|
THE WRITERS POST
(ISSN: 1527-5467)
the magazine of
Literature & Literature-in-translation.
VOLUME 7 NUMBER 1
JAN 2005
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INTERVIEW
WITH AUTHOR
____________________________
NGUYEN MANH TRINH
TALKED WITH AUTHOR NGO THE VINH
NGUYEN MANH TRINH [NMT]: Please tell us your life history.
NGO THE VINH [NTV]: I was born in 1941 in Thanh
Hoa province.
That's not where my family originally comes from, but a place where my
father was teaching school then. I
graduated from Saