part de minorités Nung. Selon les chiffres du Comité du district, en 1941, les membres des organisations pour le salut national s’élevaient à 1.053 ; en 1942, ils étaient 3.096, dont 1.049 éléments sûrs, et 235 miliciens d’autodéfense et d’assaut. Le district avait organisé six cours de formation politique et trois cours de formation militaire accélérés. En 1943, toute la population avait adhéré aux organisations pour le salut national, qui comptaient 5.453 membres dont 2.250 éléments sûrs,  1.004 miliciens d’autodéfense et 15 détachements d’autodéfense et d’assaut ; le district avait ouvert onze cours de formation politique et 26 cours de formation militaire. La population avait en outre créé dix écoles pour commencer à liquider d’analphabétisme. En de nombreuses localités, les femmes plantaient des légumes, élevaient des vers-à-soie pour collecter de l’argent au profit des cadres clandestins.

Du point de vue militaire, dans toutes les localités organisées dans l’interprovince, la plupart des jeunes gens et jeunes filles participaient aux formations de miliciens de choc et avaient suivi plusieurs périodes d’entraînement militaire. On peut dire que, pendant la période clandestine, dans les régions rurales du Cao-Bac-Lang avait réussi à organiser et à armer toute la population.

En 1942 et 1943, le Comité interprovincial forma de nombreuses promotions de cadres militaires. A plusieurs reprises, des revues et des manœuvres militaires furent organisées. Les manœuvres qui se déroulèrent au village de Hong Viet en juillet 1943, mirent en action plus de mille hommes dont des miliciens d’autodéfense, des miliciens de choc, des cadres de la Ligue Viêt Minh à l’échelon communal et des éléments sûrs des organisations pour le salut national. On visait ainsi à apprendre aux cadres à commander et à parfaire l’entraînement des détachements de miliciens de choc. Par ailleurs ces manifestations de force achevaient de donner confiance aux masses révolutionnaires, aidaient à rallier les éléments flottants et intimidaient les réactionnaires locaux. Mais avec une telle méthode, on risquait facilement de découvrir nos forces, de dévoiler nos secrets et de provoquer la répression.

On se préoccupait également de stocker des vivres. Chaque district avait ses greniers de paddy et de mais en vue de l’insurrection. Les masses appliquaient fidèlement la tactique de la terre brûlée telle que nous la leur avions enseignée. Les paysans creusaient des abris au plus profond de la forêt ; ils y faisaient du feu pour sécher et durcir la terre, puis ils boisaient le trou et y installaient enfin des claies de bambou pour recevoir le paddy ; à une certaine hauteur, ils fermaient le coffrage avec des planches et des claies et recouvraient le tout de terre. Les achats d’armes avaient pris les proportions d’un mouvement de masse. Chaque famille cherchait par tous les moyens à acheter des armes de contrebande aux soldats des forces de Tchang Kaï-Chek, quitte à vendre un buffle ou du paddy pour les payer. En plusieurs points, on avait ouvert des forges pour réparer les fusils à amorce, les carabines de chasse et fabriquer des armes blanches, coupe-coupe, sabres, poignards, etc… Nos compatriotes répondaient magnifiquement et en masse aux collectes de fer, de cuivre, de socs de charrue, de cuvettes et de plateaux en cuivre, en ferraille, etc…

Les colonialistes français, vendus aux fascistes japonais, mettaient en œuvre tous les moyens dont ils disposaient dans l’espoir d’étouffer dans l’œuf l’insurrection armée. Ils menaient de pair une répression féroce et des manœuvres démagogiques. Ils cherchaient dans une première phase à liquider nos organisations de base et à couper les voies de ravitaillement des cadres clandestins. Après quoi ils déclenchaient des opérations militaires pour mettre la main sur les P.C. secrets du Viêt Minh.

C’est précisément au moment où s’intensifiait la répression que je quittais le camarade Chu Van Tan dans la région limitrophe de Cho Chu et Cho Don pour revenir à Cao Bang.

A mi-chemin, près du chef-lieu de Bac Can, je pus déjà constater les premières manifestations de cette terreur blanche. Arrivé à Na Lum, village isolé sur le sommet du mont Phia Booc, dont le nom signifie « rizière abandonnée », je reçus une lettre du camarade Duc Xuan, chef du Détachement de Propagande d’assaut pour « la marche vers le Sud », me signalant une montée du mouvement et me proposant de descendre participer à un meeting dans la vallée. Duc Xuan était un excellent propagandiste très actif et très courageux, qui composait de belles chansons populaires. J’avais déjà atteint un village au pied de la montagne, lorsque j’appris que l’ennemi avait envoyé des troupes contre notre base près de Phu Thông. Par manque de vigilance, le camarade Duc Xuan avait été surpris en pleine réunion, et abattu. L’ennemi lui avait tranché la tête et les bras pour les exposer au marché.

Notre route se trouvait donc coupée. La population, en plein désarroi.

Je fis demi-tour et, par des pistes traversant la chaîne du Phia Booc, je gagnai Cao Bang. Comme je l’ai dit plus haut, j’arrivai à Kim Ma au moment des fêtes du Têt. Là aussi, l’ennemi était en train d’intensifier la répression. Il s’intéressait particulièrement aux régions où s’étaient déroulées de grandes manœuvres militaires.

Le P.C. du Comité interprovincial, qui se trouvait dans la vallée de Lam Son, avait été encerclé à plusieurs reprises par la troupe. Chaque fois, notre tactique avait été de décrocher en évitant l’engagement et de nous replier provisoirement ailleurs. Un jour l’ennemi ouvrit un feu nourri de mortiers sur le siège du journal Vietnam Indépendant, mais sans aucun résultat. D’ailleurs les tirailleurs qu’on envoyait contre nous ne brillaient guère par leur courage. Il suffit qu’un jeune gars du P.C. criât : « A l’assaut » pour les faire détaler en quatrième vitesse.

Dans d’autres localités, l’ennemi cherchait à employer la ruse. Il affichait des proclamations, rassemblait la population et lui recommandait de vaquer tranquillement à ses occupations, sans se laisser influencer par les « rebelles Viêt Minh ». Il déclarait qu’il garantissait à tous ceux qui avaient rejoint le maquis, la liberté de revenir chez eux et invitait les cadres clandestins à passer au service du « gouvernement ». Résultat : fiasco complet ! Ces manigances n’eurent pas le moindre effet dans nos rangs car nos adhérents avaient été préparés à cette éventualité.

Les impérialistes reprirent alors la répression. Ils renforcèrent leurs réseaux de mouchards, installèrent des tours de garde aux points névralgiques et dans les localités les plus révolutionnaires. Ils créèrent de nouveaux « bang ta » (notables chez les minorités), augmentèrent les effectifs de la garde indigène et organisèrent des groupes francs mobiles. Ils recherchaient et arrêtaient les cadres révolutionnaires, y compris leurs parents. Toute famille qui avait un de ses membres parmi nos cadres ou soupçonnée d’entretenir des relations avec les maquis risquait de voir sa maison incendiée et ses biens confisqués. Dans beaucoup de localités, les greniers où l’on cachait le paddy furent découverts et incendiés. De nombreux villages furent impitoyablement rasés. Quiconque était pris en possession de documents Viêt Minh, était immédiatement passé par les armes, décapité et mutilé, la tête et les membres étant exposés sur le marché. La tête de nos militants était mise à prix. La moins chère valait 1.000 piastres et une tonne de sel ; certaines étaient cotées jusqu’à 20.000, voire 30.000 piastres.

Tirant l’expérience de la terreur blanche à Bac Son et Vu Nhai, l’ennemi donna l’ordre de concentrer les villages. Tous les hameaux reculés de moins de vingt maisons reçurent l’ordre de quitter leur emplacement  pour se regrouper en des points déterminés. Combien de villages furent ainsi laissés à l’abandon ! Les habitations étaient démantelées. Que de fois, du haut de la montagne, le cœur serré, nous avons été les témoins impuissants des incendies qui ravageaient, dans la vallée, les villages de nos camarades. D’un bout à l’autre de la zone de Cao-Bac-Lang, ce n’était que dévastation et désolation.

Dans les nouveaux centres de concentration, la population menait une vie des plus misérables. Tout gros village devait être ceinturé d’une triple haie de bambous, et assurer la garde de nuit. Le contrôle d’identité avait lieu chaque jour. Couvre-feu de six heures du soir à six heures du matin. Défense absolue d’emporter du riz hors du village. Des paysans furent fusillés sur place pour le seul fait de transporter une touque de paddy pour préparer les semences ou un panier de riz au marché.

Des agents s’infiltrèrent dans nos rangs pour y semer le doute et la discorde. Il ne se passait pas un seul jour sans que la troupe fît irruption dans les villages pour massacrer, piller, incendier, obliger la population à partir en corvée ou à signer des papiers par lesquels elle s’engageait à ne plus suivre le Viêt Minh.

Devant cette situation, le Comité interprovincial du Cao-Bac-Lang décida de mobiliser les masses pour réagir. Les cellules du Parti, les comités Viêt Minh de village devaient organiser leur « comité d’assaut anti-terroriste » avec les membres du Parti et les meilleurs éléments des organisations pour le salut national. Parallèlement, nous renforcions les mesures contre les infiltrations de réactionnaires dans les organisations patriotiques. La population ne se laissait pas abattre. Chaque fois que la troupe entrait dans un village pour le saccager, nos jeunes militants des deux sexes se répandaient dans les maisons pour soutenir le moral des gens. Cependant, les atrocités de l’ennemi ne furent pas sans provoquer localement certains flottements. Il y eut des villages où la population proposa de suspendre les activités de la Ligue. Ailleurs, une cinquantaine de jeunes gens et de jeunes filles se réfugièrent dans les forêts.

Le Comité interprovincial du Cao-Bac-Lang donna des directives aux cadres qui vivaient encore dans la légalité : renforcer la vigilance pour ne pas tomber aux mains de l’ennemi, se préparer à passer dans la clandestinité, ne pas dormir chez soi la nuit ; dans la journée être toujours accompagné de gardes du corps, avoir sous la main un stock de vivres pour deux ou trois mois, garder le contact avec les responsables pour pouvoir passer dans la clandestinité en cas d’alerte. Le nombre des clandestins augmentait rapidement. Le Comité interprovincial décida de les organiser en « noyaux clandestins » chargés d’entretenir le mouvement. Chaque « noyau clandestin » groupait les camarades d’une ou deux communes, pour la plupart des membres du Parti qui avaient dû partir de chez eux pour se cacher dans la forêt. Il avait son P.C. dans une petite hutte de rien du tout – quelques lattes de bambou pour dormir, un toit d’herbes sèches ou de feuilles de bananiers – au sommet d’une montagne, en pleine jungle. Le sentier menant à mon P.C. empruntait ainsi le lit d’un ruisseau qui descendait en cascades. Il était impossible de passer ailleurs que dans le courant, ce qui présentait l’avantage d’effacer toute trace ; mais nous étions tout trempés chaque fois que nous arrivions à la cabane.

Un « noyau clandestin » groupait en général de quatre à cinq personnes, parfois même jusqu’à dix, qui vivaient selon une stricte discipline. L’emploi du temps suivait un programme rigoureux réparti entre l’agitation des masses, l’étude politique et l’entraînement militaire. La journée était consacrée aux études et aux travaux agricoles. On prenait le repas de bonne heure, vers trois ou quatre heures de l’après-midi. A la tombée de la nuit, les clandestins sortaient de la jungle pour se rendre au rendez-vous. Ils avaient un mot de passe ou un cri convenu pour se faire reconnaître par les membres du Parti ou les éléments sûrs de nos organisations qui, au mépris de leur vie, venaient leur apporter des vivres, faire le rapport sur la situation et demander des directives pour enrayer la répression dans chaque localité et chaque hameau. Tard dans la nuit, ils dormaient quelques heures à la belle étoile, quand le temps le permettait. A l’aube, ils reprenaient le chemin du P.C. Il fallait coûte que coûte avoir atteint la jungle avant que la brume matinale se levât pour ne pas encourir de critiques, mais surtout pour ne pas causer d’ennuis à la localité. Cette vie pleine de dangers et de privations, cette volonté tenace de garder le contact avec les organisations de base et la population, insuffla une puissante combativité aux masses révolutionnaires.

L’ennemi voyait bien qu’il n’avait pu couper le lien entre le Parti et les masses, entre les noyaux clandestins et les hameaux. Il intensifiait la répression, implantant des postes partout ; il encerclait des massifs montagneux et pénétrait dans la jungle, en poussant devant ses colonnes la population civile des vallées. De nuit, il envoyait des patrouilles tendre des embuscades aux confluents des ruisseaux. A l’aurore, des éclaireurs Man se glissaient dans la brume à la découverte des traces qui pouvaient déceler l’emplacement des refuges clandestins. En plein été, des patrouilles n’hésitèrent pas à incendier des forêts suspectes. Un jour, nous avons failli être brûlés vifs à cause de la découverte d’un abri près d’un ruisseau. Plusieurs P.C. de noyaux clandestins furent encerclés coup sur coup. La région de Bac Can était particulièrement visée. Il m’est arrivé, avec la camarade Hoang Sam et deux militants locaux, de rester bloqué trois jours de suite au sommet d’une montagne dans le canton Hoang Hoa Tham. Nous en étions réduits à prendre l’eau des bambous et la sève de certaines lianes pour faire cuire notre riz. Toutefois, nous avons eu de chance, plus de chance que tant de nos camarades qui tombèrent sous les coups de la répression. Chaque fois que l’ennemi découvrait un P.C. clandestin, il rasait les villages aux alentours. Dans le canton Hoang Hoa Tham où le mouvement s’était développé puissamment, les deux tiers de la population avaient abandonné les villages pour se réfugier dans la jungle.

On enregistrait un recul provisoire du mouvement des masses. Certes les cœurs n’avaient pas changé, mais les gens étaient si terrorisés qu’ils en venaient à dire : « Au jour de l’insurrection, nous nous soulèverons pour écraser l’ennemi, mais d’ici là, ne comptez pas sur nous. Il suffit de contacter un clandestin pour faire raser tout le village. » Mais si nos bases dans les masses s’effritaient, comment pourrions-nous jamais déclencher l’insurrection ?

Il fallait donc coûte que coûte maintenir nos organisations dans les masses. C’est ce que nous avons expliqué dans toutes les cellules du Parti, à tous les cadres et militants de base. Quelles que fussent les difficultés, ils devaient se cramponner aux masses. La répression devait fournir une occasion de sélectionner les éléments sûrs.

Après chaque réunion, les cadres des noyaux clandestins partaient chacun de leur côté vers leur secteur, avec un boyau de riz. Ils prenaient contact avec la population sur le chemin du marché ou dans les champs. Ils lui faisaient connaître les victoires de l’U.R.S.S. et des Alliés, la montée impétueuse de la révolution dans le delta, lui expliquaient que la répression serait impuissante et dressaient des plans avec eux pour poursuivre les activités de la Ligue. A la réunion suivante, nous commencions par faire l’appel : il y avait bien des chances qu’il y eut un absent, sinon plus. En général, ceux qui ne se trouvaient pas au rendez-vous dans les délais prévus étaient tombés au cours de leur mission. Dans certaines régions, on devait se contenter, durant des mois, de maïs ou de farine de riz ; dans d’autres, on déterrait des tubercules pour remplacer le riz. Dans mon secteur, nous avons mangé pendant des mois du riz avec des fleurs de bananier sauvage. Nous les faisions cuire dans l’eau salée jusqu’à ce que disparût toute trace d’un jus noir et visqueux, particulièrement âcre ; néanmoins cela nous brûlait l’estomac. Avec un tel régime, nous n’avions presque plus la force de gravir les pentes des montagnes, les jambes nous tremblaient. Nous sommes restés sans un gramme de graisse jusqu’au moment où le mouvement redémarra sérieusement. Mais nous avions une confiance sans borne, nous étions prêts à tout sacrifier et nous allions de l’avant, résolument, gaiement.

Si les attaques lancées par l’ennemi avaient réduit nos bases, elles les avaient aussi forgées. Quelque temps après, dans plusieurs régions, le mouvement reprit et marcha peu à peu vers la lutte armée. Le Comité interprovincial du Cao-Bac-Lang donna l’ordre aux noyaux clandestins de « se militariser », c’est-à-dire d’avoir des armes et des munitions, et d’intensifier l’entraînement militaire ; les activités militaires devaient aller de pair avec les activités politiques. Les noyaux clandestins reçurent aussi l’ordre de « vivre en guérilleros », c’est-à-dire toujours sur le qui-vive, le paquetage à portée de main, prêts à partir à la première alerte.

Les districts formaient des détachements armés de sept à douze combattants, détachés de tout travail de production et là où les conditions le permettaient, une section. Ces unités régionales se chargeaient de la propagande armée, elles exécutaient les réactionnaires les plus dangereux, tendaient des embuscades aux petites patrouilles pour s’assurer la contrôle des montagnes et des forêts. Cependant, pour éviter à la population des représailles, leur champ d’activité se tenait le plus possible à l’écart des organisations de base et, de ce fait même, se trouvait limité. Les combattants chargés d’exécuter le traître Tong Doan à Kim Ma, rencontrèrent pas mal de difficultés pour lui tendre une embuscade en un point assez éloigné de nos organisations de base, car il ne s’écartait guère du village. Un de nos détachements armés eut la chance de pouvoir le prendre en filature, comme il se rendait au marché et réussit à l’abattre. Toutes les femmes qui avaient été au marché ce jour-là colportaient la nouvelle et affirmaient : – “C’est la Ligue Viêt-Minh qui l’a descendu !” Après cela, les autres traîtres se tinrent tranquilles pendant un certain temps, mais bientôt reprirent leurs activités comme avant.

Notre route « vers le Sud » avait été coupée en plusieurs points. Nous avions dépêché coup sur coup des groupes d’assaut vers les secteurs menacés pour soutenir la population locale et maintenir nos organisations de base, mais sans obtenir davantage que des résultats partiels. Au début de 1944, la liaison avec le delta devint une nécessité impérieuse. Sur les ordres du Parti, nous avons regroupé plusieurs détachements armés locaux pour former la Section « de la Marche vers le Sud ». Un plan fut adopté. On progresserait dans le secret le plus absolu à travers la jungle pour rétablir la liaison avec nos organisations de base au pied du mont Phia Booc. Sur notre route, plusieurs villages avaient été rasés. Dans les hameaux contrôlés par les postes, la surveillance était des plus sévères. Notre section partant de Kim Ma prit la direction du Sud, marchant la nuit, se reposant le jour. La progression était pénible. Il pleuvait sans cesse. Les pluies avaient fait déborder les ruisseaux qui inondaient les sentiers. Trempés jusqu’aux os, nous nous arrêtions parfois dans les grottes où nous allumions un petit feu pour nous réchauffer et sécher nos vêtements. Puis la marche reprenait. En général, vers sept ou huit heures du matin, nous cherchions un emplacement bien abrité où, étendus sur des feuilles de latanier, nous nous reposions de nos fatigues. Parfois, pour atteindre une de nos bases, nous devions marcher pendant deux, trois nuits de suite, par des villages entièrement sous le contrôle des réactionnaires, où ne nous pouvions emprunter qu’une unique piste à proximité des postes de garde. Nous avancions alors avec précaution, évitant le moindre bruit, un clapotis de pas dans la boue, un choc de bâton sur une pierre.

Après huit ou neuf jours de marche, nous avions dépassé Cho Ra et atteint notre point de ralliement au pied du mont Phia Booc. Un certain nombre de militants qui accompagnaient la Section armée avaient apporté une pierre lithographique, du papier et de l’encre, pour faire paraître un journal sur place après avoir pris contact avec les organisations de base, consolidé le mouvement dans la région et établi le P.C. Bien que rompus de fatigue, nous brûlions d’enthousiasme ; au lieu de nous reposer, nous commençâmes à abattre des arbres pour construire nos huttes ; pendant ce temps, je chargeai le camarade Thanh Quang, dont la famille se trouvait à Cho Ra, d’aller contacter les organisations les plus sûres de la région. Il revint le soir avec de tristes nouvelles : dans les villages environnants, toutes nos organisations avaient été disloquées, de nombreuses maisons de militants incendiées. La population l’avait averti de faire attention, une grande rafle était en cours, des tirailleurs battaient les forêts. Nous avons établi un tour de garde autour de notre campement provisoire et, après quelques heures de sommeil, nous avons repris la route vers Cao Bang. Comme nous n’avions pas prévu l’éventualité d’un repli, nous avons dû nous contenter de soupe de riz sur le chemin du retour. Nous devions tous tomber gravement malades après ce voyage.

Cette grande campagne de répression nous causa beaucoup de difficultés, mais les épreuves forgèrent nos militants et les masses, et leur inculquèrent un esprit de sacrifice très poussé. Or c’était là l’une des, conditions essentielles de l’insurrection.

(1) Cao Bang, Bac Can, Lang Son.

[à suivre]

Source : Extrait de Peuple héroïque. Souvenirs de militants, Hanoi, Éditions en Langues Étrangères, 1961, pp. 121-135.

Épisodes précédents :

Vo Nguyen Giap : Naissance d’une armée [4] – La marche vers le Sud

Giap_QDNDVN[ndlr] Suite du récit du général Vo Nguyen Giap (recueilli par Tran Cu) sur l’implantation de la Ligue Viêt-Minh en Haute-région et le départ vers le delta. Disparition et réapparition de Ho Chi Minh.

LA MARCHE VERS LE SUD – L’OUVERTURE DES LIAISONS ENTRE CAO BANG ET THAI NGUYEN

Depuis son retour dans le pays, sur la frontière, l’Oncle Ho s’était constamment préoccupé de garder le contact avec le Comité central qui se trouvait dans le delta. A partir du moment où la 8ème Session du Comité central décida la formation de deux bases révolutionnaires au Viet Bac, la liaison entre Cao Bang et la région de Bac Son-Vu Nhai devint une nécessité impérieuse.

Outre notre réseau de liaison clandestin, il nous fallait de toute urgence organiser de nombreuses autres filières de liaison populaires entre Cao Bang et le delta. Ainsi, en cas de répression, nous pourrions garder le contact et créer les conditions de la reprise d’activité de nos détachements de guérilla.

Pour ouvrir la liaison en direction du delta, nous devions passer par des régions habitées par les Tho et les « Man à sapèques »(1). Nous commençâmes un travail d’agitation parmi ces derniers. De même que les Man Blancs, les Man à sapèques sont droits et francs de nature. Eux aussi étaient las de l’impérialisme et prêts à se soulever. L’hospitalité et l’entraide étaient chez eux de tradition. Ils étaient enthousiasmés à l’idée de se rassembler dans une ligue pour chasser colonialistes français et les fascistes japonais, mais ils n’accordaient toute leur confiance qu’après une prestation de serment solennelle suivant les rites traditionnels. Pour leur prouver notre bonne foi, nous prenions part à ces cérémonies au cours desquelles on éteignait des baguettes d’encens ou sacrifiait un poulet. Nous jurions de nous unir comme des frères au sein d’une même famille pour chasser de nos villages les Japonais et les Français, au nom de la Patrie, suivant le programme de la Ligue Viêt Minh ; nous jurions de rester solidaires dans les moments les plus critiques, de ne jamais trahir la Ligue, même sous les tortures. Quiconque trahirait, encourrait la mort. Pour sceller nos serments, nous enfoncions une baguette d’encens allumée dans de l’eau ou nous tranchions la tête d’un poulet d’un coup sec de coupe-coupe. Les cellules du Parti commencèrent bientôt à faire leur apparition parmi ces minorités Man. Le premier Man à sapèques qui adhéra au Parti s’appelait Hoan, c’était un homme de Ha Hieu (Cho Ra), débordant d’activité, qui jouissait d’un grand prestige parmi la population. Il rendit d’immenses services dans l’organisation de la région. Arrêté plus tard par l’ennemi, il s’évanouit onze fois de suite sous les tortures sans livrer un seul renseignement. Il fut fusillé à Bac Can. Avant de mourir, il s’adressa à sa femme venue lui rendre une dernière visite :

“Je pense qu’ils vont me fusiller, mais ne te laisse pas ébranler. De toute façon la Révolution vaincra. Sois toujours fidèle au Parti, aide nos camarades.” Puis, lui remettant un morceau de gélatine de tigre (2), il ajouta :

– Quand tu verras le camarade Van, donne lui le bonjour de ma part et passe lui ce fortifiant. Ça l’aidera à rester en forme pour travailler.

Quelques temps après, de passage à Ha Hieu, je rendis visite à la famille du camarade Hoan. Sa femme pleura beaucoup en me racontant sa dernière rencontre avec son mari et me remit le morceau de gélatine de tigre.

La vieille maman de notre camarade, elle aussi, pleurait en me parlant :

“Aujourd’hui Hoan n’est plus là et la dernière récolte n’est pas bonne, mais quand même j’ai mis de côté pour nos guérilleros un peu de riz gluant. Mes enfants, ajouta-t-elle, ne perdez pas courage, écraser toute cette clique pour que nous puissions enfin vivre !”.

A partir du moment où le mouvement prit une certaine ampleur, l’ennemi déclencha la répression. Des unités de Ngan Son, Nguyen Binh et Cao Bang montèrent vers le canton de Kim Ma qu’elles encerclèrent. Elles bloquèrent toutes les voies de communications, routes et pistes, pour faire la chasse aux militants et mettre la main sur nos services clandestins. A ce moment, j’étais en train d’ouvrir un cours politique avec le camarade Thiet Hung et, par-dessus le marché, j’avais une crise de paludisme. La population nous conseilla de quitter la région :

« Il s’agit cette fois d’une grande opération, nous disait-on. La troupe est montée par ici pour vous arrêter. Mieux vaudrait interrompre momentanément les activités de la Ligue. Quant à vous, il serait plus prudent de vous retirer dans la forêt ou de revenir auprès de l’échelon supérieur et après on verra. »

Dès qu’ils surent la nouvelle, l’Oncle Ho et le Comité interprovincial nous envoyèrent des émissaires pour nous faire revenir au P.C. Mais nous pensions que dans de telles circonstances, notre départ pourrait amener l’éclatement des organisations de base. Pour les maintenir nous avons donc demandé à rester sur place.

Dans la journée même, l’ennemi nous livra une chasse sans merci. Guidés par les camarades Khanh et Lac, nous avons marché, sous une pluie diluvienne, en ligne droite à travers la jungle et les champs, évitant les pistes, durant toute une nuit, jusqu’au matin nous avons escaladé des crêtes et dévalé des pentes. Au petit jour, la brume était si épaisse qu’on n’y voyait pas à plus de trois mètres. Quand le brouillard se leva au milieu de la matinée, nous étions au sommet d’un mamelon dénudé, à proximité d’un hameau que les tirailleurs fouillaient maison par maison. Nous nous sommes jetés à plat-ventre et nous avons rampé sur plus d’un kilomètre pour atteindre l’orée de la forêt où nous avons repris notre marche. A midi, nous étions si épuisés que nous étions incapables d’aller plus loin et ce sont les camarades de la région qui, nous prenant par la main, nous ont fait marcher jusqu’au soir. Au crépuscule, nous avions atteint l’emplacement prévu, au sommet d’une montagne assez élevée. Après avoir bâti hâtivement une hutte pour nous abriter, nous avons échafaudé un plan pour reprendre contact avec la population et diriger l’action contre la répression. Après cette marche mouvementée, le camarade Thiet Hung et moi-même avons été secoués par la fièvre durant deux mois et demi. Comme médicament, nous n’avions que des infusions de racines « cu ao ». Quelques-unes de nos militantes que notre état de santé inquiétait, prirent notre longue tunique indigo des minorités Tho pour aller implorer notre guérison chez le sorcier. Mais que pouvait le sorcier ! Il nous fallut attendre jusqu’au moment où la liaison se rétablit. Le camarade Cap qui vint du P.C. pour reprendre le contact nous apporta alors quelques comprimés de quinine qui nous soulagèrent.

En réalité, cette rafle n’était encore qu’une opération de petite envergure. Mais comme elle était la première dans la région, elle ne fut pas sans nous provoquer de sérieuses difficultés. Le mouvement connut un recul pendant un certain temps. Néanmoins la propagande et les cours politiques se poursuivaient. Puis tout redémarra. Les Associations pour le salut national, les organisations d’autodéfense s’étaient trempées dans l’épreuve. La vallée de Kim Ma retentit de nouveau des échos enthousiastes des meetings en vue de l’insurrection. Bientôt fut convoquée la première Conférence des Délégués des Minorités Man qui décida la création de la zone Quang Trung. Le mouvement avait repris son élan. A l’occasion de l’anniversaire de la Révolution d’Octobre, les représentants des cantons de Nguyen Binh et Ngan Son tinrent une conférence préparatoire en vue de l’insurrection armée avec la participation de quelque trois cents délégués et d’une dizaine de détachements de choc qui firent une démonstration militaire.

Pour faciliter notre propagande, nous avions mis en vers le programme de la Ligue Viet Minh. Je le traduisis dans le dialecte des Man à sapèques et des Man Blancs. Nous adaptions de nouvelles paroles sur des airs folkloriques pour exalter la révolution. Le programme de la Ligue se propageait ainsi très rapidement et pénétrait en profondeur dans les masses. En arrivant dans un village qui venait d’être gagné à notre cause, je fus un jour très étonné d’entendre les jeunes filles et les enfants réciter par cœur les vers du Programme de la Ligue en pilant le riz et en cardant le coton.

A ce moment, le Parti avait étendu ses organisations au Bac Can où avait été installé un Comité provisoire provincial avec le camarade Dang comme premier secrétaire. Ce communiste intrépide et fidèle à toute épreuve tomba en héros en faisant le coup de feu contre les soldats ennemis qui avaient réussi à encercler son P. C.

Plus la « marche vers le Sud » gagnait du terrain, plus elle exigeait de cadres. A l’appel du Comité interprovincial, une centaine de garçons et de filles de Cao Bang quittèrent leurs foyers pour former des groupes d’assaut armés. Ils se procurèrent par eux-mêmes des armes, mousquetons ou grenades. Le camarade Thiet Hung possédait un revolver capricieux qui s’enrayait un coup sur deux. Quant à moi, j’avais une grenade hors d’usage que je portais à mon ceinturon car un avantage moral n’est jamais à dédaigner. En étroite coopération avec les militants locaux, les groupes d’assaut armés se répartirent en plusieurs formations qui se dirigèrent vers le Sud pour leur mission de propagande. Le groupe d’assaut chargé du démarrage partait en premier. Il contactait les militants locaux pour un travail d’enquête et de propagande, puis mettait sur pied des organisations de base. Venait ensuite le groupe chargé de consolider ces premiers résultats. Il faisait le tri des éléments sûrs parmi les sympathisants et ouvrait à leur intention des cours politiques accélérés. Les cadres ainsi formés devenaient le noyau de l’extension du mouvement. Pour accélérer le travail, nous n”abordions pas simplement les villages dans l’ordre géographique, nous faisions souvent un bond en avant. Quand les conditions le permettaient, nous n’hésitions pas à envoyer au loin un groupe d’assaut qui se déplaçait clandestinement pour venir organiser un village où les masses avaient déjà plus ou moins pris conscience. Ce groupe faisait tache d’huile et établissait peu à peu le contact avec les anciennes bases. Nous avions baptisé cette méthode la « tactique du parachutage ».

Au cours de notre marche vers le Sud, il nous arriva une histoire qui mérite d’être signalée.

Suivant les progrès du mouvement, j’étais descendu peu à peu du canton de Kim Ma jusqu’à Ngan Son en passant par le canton Hoang Hoa Tham pour contrôler le travail et ouvrir des cours de formation pour les cadres régionaux. J’étais sur une montagne aux abords du chef-lieu du district de Ngan Son, quand je reçus une lettre urgente du camarade Tong me demandant de revenir immédiatement au P.C. Je retournai en toute hâte à Cao Bang. Notre P.C. était toujours sur la montagne de Lam Son. Dès mon arrivée, les camarades Tong et Vu Anh m’annoncèrent que l’Oncle Ho avait été arrêté au cours d’une mission en Chine, et qu’il venait d’y mourir de maladie en prison. Jamais je ne me serais attendu à une telle nouvelle. Tout tournait autour de moi. Ce que nous ressentions ne saurait se dire. L’Oncle Ho n’était plus ! Quelle perte pour notre Parti, pour notre peuple ! Nous discutâmes ensuite de la rédaction d’un rapport pour informer le Comité central et l’organisation d’une cérémonie à la mémoire du défunt. Le camarade Tong était chargé de prononcer l’oraison funèbre. Le camarade Cap apporta la valise de rotin de l’Oncle Ho où nous pensions trouver quelques objets à conserver en souvenir. Nous projetions aussi d’envoyer le camarade Cap en Chine pour essayer de trouver l’emplacement de la tombe.

Quelques jours plus tard, je reprenais la route pour continuer ma mission. Jamais je n’oublierai cette nuit où, en compagnie d’un camarade de la « marche vers le Sud », je cheminai par des montagnes désertes couvertes d’herbes à paillote. Il faisait un froid piquant et des milliers d’étoiles illuminaient l’immensité du ciel. Je me sentais comme abandonné. Une tristesse infinie me poignait. Une tristesse que mes mots n’auraient su exprimer.  Et les larmes aux yeux, je regardais les étoiles.

Un certain temps s’écoula. Un jour nous reçûmes un journal envoyé de Chine. En marge, quelques lignes en caractères chinois. C’était l’écriture de l’Oncle Ho !

« A tous, bonne santé et bon courage dans le travail. Ici, tout va bien. »

Suivaient quelques vers :

« Les nuages embrassent les monts
Les monts étreignent les nuages
Le fleuve est un miroir que rien ne ternit
Sur la crête des Monts de l’Ouest
Solitaire, je vais, le cœur ému
Je scrute au loin le ciel du Sud
Je pense à mes amis. »

Notre joie ne saurait se dire.

— Alors quoi ? Qu’est-ce que cela veut dire ? avons-nous demandé au camarade Cap en lui montrant le journal.

— Moi-même, je ne comprends plus rien, nous répondit-il. Quand j’étais en Chine, c’est le gouverneur du Kuomingtang qui m’a annoncé que Nguyen Ai Quoc était mort.

Nous harcelions Cap de questions.

– Essaye de te souvenir des termes exacts de ce qu’il t’a dit en chinois.

Il finit par se les rappeler et nous avions deviné. Cap avait mal entendu. Le gouverneur chinois en parlant de l’Oncle Ho avait prononcé les mots « su lo, su lo » qui signifient « bien, bien » mais notre camarade les avait mal interprétés, car il suffit d’un changement dans l’accent tonique du premier mot pour que l’expression signifie « déjà mort, déjà mort. »

Nous fûmes secoués d’une crise de fou rire. N’empêche que nous avions trainé un poids dans le cœur pendant des mois et des mois.

Vers le mois d’août 1943, la route vers le Sud était ouverte. Je l’empruntai pour me rendre au delta afin d’y rencontrer le camarade Ba, c’est-à-dire Chu Van Tan.

Mes pensées se reportaient un an en arrière. Au cours de notre marche vers le Sud, j’avais appris que le camarade Chu Van Tan de Bac Son, après être passé clandestinement en Chine, était revenu au pays et avait pu rejoindre le P.C. du Comité interprovincial de Cao-Bac-Lang. J’étais venu le rencontrer à Lam Son. Sur les ordres du Parti, il était retourné à Bac Son par That Khe, Dinh Ca pour y consolider nos organisations de base, et établir la liaison entre Thai Nguyen et Cao Bang. Quant à moi, je devais poursuivre l’ouverture de la route “vers le Sud” en direction du delta. Je me souvenais que nous avions discuté longuement ensemble sur les points possibles de notre future rencontre. Le camarade Chu Van Tan m’avait présenté des militants de Bac Son qui allaient me seconder dans “la marche vers le Sud”.

Après un long travail et en dépit de multiples difficultés, la route vers le Sud, partant du district de Kim Ma à Cao Bang, atteignait enfin Cho Don (province de Bac Can) et Cho Chu (Thai Nguyen), en passant par Ngan Son, Phu Thông, Cho Ra. Nous avions réussi à organiser les masses sur un assez vaste secteur. Notre piste franchissait plusieurs chaînes de montagnes et plusieurs vallées en passant par des villages des minorités Tho, Man à sapèques et Man rouges.

Je marchai vers le delta par la piste de Phu Thông – Cho Don. Partout sur mon passage, je constatais une atmosphère fiévreuse de préparatifs à l’insurrection. Le moral de la population était excellent. Les minorités Tho, comme les minorités Man, étaient gagnées à notre cause. Elles réservaient aux révolutionnaires un accueil des plus chaleureux. Tous les villages Mon qui jalonnaient la route vers la crête du Mont Phia Booc, un des sommets les plus élevés de la région sur lequel il ne cesse de crachiner d’un bout à l’autre de l’année, même quand il fait beau dans la vallée, travaillaient pour le Viêt Minh ; les femmes et les enfants savaient par cœur les vers du programme de la Ligue en langue Man et plusieurs chansons révolutionnaires. Quand des mouchards montaient par là, la population faisait tout pour cacher et protéger les révolutionnaires. Elle n’hésitait pas, s’il le fallait, à nous aménager des cachettes jusque dans les chambres à coucher ou sous l’autel des génies tutélaires, qui sont des lieux absolument tabous pour les étrangers.

Après quinze jours de marche, j’arrivai près de Cho Chu. Je suivais un sentier montagneux qui surplombait le poste de Coc. Quelques pas encore et je serais au rendez-vous. je trouvai le camarade Chu Van Tan dans un « ray » (3) en pleine jungle. Inutile de vous dire notre joie ! Nous avons immédiatement convoqué un certain nombre de cadres de Bac Son qui faisaient de l’agitation dans la région et des cadres de la « marche vers le Sud » pour un échange de vues. Après quoi nous avons organisé une petite fête intime où nous causions à bâtons rompus ; la nuit venue, nous avons dormi à la belle étoile sur des feuilles de lataniers.

Le camarade Tan nous brossa un tableau de la situation à Thai Nguyen et dans le delta. A cette époque, nos organisations de base à Bac Son et Vu Nhai s’étaient fortement implantées et le mouvement gagnait les régions de Cho Chu, Dai Tu. L’ennemi poursuivait sa politique de répression. Nos militants de Bac Son, malgré mille dangers et mille difficultés, s’efforçaient par tous les moyens de consolider et d’étendre les organisations de base. Le camarade Tan nous fit savoir encore qu’un rapport avait été envoyé au Comité central qui allait dépêcher immédiatement un de ses membres auprès de nous. Je restai un certain temps à l’attendre. Chaque jour, on nous annonçait son arrivée imminente ; mais deux semaines s’écoulèrent sans qu’on le vit arriver. La répression était si intense qu’aucune piste n’était sûre. Je dus donc retourner à Cao Bang comme prévu lors de mon départ. J’avais profité sur de ces jours d’attente pour écrire une brochure sur « L’expérience de la Ligue Viêt Minh au Viêt Bac » destinée à être envoyée dans le delta.

J’arrivai à Cao Bang, à la veille de la fête du Têt. Au dernier jour de l’année lunaire, la plupart des cadres et une vingtaine de détachements d’assaut armés de la « marche vers le Sud » s’étaient réunis pour fêter nos succès. La « Ligue Viêt Minh » et la Fédération du Parti du Cao-Bac-Lang nous remirent un fanion sur lequel étaient brodés les mots « Assaut victorieux ». Cet honneur souleva un enthousiasme indescriptible.

Au même moment, l’ennemi déclenchait la terreur blanche.

[à suivre]

Notes :

(1) Groupes de Man dont les femmes portent des sapèques comme parure.

(2) La “gélatine de tigre” est un médicament rare et recherché pour ses qualités toniques.

(3) Champ cultivé sur la pente de la montagne après avoir abattu et brûlé la forêt.

 

Source : Extrait de Peuple héroïque. Souvenirs de militants, Hanoi, Éditions en Langues Étrangères, 1961, pp. 109-121.

Épisodes précédents :

Stein Tønnesson: Vo Nguyen Giap in Memoriam – People’s War and Peace

Hommages © VOV 2013
© VOV 2013

 

Vo Nguyen Giap in Memoriam:

People’s War and Peace

Opening speech at the 3rd annual conference

 of Uppsala University’s East Asian Peace program,

 Diplomatic Academy of Vietnam,

 Hanoi, 18th October 2013 [1]

Stein Tønnesson

Peace Research Institute Oslo

and East Asian Peace program, Uppsala University

 

The rise and fall of People’s War is a central theme in twentieth century history. People’s War is a strategy allowing an army with inferior weapons but solid popular support and a substantial hinterland to win its wars against enemies with more and better arms. People’s War strategy emphasizes resilience rather than rapidity, the size of its armed forces rather than their efficiency, and People’s Warriors are psychologically prepared to accept and absorb huge losses of life. The doctrine of People’s War has a dual origin in the Napoleonic Wars, in both the tactics of Napoleon himself and in that of his adversaries. The French revolutionary army that came under the dominance of Napoleon Bonaparte practised the “levée en masse,” with armies of a size never seen before, and with enormous loss of human life in battle. When advancing into Spain, Germany and Russia, the French at first evoked enthusiastic support among oppressed peoples who sought liberation from their tyrants, but soon the new masters provoked resentment and resistance of an intensely emotional kind. Spanish, German and Russian nationalisms were born. The Spanish had inferior weapons but resorted to what they called “small war” (guerrilla), with no big battles but many scattered attacks carried out by fighters who did not use uniform but hid among the population during the day and attacked at night. The result was the kind of French reprisals that have been depicted so vividly by the Spanish painter Goya. Such reprisals, of course, invigorated local anger and willingness to fight. Guerrilla tactics also played an essential role when the Russians defeated the French invasion in 1812: A popular Russian army used small guerrilla groups to defend the nation and its tsar by repeatedly attacking the flanks of the formerly revolutionary army, which Napoleon had transformed into an imperial army of conquest.

Napoléon Bonaparte, Premier Consul, franchissant les Alpes au col du Grand-Saint-Bernard par David (1800)

Guerrilla tactics and mobilization of huge armies were combined in the 20th century strategy of People’s War. Its main theoretician, Mao Zedong, said it should move through three stages: first guerrilla, then stalemate, and finally a general offensive. It is important to notice that guerrilla tactics dominates only at the first stage. At the second and third stage of a People’s War, guerrillas are just auxiliary forces, helping the main armies, whose main body is a huge infantry. When a People’s Army is ready to launch an offensive against a solidly entrenched and better armed enemy, then it may resort to “human wave” tactics to crowd out its opponents. Line after line of attackers will succomb before the force of the enemy’s superior firepower but in the end overwhelm him all the same if only there are enough soldiers willing to die. Among the most well-known theoreticians and practitioners of People’s War in the twentieth century were Lawrence of Arabia, Leon Trotsky, Marshal Tito, Mao Zedong, Vo Nguyen Giap, Truong Chinh, Che Guevara … and the Indonesian strategist Abdul Haris Nasution. It is noteworthy that People’s War doctrine has not just been used by leftist movements but also by national armies fighting against local communist rebels. Two examples of this are in Indonesia and Burma. The main military strategist in Indonesia was General Nasution, who survived the communist revolt in 1965 by escaping from his house when it came under attack, and remained influential throughout the long reign of General Suharto. Nasution always reminded Suharto that he was not a leader in his own right but was brought to power by a People’s Army, to which he owed loyalty. The Burmese army, the Tatmadaw, was also seen by its commander and later President, Ne Win, as a People’s Army. In Burma one People’s Army fought another People’s Army until the communist one was defeated in an internal rebellion in 1989.

Mao_GuerrillaWarfareFuture military historians are likely to see Mao Zedong and Vo Nguyen Giap as the two most successful practitioners of twentieth century People’s War. Mao’s Red Army survived its Long March 1932-34, established new headquarters in Yenan in northern China, used the anti-Japanese resistance 1937-45 to build solid strength among the peasants in the country-side, overran the forces of Chiang Kai-shek during 1946-50, formed the People’s Republic of China with a People’s Liberation Army (PLA), and forced the American forces in Korea to retreat back to the 38th parallel in 1950. In the 1960s, however, the People’s Liberation Army went into a period of decline, did not perform well in its war with the Soviet Union in 1969, and a few years after Mao’s death, in 1979, it failed to teach Vietnam a lesson. This led to reforms that moved China away from People’s War doctrine. The People’s Liberation Army was transformed into a smaller army who should be able to fight successful battles under modern conditions, with more precise firepower and fewer losses.

The Vietnamese army that turned the Chinese lesson into a counter-lesson in 1979 was the same army that, according to official Vietnamese history, had been founded 35 years before in the border region to China by a 33 year old history professor: Vo Nguyen Giap. He is called the Anh Ca (elder brother) of the Army because he was instructed by Ho Chi Minh to form an Armed Propaganda Brigade in December 1944, one of the forerunners of the People’s Army of Vietnam, together with armed groups led by the ethnic minority leader Chu Van Tan, the guerrilla leader Nguyen Binh and others.

Like so many other of Vietnam’s great leaders Vo Nguyen Giap came from central Vietnam and in the 1920s went to secondary school – a French lycée – in the old imperial city of Hue. He learned French history and was fascinated by Napoleon, read all he could find about his military campaigns. At the same time, already as a teenager, Vo Nguyen Giap became an anti-colonial activist, was expelled from his lycée, and was in 1930 convicted to two years in prison after having collected money in support of the Yen Bay uprising. However, his intelligence seems to have impressed his interrogators so much that they arranged for him to be released ahead of time on 18 November 1931, perhaps in the hope that he would become more pro-French. His early release, and the fact that he later received a scholarship to study in Hanoi, so he could complete his baccalauréat and even graduate from legal studies at the University of Hanoi in 1937, created suspicion among other left wing militants, notably the Trotskyites, who thought he had become a French agent. He would get ample chance to prove such suspicions wrong. In the 1930s he was part of a team that studied the economy and living conditions in the countryside under the leadership of a French geography professor, Pierre Gourou.[2] Together with Truong Chinh, the later Secretary General of the Indochinese Communist Party, Vo Nguyen Giap wrote a book on the basis of these studies in 1937-38, called “The peasant question”. The gist of his and Truong Chinh’s thinking was that a revolution was needed in the countryside to liberate the villages from traditional superstition and replace village elders with young leaders ready for change. While undertaking his peasant studies Giap also taught history at the Thang Long school in Hanoi.

DaiTuong_VoNguyenGiapIn May 1940, after a new French government had cancelled the liberties allowed in the colonies under the French Popular Front government, which was led by the socialist Léon Blum, Giap expected to be arrested once again and therefore left Hanoi together with his comrade Pham Van Dong to join up with communist organizers in the border region to China. This was just as Hitler launched his assault on France. By the time Giap and Pham Van Dong established their presence in the Chinese province of Yunnan, the French army was defeated and Philippe Pétain signed an armistice with Hitler, who allowed the aging Marshal to hold on to half of France and all of its colonies. It was at this time, when it could be seen that a favourable occasion might arise for national liberation, that Giap met the main Vietnamese communist leader of his time: Nguyen Ai Quoc. Quoc was twenty-one years older than Giap, had lived in exile since 1911, been a prominent member of the international communist movement since the founding of the French Communist Party in 1920, had taken part in the founding of communist parties in Thailand and Malaya, had served a prison sentence in British Hong Kong, survived Stalin’s purges in the Soviet Union, and had now come down from Russia through China. He assumed the leadership of a new national liberation front, the Viet Nam Doc Lap Dong Minh (Viet Minh for short) and also took up a new name for himself: Ho Chi Minh. Giap, before joining up with Ho Chi Minh, had left his wife and little daughter behind in Hanoi. Nguyen Thi Quang Thai was the younger sister of a legendary female communist of the first generation, Nguyen Thi Minh Khai, who had been close to Nguyen Ai Quoc in the early 1930s and was executed by the French in 1941 for her role in a 1940 uprising. Giap’s wife Quang Thai was also soon arrested, and Giap learned in 1943 that she had died in a French prison. He was thus no doubt reminded that when he was still just a boy, the French had also killed his father.

The role assigned to Giap in Vietnam’s northern border region was to recruit young fighters from among the local ethnic minorities and train them in guerrilla and other military tactics. When I first had a chance to interview Giap in 1991, we discussed this formative period of his career, and at one point he was annoyed by my ignorance. There was an essential book I had not read. Then he realized that the book had been published only in Vietnamese and that I could not even read Vietnamese. He stared at me in the way of a school master and scolded me in his absolutely flawless French for not having bothered to learn such an easy language. When he was my age, he explained, he had learnt four minority languages and even written poems in one of them while building up Vietnam’s Army of National Liberation: “Are you married?” he asked me. I immediately understood what he was driving at. He was going to suggest that I learn Vietnamese on a pillow. So I interrupted him: “Yes, I am married and I’m so happily married that I shall not even think of asking for a divorce in order to learn the six tones of your language. When hearing this, he laughed heartily and apologized for intruding into my personal life.

Việt Nam Tuyên truyền Giải phóng Quân (22/12/1944)
Việt Nam Tuyên truyền Giải phóng Quân (22/12/1944)

22 December 1944. Since this was the day Giap formed the first Armed Propaganda Brigade for the Viet Minh it was decided at some point that this was the foundation of the People’s Army of Vietnam. It is therefore celebrated every year as Army day. The strategic aim of the Viet Minh leaders in 1944-45 was to use its various armed groups in a general offensive against the Japanese and French forces in Indochina in conjunction with an Allied invasion, which could come either from the sea or China or both. Japan had compelled French Indochina in 1941 to allow its army to establish local bases. They were used as stepping stones for the Japanese invasion of Southeast Asia in early 1942. By late 1944 it was easy to foresee that the French Indochinese forces would turn against Japan and join the allied cause once the expected invasion began. Petain was gone, and Charles de Gaulle had in August 1944 established a new French government in Paris. The Viet Minh would now have to compete with the French for the favour of the Allies and seek to establish a position of strength that could be used to liberate Vietnam not just from Japan but also from French colonialism. As happens often in history, what happened next was different from what everyone had thought. Japan also anticipated an Allied invasion and therefore launched a coup against the French and disarmed them on 9 March 1945, although no Allied invasion happened. This had two contradictory effects on Giap and the Viet Minh. Firstly, the sudden disappearance of the French administration removed both the army and the police that had oppressed the people. The Japanese had no capacity to take over the running of the country. Hence an opportunity was opened for rapidly expanding the Viet Minh movement throughout the Red River delta and also further beyond. Another similar movement, the Vanguard Youth, spread out in southern Vietnam. These movements were greatly reinforced by communists and other leftists who were now released from French jails. When Japan surrendered on 15 August, city-based activists were thus able to utilize the power vacuum and seize power in a rapid and almost nonviolent revolution. Secondly, the disappearance of the French colonial regime made Giap’s armed forces temporarily irrelevant. They were far away from the main action. Giap and other leaders had been assembled at a remote place called Tan Trao, with no means of communication with the people who seized power in the cities. Giap led his troops into a small and unnecessary confrontation with a Japanese force at Thai Nguyen but his brigades could actually march unhindered all the way to Hanoi. When they arrived in the capital to form the nucleus of a new national army, all the main cities in Vietnam were already in the hands of the Viet Minh, which was dominated by communists who had either survived clandestinely under the combined “Franco-Japanese yoke” or recently got out of jail. Vo Nguyen Giap and Ho Chi Minh were actually on the side-lines when the August Revolution happened.

Giap’s main task after the establishment of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam on 2 September 1945, was to build a national army under infinitely more favourable conditions than before. Yet he faced serious difficulties. He had to avoid battle with a huge Chinese army, which entered Vietnam from the north in compliance with a decision by the Allies that China would occupy northern Indochina to disarm the Japanese there, while Britain would occupy the southern half. Giap also had to prepare his forces for resisting a French return. The French made a quick comeback in the south, with British help, but did not land in the north until 6 March 1946. This was a trying moment in Giap’s life. His forces were ready to resist the French invaders but it was essential to avoid a two-front struggle against the French and Chinese at the same time. Since China had just made an agreement with France allowing it to return to northern Indochina, Giap and Ho Chi Minh decided to be inspired by Lenin’s 1918 agreement with Germany at Brest Litovsk and sign an agreement with France, allowing it to re-establish garrisons in the main cities of northern Vietnam against a promise to let Vietnam become a “free state”. The term “independent” was not used. Giap took upon himself the task of explaining to a mass meeting in Hanoi the need for a “Brest Litovsk” with the French being allowed to return.

VoNguyenGiap_PoingLevé

In the next period, Giap made a short and unsuccessful stint as negotiator, serving as deputy head and de facto leader of a Vietnamese delegation to negotiate with France at Dalat in the central highlands. No agreement was reached. Although this was mainly because of French recalcitrance, Giap was not as impressive as a diplomat as he was as a teacher and commander, so a more natural division of labour developed in the Viet Minh leadership afterwards, with Giap concentrating on military and police matters while Pham Van Dong, Hoang Huu Nam – and Ho Chi Minh himself – took care of diplomacy. The French would soon see Giap as a hardliner, and kept looking for ways to create dissension among the Vietnamese leaders so Giap could be marginalized. After unsuccessful Franco-Vietnamese negotiations in France during the Summer of 1946 the bilateral relationship quickly deteriorated, and Giap’s main task became to prepare for a coming People’s War. It would be a drawn-out war, a war for the survival of his forces. That there would soon be full-scale war became more than likely when the French bombed and seized control of the port city Haiphong on 23 November. In this period, autumn 1946, Giap made some cynical statements that have since been associated with his name and been repeated even in some of the obituaries in the international press. In December 1946 Giap met a representative of the US State Department, Abbot Low Moffat, who was deeply impressed by Ho Chi Minh but not by Giap. Moffat thought Giap had a disconcerting “deadpan” face and acted like an archetypical communist cadre. When Moffat asked him about all the suffering that would ensue if war were allowed to break out between Vietnam and France, Giap just spoke of the need for “sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice”. “We may not win a war against France,” Giap conceded, “but neither will France”. And in the end France would give up. Ho Chi Minh used to say that it would be a war between a tiger and an elephant or between grasshoppers and elephants but Ho said this just allegorically. He did say directly that millions of people would have to die. Giap called a spade a spade and said it would not matter if thousands or millions died. All the sacrifice needed to ensure national liberation was worth it. These were chilling words. Bao Ninh’s novel The Sorrows of War carries the opposite message: Perhaps it was not worth all the suffering. Giap saw a need to convince his interlocutors that Vietnam would hold out no matter what; if he expressed any element of sorrow, fear or worry, then it might seem that he was not fully determined to fight until victory. Perhaps he was too honest or direct to express himself in less cynical terms. At any rate his statements from late 1946, not just to Moffat but to others as well, are discomforting. I sometimes seek comfort in the memory of having attended at some point in the early 1990s a commemorative event for war veterans in the Museum of Revolution here in Hanoi. As a foreign guest I was offered a seat next to Giap. He was not treated as the most important man in the room, but sat in the audience together with the rest of us, on the second row of chairs if I remember correctly. The kind of respect that the little man next to me showed for the war veterans in the room thoroughly impressed me. I was especially impressed when two psychologically deranged former soldiers insisted to take over the podium from the designated speaker in order to read out some extremely long poems. Giap just sat there patiently listening to their ramblings.

Sometimes I also think of the fact that my friend and colleague Duong Trung Quoc, one of the historians who worked with Giap on his memoirs in the 1990s, never met his own father. He was killed in late December 1946, in the battle that Giap had initiated.

Tonnesson_Vietnam-1946Giap and I have quarrelled both orally and verbally over what happened in Hanoi on 19 December 1946, the day the all-out war with France began. He claimed that a conscious decision was made to launch an attack as a way of taking the initiative and demonstrating a will to fight. If any mistake were made, he asserted, it was “that we waited too long.” He let militias and some small parts of his army join the fighting in the city, while withdrawing the rest of his troops to safety. In my view, he was lured into a trap on 19 December by the local French authorities who feared that a new French government under the socialist Leon Blum would engage in new talks with Ho Chi Minh. The local French wanted war. They wished to place Blum before a fait accompli but could not take the initiative themselves for fear of being repudiated. They thus wanted Giap to act first. I think he made a tremendous tactical mistake in launching his attack at the very moment when a new French government might repudiate the aggressive actions undertaken by its local representatives, who had been appointed by General de Gaulle. I think the outbreak of war was avoidable – at least at that point of time. Giap always maintained that the outbreak of war was inevitable.

From 1946 to 1954, Giap fought a classic People’s War in the paradigmatic Maoist fashion, where the first phase 1947-49 was mainly about keeping his forces intact while engaging in small scale guerrilla tactics. The French called it “la sale guerre” (the dirty war). Then, when the Chinese People’s Liberation Army arrived at the other side of the border in 1950, Giap sent his officers to China for training and got Chinese military advisors and weapons. This allowed him to launch his first conventional battle at Cao Bang near the Chinese border in October 1950, and to win a decisive victory. The French had to evacuate the border region. This led to over-confidence on Giap’s side, and to several costly defeats when the French had reorganized their forces and put them under a new decisive commander-in-chief.

Giap and his colleagues learned from these mistakes before launching a great campaign in late 1953 to surround and destroy a newly established French fortress at Dien Bien Phu, way up in the northwestern highlands near Laos. The battle of Dien Bien Phu is so well known that I will mostly bypass it here. It marked the apex of Giap’s military career and rendered him famous world wide. Dien Bien Phu was one of the epic battles of the twentieth century, and one of those where an Asian force won against a Western one: Tsushima 1905, Pearl Harbor 1941, Singapore 1942, Dien Bien Phu 1954. This was the third stage of People’s War, the general offensive. It depended on a massive mobilization of porters, on troops being willing to sacrifice themselves in attacks against heavily fortified positions, and on massive Chinese assistance. Yet the outcome was not a given. The attackers were sometimes close to a physical and psychological breaking point, and the greatest contribution Giap made to victory was probably his decision to call off the final onslaught at a time when it had been decided but when victory was not yet certain, and continue to build strength for some more time before closing in on the French bastions. When the last one fell on 7 May 1954, the stage was set for Pham Van Dong’s negotiations in Geneva, leading to the temporary division of Vietnam into North and South Vietnam, the subsequent departure of the French and the coming of American advisors in the South.

La couverture du Time sur l'Offensive de Pâques en 1972 © Time
La couverture du Time sur l’Offensive de Pâques en 1972 © Time

Vo Nguyen Giap remained minister of defence but had lost some of his power. As Ho Chi Minh became older, and Secretary General Le Duan built up his discrete and uncharismatic power, a new generation of less colourful military officers took control of the army. General Nguyen Chi Thanh, not Giap, was the main brain behind the Tet offensive in 1968, which may have resulted from a miscalculation on the part of Hanoi. There had always been tension within the international communist movement between proponents of city-based revolution and rural-based People’s War. The Russian Revolution began as a city-based revolt and then became a civil war with armies moving against each other along the main axes of communication. The urban tactics failed in Guangzhou 1927 when Chiang Kai-shek clamped down on the communists. When Mao rose to power afterwards, he applied a consistent strategy of People’s War, with armies converging around the cities so they would fall in the end as ripe fruits. The Tet offensive was launched inside the main cities of Saigon and Hue, probably in a hope of unleashing a popular uprising. Militarily the Tet offensive was a defeat, and its tremendous impact on US public opinion can hardly have been foreseen in Hanoi, although many would pretend this later. After the Tet offensive, Giap’s influence increased again for a short while, and he remained Minister of Defence until 1980, but he never regained the kind of control he had held during the French war. When the Ho Chi Minh offensive was launched in 1975, two years after the withdrawal of American forces in fulfillment of the January 1973 Paris agreement, the campaign was carried out by a new commander, General Van Tien Dung, in close cooperation with Le Duc Tho. The offensive was undertaken in the classic conventional – and Maoist – fashion, with armies surrounding and cutting off the cities. No urban uprising happened or was expected to happen. The main factor ensuring rapid victory was the demoralization of the South Vietnamese army, the fact that the United States did not return to help it, and that President Nguyen Van Thieu ceded power inthe end to General Duong Van Minh (“Big Minh”), who decided to surrender instead of allowing Saigon to be destroyed. The role of Big Minh was touched upon in a statement made by former prime minister Vo Van Kiet a couple of years ago. In this statement, Kiet, who had played a key role in the war in the south, expressed his appreciation of Big Minh’s surrender, which had made 30 April 1975 so much less bloody than it would otherwise have been.

During an essential part of of the period when the heroic Giap was Minister of Defence in Hanoi, his counterpart in Washington was Robert S. McNamara, one of the twentieth century’s most tragic personalities. McNamara was not, of course, a military man. American secretaries of defence are always civilians. Yet McNamara was someone used to command. The best period of his professional life was when he directed and reformed the Ford Motor Company using modern, scientific management techniques. His tragedy began when he was persuaded by John F. Kennedy to become one of his “best and brightest” and revolutionize the Pentagon with scientific management techniques. McNamara’s war was not a People’s War but a Computer’s War, built on rational choice theory. Victory in war should be won the same way you make a winning product for the market. The basic idea was that any adversary will have a breaking point as far as number of casualties is concerned, no matter what kind of cause the enemy is fighting for. If a sufficient number of Vietnamese soldiers were killed, then North Vietnam and the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam would come to a breaking point where they would be willing to negotiate on American or South Vietnamese terms. This never happened, of course. When it did not, when the casualty figures just continued to increase beyond any reasonable breaking point and the enemy still continued to fight and even escalated the fighting, McNamara started to have doubts. He was a deeply moral Presbyterian, someone with a deep longing to do good, and he suffered terribly from his Vietnam failure. In the end he resigned as Secretary of Defence but dit not tell the American public why. He was too loyal to President Lyndon B. Johnson to go public with his doubts. Instead he tried to compensate for his personal failure by taking up an obvious do-good job as President of the World Bank. As such he insisted on a huge increase in loans to developing countries. He wanted to get massive amounts of people out of poverty by kickstarting economic growth. Thus he inadvertently contributed to the long debt crisis in Africa and Latin America, which stifled development for a couple of decades and was only really overcome in the 2000s, when Chinese demand led to higher prices for African raw materials.

McNamara et Vo Nguyen Giap en 1995
Première rencontre entre McNamara et Vo Nguyen Giap le 9 novembre 1995 à Hanoi © AFP

In his old age, McNamara became an anti-war activist, and spent much of his collossal energy on digging into his own past mistakes. In his quest for redemption he made two pilgrimages to Vietnam and published two books about how badly he and America had been mistaken. During his first trip to Vietnam in 1995 he had a brief meeting with Giap, who confirmed that there had been only one attempt to shoot at US ships with torpedoes in the “Tonkin Gulf incident” in early August 1964. The alleged second attack, which prompted President Lyndon B. Johnson to seek the Tonkin Gulf Resolution (the closest that the USA came to a declaration of war), never actually took place. When McNamara learned this news from Giap, he faxed his publisher back in the United States with instructions to make a last-minute change to his first self-flagellating book In Retrospect. When McNamara came back to Vietnam in 1997 with a whole team of political scientists and historians to work on his second book, he was extremely eager to once more meet his old nemesis Vo Nguyen Giap. He wanted it at first to be a private meeting but this did not work out. Perhaps Giap preferred it otherwise. Perhaps the Vietnamese Communist Party did not want Giap and McNamara to meet under four eyes. For myself and quite a few others, it was wonderful that the two former enemies were unable to meet privately since this allowed us to be present.

It was 23 June 1997 in a hot and humid Hanoi. Robert McNamara had been mastering a four day conference in the luxurious Hotel Metropole to discuss mutual misunderstandings and missed opportunities between Washington and Hanoi during 1961-69. Only a few hours were now left till McNamara’s plane was due to take off from Noi Bai airport. But first he expected to be received by General Giap. The meeting would take place in the former French “Résidence supérieure” where the revolutionaries had seized control in the first phase of the August Revolution on 19 August 1945, and which for more than a year in 1945-46 had served as office for President Ho Chi Minh but been captured by heavily armed French assaillants in the night of 19-20 December 1946. After Dien Bien Phu and the Geneva accords of 1954 Giap’s forces had returned there to stay. In the 1960s and early 1970s the building had been evacuated during each of the American bombing campaigns but it was never actually hit. To Giap, the colonial style facade and interior of the building, nicely renovated in 1993, were as familiar as could be. He had received innumerable foreign dignitaries in that building as the Government Guest House of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.

Now, two years after the publication of his first book, and following an acrimonious discussion in the USA about the sincerity and limitations of the former defence secretary’s belated self-criticism, McNamara was preparing for a frank and open-minded discussion with the small but lucid Asian General. However, their encounter would prove to be a piece of theater, leaving the two men at an even greater mental distance than before. Two men with most of a war and over three million dead men and women between them. Two calculating brains with so many choices to regret or be proud of. They had so much in common, and yet their minds got no chance to actually meet.

We were some fifty people in the room, mostly Vietnamese and Americans, lining the walls, eagerly waiting to know if the two men would allow us to stay during their talk. Then there was a rush at the door. General Giap walked slowly through the room in his impeccable uniform amidst a moving circle of blitzing cameras. He smiled a perpetual smile and sat down in the host’s chair, to the right of his guest’s empty chair.

Where was McNamara? The host, according to custom, is supposed to come in last. But in this case it had been agreed that the guest would enter last, and the host would first make sure that no journalists were present. McNamara’s dream was to have a free, non-scripted discussion undisturbed by hostile media. His greatest hope was that Giap would reciprocate and offer some regrets for his past actions, for his own mistakes during the war, for his failure to negotiate and end the war much earlier so lives could have been spared. If Giap could also express his regrets, then the two could seek redemption together. God would forgive Giap just as he had forgiven McNamara. The problem with this approach, of course, was that Giap had fought the war in his own country against a foreign invader while McNamara had sent his soldiers to die in a country at the opposite side of the great Pacific. Giap of course had no regrets that he had won the war.

We stood there waiting for McNamara to arrive, with Giap sitting quietly in his chair. Someone expressed excuses on McNamara’s behalf; he must have been delayed. But then the tall, old, athletic man strode in, taking vigorously command of the room. In just a few giant steps he had advanced through the whole of the room, then leant his long body down over the small General in a show of secretarial might and said he would like to introduce his team.

A short embarrassing scene ensued. McNamara was gently shown his chair. But before sitting down he turned around to look at all of us from his standing position. Then he discovered to his obvious disappointment that the journalists and cameras were still there, in violation of the agreement he had obtained. He then insisted that all journalists must leave the room before the dialogue could begin. Amidst begrudgings most of the cameras were carried outside, and the doors were shut, but the rest of us remained inside. One person who was obviously a journalist also remained, a young woman in a mini skirt with neatly sewn three-dimensional flowers along the hem. McNamara could not avoid seeing her and asked that she be removed. She protested that she had General Giap’s permission to stay but McNamara had his way. On her way out she shouted insults to the former Secretary of Defence. The doors closed behind her. The rest of us were still inside. We sighed.

There was a brief pause while the two men competed for control, each with the help of an interpreter. Giap had an official one from Hanoi. McNamara had brought an overseas Vietnamese from home. Both did a remarkable job. McNamara again wanted to introduce his team, a move with a potential from transforming the scenario from a meeting of two men to a hearing where Giap would be questioned by a group of international experts. Giap interfered to say he wanted to make a brief statement. He spoke quietly while retaining the same steady smile. McNamara gave up his plan to introduce his team but interrupted Giap to state his desire that the conversation must last at least one hour. “Yes,” said Giap: “One hour will be enough.”

McNamara_VoNguyenGiap_1997
Le général Giap (gauche) et l’ancien secrétaire à la Défense des États-Unis, Robert Mc Namara, lors d’une rencontre à Hanoi en marge d’un séminaire vietnamo-américain en juin 1997 © Trân Tuân/VNA/CVN

During the first part of Giap’s brief statement, McNamara took frantic notes but when the statement turned out to not be brief at all, his hands stopped scribbling and instead formed fists in preparation for making interruptions each time Giap was forced to draw his breath. To no avail. Giap seemed to breath while talking and did not even look at the impatient American. He stared out in the room at the rest of us and spoke softly but emphatically about the escalation of the US war from Kennedy to Johnson and about the Vietnamese determination to resist. McNamara waited and waited and waited but in the end he could no longer hold down his impatience. First he demonstratively took off his watch and put it on the table. When this failed to produce any effect he tried to use his fist and mouth instead. Giap had just stated: “Since I am a soldier, please let me be frank,” when McNamara seized a chance to break in: “Yes, please be frank. And then I would like to interrupt you and move to another subject.”

Giap could not be moved. He continued his statement with the same soft voice, like an old teacher ignoring a young oversized schoolboy who has not yet learned good manners. Giap never actually looked at McNamara. He spoke out in space, let the interpreter translate, spoke again, allowed the translation, spoke… in a kind of rhythmic hymn that could last eternally. From the moment he had uttered his first words he was in full control of the scene. McNamara did not rise from his chair and Giap could talk as long as he wanted. McNamara and his team would listen, try to interrupt from time to time, exchange glances but remain seated. Giap sang for almost an hour, about US strengths and weaknesses during the war, about correct decisions made in Hanoi, and mainly about the will of the people to resist:  “The Vietnamese people fought and had to fight. If necessary we would have fought a hundred years. Because of our determination we achieved our national independence a hundred years early.” And “we fought on our own account. There were no foreign voluntary troops, even though there were 500,000 foreign troops in South Vietnam.” There were, he conceded, some friends who said the Vietnamese could not win against the United States. He could not name those friends. But he himself was always convinced that the Vietnamese people could win. The United States made a strategic error when it intervened in Vietnam, leading to the greatest military defeat in US history. The winners of the war were the Vietnamese people and also all the progressive peace-loving people in the world, including the progressive peace-loving people in the United States who opposed the war.

At one point McNamara managed to insert another question. He wanted to know which of all US decisions that caused the most worry in Hanoi. The word “worry” does not exist in the Vietnamese vocabulary, said Giap. He was then asked what caused the most “fear” but replied that the word “fear” also does not exist in Vietnamese. After each of these interruptions the General continued his monologue:

“Nothing is as precious as freedom and independence. The victory of the Vietnamese people was not just a physical victory. It was also the first time a small country could break the myth of great power domination. Nowadays, however, under different geopolitical and cultural conditions, there is nothing that stands in the way of improving Vietnamese-American relations. Normalization is in our mutual interest, particularly in view of Vietnam’s geopolitical position and cultural importance. I believe a better relationship between Vietnam and the United States will contribute to peace and stability in the region. The Vietnamese people sincerely wants to cooperate with the American people.”

Finally Giap allowed a few questions from the US team, letting each inspire a new monologue. Most of the Americans had now reached a stage of resignation. They seemed somewhat in awe of the little General who on this day was winning another battle: “General, you are certainly winning the war of words today,” McNamara exclaimed. “I now see why you have become a legend in your time. You are secure in your legend,” said General Dale Vesser, a member of McNamara’s team.

“No, not a legend,” the legend replied, “but a People’s General. When I stand next to a soldier, I feel like a soldier. To be commander-in-chief is an important task, but the soldier is the one who is directly in charge. Therefore I highly respect the soldier.”

Towards the end, when Giap said he must make another important point, McNamara just let him have his way. “Go ahead!” And then, while Giap proceeded to speak, McNamara let his shoulders sink and smiled a good-natured smile. His energetic posture gave way to an almost humorous resignation. This, perhaps, is where the two men might have started to look at each other, maybe even talk – about People’s War and body counts, about successes and failures, about the tragedy of so many lost lives. It never happened. The encounter was over. Hands were shaken. Doors were opened. Cameras came back while the General and Secretary walked out. For more than an hour Giap and McNamara had been in the same room but they had not actually met.

The fact that Vo Nguyen Giap was politically side-lined in much of the 1960s, and again in the 1970s, leaves ambiguous feelings in me. On the one hand I admire the first and second generation of Vietnamese leaders more than the third and the fourth, and I hold Ho Chi Minh’s main lieutenants in the Viet Minh period, Pham Van Dong and Vo Nguyen Giap in very high esteem. Hence I would be curious to see what Giap would have done in the 1970s and 1980s if he had been more influential. On the other hand it may perhaps be an advantage for Giap’s memory that he did not hold too much responsibility for the many mistakes that were made after the fall of South Vietnam: the too rapid unification; the attempt to collectivize southern agriculture, the destruction of the commercial class, the close alliance with the Soviet Union, the failure to manage Vietnam’s relations with China, the long occupation of Cambodia, the many years it took before the policy of renovation (Doi Moi) was launched.

VoNguyenGiap_MilitaryArtGiap held power at the time when People’s War was on its ascendancy. The doctrine lost force from the 1980s onward. The last successful socialist revolution of a People’s War kind was in Nicaragua 1979. After that some central elements of People’s War were “turned around” and utilized in so-called “low intensity warfare” against socialist regimes in Afghanistan, Cambodia, Angola, Mozambique, and other places. But this kind of warfare also declined after the end of the Cold War, when major powers mostly ceased to support insurgencies in other countries and when modern roads, modern surveillance tecniques and the cutting of trees made it more and more difficult to hide in jungles.

From the side-lines, Giap watched the East Asian region and also other parts of the world become more peaceful, more rich and also more morally depraved. He was now able to spend time on his original field, history, which is also the discipline of his wife Dang Bich Ha. With the help of some of Vietnam’s best historians Giap wrote a readable three-volume memoir that was published both in Vietnamese and French. He also found time during the last few decades of his life to develop a critical view of certain developments in his party, and sometimes he expressed his criticism in letters to the party leadership. The independence of mind thus demonstrated must have further endeared him to the Vietnamese public. Giap became a national icon, and his funeral became the focus of intense national mourning. In his old age, a bit like McNamara, Giap also spoke more often about peace.

Vo Nguyen Giap was 102 or 103 years old when he died (depending on whether we count the European or the Vietnamese way). He thus became even older than his French mentor in the study of the Red River villages during the 1930s, Pierre Gourou, who died in 1999 at the age of 99 (one wonders what they ate when conducting their village fieldwork).[3] General Giap’s life spanned 89 years of the twentieth century and almost thirteen of the twenty-first.

I saw him last on 20 December 2005, two days before his army celebrated its 61st birthday. He received me in his house here in Hanoi, in a room filled with memorabilia – among them several portraits of Uncle Ho – and he rose up in front of me to express a wish for world peace. Vo Nguyen Giap had an impressive personality. He did not perhaps possess the same personal warmth as Uncle Ho. Who does? But Giap was witty, knowledgeable and argumentative. He had a sharp tongue. His eyes revealed an exceptional intelligence and commanded great authority. He expected soldiers to be ready for great sacrifice, and he deeply respected those who were. He now lies buried in his ancestral land of Quang Binh.

May General Giap rest in peace! May his wish be fulfilled that Vietnam and the world can live in peace. In this twenty-first century there should be no place either for People’s War or for its opposite; the war that comes out of the sky, from B52 bombers, cruise missiles or drones.

What we now need is People’s Peace.

Stein Tønnesson

 


[1] with small corrections made in Hanoi, 13 Nov 2013.

[2] As John Kleinen has noted in “Tropicality and topicality: Pierre Gourou and the genealogy of French colonial scholarship on rural Vietnam” (2005: 348-349), Vo Nguyen Giap collected field data for Gourou’s ‘supplementary thesis’ about Vietnamese housing in central Vietnam as early as 1935. According to Gourou the two of them had met for the first time in 1931 when Giap was freed on probation. They met again in 1946 at the Dalat conference. See: Tuoi Tre. (Thanks to John Kleinen for this information.)

[3] In the early 1990s, Giap travelled to Brussels to see his old professor. According to Gourou (interviewed by John Kleinen in 1994) it was a polite and pleasant event. Thanks to John Kleinen for this information.

Texte envoyé depuis Hanoi et publié sur Mémoires d’Indochine avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur que nous remercions chaleureusement.

The Face of the Enemy, a documentary project

Over five million Vietnamese and 58 000 Americans died in what one side calls the American War and the other side calls the Vietnam War. Whilst countless stories have been told from the American point of view, very little has been heard from the Vietnamese side.

The Face of the Enemy is a documentary project that tells the story of the Vietnamese who fought in the American war, in their own words. In the film and installation veterans and their families have the chance, often for the first time, to recall the experiences that transformed and changed their lives. The project is built from over 150 hours of filmed interviews. The addition of rare archive footage and personal photos of the veterans themselves aids the attempt to chart a new perspective on one of the most decisive conflicts in modern history.

The project focuses more on personal stories than on the chronological events of the war. What did the Vietnamese feel when they joined the army? When they first arrived at the front? How did they see their comrades? The enemy? Their families back at home? How did the families at home think of the men and the woman at the front?

Trailer

The Film

Directed photographed and produced by Erik Pauser / Producer Dylan Williams / Editor Clas Lindberg / Music JeanLouis Huhta  / Sound Ania Pauser, Nguyen Dinh Thien Y, Alan Hayslip / Additional photography Lars Siltberg / Location manager Nguyen Dinh Thien Y / Sound design Ove Valeskog Studio Snickeboa / Colorgrading and online Lars Siltberg, Henrik Lago / Postproduction facilities/ Presentationsdesign Cinepost studios / Translation Tue Nguyen Dinh, Thien Y, Thao Jörgenssen, Tran Thi Ha, Vu Tuan Anh, Nguyen Than Huong, Huonh Thi Than Nguyen, Pham Cong Phoung.

Produced by Brandklipparen Amp film  / A coproduction with SVT – Axel Arnö / With support from The Swedish Film Institute – Hjalmar Palmgren / The Swedish Arts Grants Committee / YLE – Iikka Vekhalati / DR – Mette Hoffman / Längmanska Kulturfonden / Helge Ax:son Johnsons stiftelse

Archive: SVT / Doan Thi Cong / The National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) / Vietnam Film institute / Larry Nibble Archives / Caprice record.

Web Project

Producer Erik Pauser / Design Mats Renvall / Programming Nils Ola Nilsson / Site curators Erik Pauser, Sophie Holgersson, Ana Valdés / The webproject is supported by Framtidens kultur / Production company Brandklipparen.

Source : The Face of the Enemy, a Documentary Project

See also Story tellers gallery with:

Christian Langworthy
Cu Chi commander – Tran Van Thuan
Doctor Pham Duong and his wife Truong Thi Ngoc Lan and their son Lam
Female Guerilla Fighters – Mrs. Tran Thi Nho, Mrs. Dang Thi Huong, Mrs. Le Thi Suong
Mrs Vo Thi Tram
Le Ly Hayslip
Mr. Do Duc Diu. Former soldier in the regular North Vietnamese army
Mr Diu: Hang – The daughter of Mr. Diu
Mr Diu: Mrs. Pham Niec
Mr. Nguyen van Ma and his wife Do Thi Bich Canh
Doan Thi Cong
Bao Ninh
To Tien Hoa
Hoang Van Tinh
Nguyen Than
Mr. Tran Thi Vong and his wife
Hoang Dinh Phuong

Vietnamese Women in the War: a review – by Ernest Bolt

Many Americans who are more or less familiar with our Vietnam Experience know less about American women in the war. Many think all American women who were in Vietnam were nurses. Later our class will focus more on American women, but the People’s War materials must certainly include Vietnamese women and the war. Yet this is probably the least known and the last-studied aspect of the Vietnam Wars.

This has begun to change, however, and our Duiker text, Sacred War, is a good example of such change. Even better indicators of scholarly interest in Vietnamese women in the war are two recently published works by historians.

 

Dr. Karen G. Turner is an East Asia scholar at Holy Cross College who published, with the assistance of Hanoi journalist-interpreter Thanh Hao Phan, Even the Women Must Fight: Memories of War from North Vietnam (1998).


 

From army reports, diaries, and oral interviews, Turner and Thanh offer the reader a sampling of stories told by North Vietnamese women who fought in the Vietnamese wars against both the French and the Americans. One interesting outcome of their work was production of a map showing places of significance to these women — places they fought and survived and places where others died. The map, on page xii, shows some already familiar places but also some less well known to other scholars of the war.

The Turner-Thanh study is also well-illustrated with photos of women veterans who were interviewed as well as many from the Vietnam Women’s Museum in Hanoi. This is a museum which honors the roles of women from both the north, from the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, and the south — from the Republic of Vietnam.

Students and other readers of Even the Women Must Fight will also become familiar with Vietnamese heroines. Among them is Madame Nguyen Thi Dinh, who is featured on this People’s War module.

Others, not as frequently noted by historians and political scientists, include Nguyen Thi Duc Hoan, actress-director and film maker in Hanoi. Several of her films deal with Hanoi youth and war-related service and/or women’s issues: “From a Jungle” (1978), “Love and Distance” (1980s), “Obsession” (1978), “Love Story by a River” (1991).

She left home as a young girl to participate in the anti-French resistance and was a guerrilla fighter by the time the Americans came in large numbers. Her daughter by then, in the 1960s, trained in the militia. Turner quotes from her interview of Duc Hoan: “At no other time in Vietnam’s history was the will of the people more necessary for national survival. When even the gentlest Vietnamese woman could be inspired to enter the male world of violence for her country and when she learned to do the job well, the war had become in reality a total people’s war.” (p. 47)

Another Vietnamese woman whom Turner profiles is Ngo Thi Tuyen. Her heroism relates to her key role, in April 1965, in the supplying of Vietnamese defense of Dragon’s Jaw Bridge, a key point on the Highway 1 north-south artery in Vietnam. Rebuilt and dedicated in 1964, American air attacks the next year failed to destroy it; it was not until 1972 that American bombing efforts accomplished that goal. Ngo Thi Tuyen had helped down some of the attacking American planes on April 3 and 4, 1965. Until the present day, she has been honored with badges and frequent celebrations of her heroism. Turner effectively mixes and compares Vietnamese accounts and American accounts of the April 4 U.S. efforts — reported as the dropping of over 300 bombs. She concludes that this was one of the frequent tests of wills.

Turner relates Ngo Thi Tuyen’s story, based on her 1997 interview with the former militia woman. The setting was the local “commemoration house,” a type of local museum which depicts the bridge and the role of Tuyen and others to defend it. She told of the recent visit of former American POW Jeremiah Denton, one of the pilots shot down and captured during the mission in which Tuyen had figured so prominently.

The Vietnamese today have many museums, and I have visited some of them. The ones in Thanh Hoa Province, however, are among those I still must visit. This was the province in which the Dragon bridge was located, a province with a thousand-year revolutionary history. Many young men and women in the province contributed to the war effort in the Volunteer Youth Corps, working on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, or in local militia forces.

Work on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, in fact, is the subject of three chapters, one-third of Even the Women Must Fight. Due to the importance of this trail and its significance in helping to determine the outcome of the Vietnam War with the U.S., this emphasis is justified. The author engages in thick description and uses many examples of women (and men) who worked on the trail. Teenagers with shovels and AK-47s kept the trail cleared and repaired following constant bombing attacks. They worked under severe hardships and relied on local support rather than significant government and army support. According to Turner, citing Vietnamese media attention recently, they have also not received the postwar services that they deserve. Turner’s examples of women she interviewed, road builders, members of the Youth Corps, and veterans of special groups (such as Troop C814), are numerous, and the testimony of most was similar. They performed war duties not to defend socialism or to win a global struggle; rather they defended their homeland as a “place to raise future generations.” As Turner puts it, they left home to “save home.” (p. 82)

One of the best features of this study is the use of several postwar paintings by Nguyen Ngoc Tuan, a militia woman during the war. It is also interesting to note evidence, once more, that the Vietnamese write and treasure poetry. Examples of Vietnamese writing furnished in this study also include womens’ memoir writings. Some writings of women warriors used by Turner are in the Combined Document Exploitation Center (CDEC) in Saigon. She utilized those records of life and service data to draw examples and to find meanings of women’s war experiences. Those materials, according to Turner, reflect greater evidence of discrimination against women than is often recalled from memory today. The CDEC records cover the 1966 to 1973 period and remain a little-used resource for examining individual war experiences.

When dealing with “Meanings,” Turner turns more and more to an analysis of the 1990s based upon her broader observations in Hanoi and northern Vietnam while engaged in her research and interviews. She relates, for example, her visit to Dien Bien Phu and the memorials in the Vietnamese cemetery there. One of the most interesting statues to her is that of two women standing and shielding a young soldier. There is also a stone mural commemorating the role of women porters. From selected examples in recent Vietnamese literature by men and women writers, she also draws meanings, including the postwar treatment of war mothers as martyrs and symbols of Vietnamese endurance and sacrifice. She also connects her sources and analysis to present women’s issues in Vietnam, concluding that “the (women) survivors who live poorly have become potent symbols of the costs of war.” (p. 179)

 

Dr. Sandra C. Taylor, Professor of History at the University of Utah, is the author of the most-recent book on Vietnamese women in the war. Vietnamese Women at War: Fighting for Ho Chi Minh and the Revolution (1999) is a brief but excellent study and is part of the Modern War Studies series of University Press of Kansas.


 

Taylor, as does Turner, uses many interviews chiefly to preserve and attempt to understand the stories of women at war. Her sample, she acknowledges, is not a “valid” one, but it is a broader one than that of Turner. Professor Taylor’s interviews are with more women warriors who were part of the southern insurgency and fewer of her subjects fought in the north. She regards her work, therefore, a “preliminary attempt to understand the women warriors,” (p. 7) as “the tip of an iceberg” (p. 165). Taylor’s book, however, is well-grounded in her knowledge of the Vietnam Wars, and she has engaged in field research in Vietnam for more than a dozen years. Among her sources is the large and quite rich Pike Collection, now housed in Texas Tech’s Vietnam Archives, where Douglas Pike is located. Some of her eighteen pages of photographs are also from that collection.

Because women played such an important role along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, Taylor’s study also frequently provides a focus on that angle. Her most thoroughly treated women warriors, however, include Nguyen Thi Dinh, one of the original “long-haired warriors,” warrior-diplomat Nguyen Thi Binh, Cu Chi guerrilla Ho Thi Bi, and warrior-physician Duong Quynh Hoa.

Taylor’s major examples are among the “long-haired warriors” in the southern revolutionary movement and opposition to the Republic of Vietnam and the U.S. Students would profit from reading just chapter four on that group of women. This subject should be of interest to students especially because both Turner and Taylor recognize the importance of emphasizing the youthfulness of Vietnam’s warriors. Recommended, therefore, is Taylor’s chapter five, “Youth at War.”

Other excellent features of Taylor’s book include her comments on poetry and her discussion of memory theory in relation to use of oral history — both her own and previously-collected interviews by our military. Students should especially note her conclusions concerning the stories told to her (p. 18). As in the case of Turner, Taylor finds Vietnamese poetry “a living testimony to the will power of the insurgents” whom we fought. (p. 15)

Read together, these two recent books will inform the reader and yet still leave some unanswered questions. Perhaps the result for students in this course will be further reading or research on women’s roles in Vietnam’s wars.

Dr. Ernest Bolt, University of Richmond

Source : University of Richmond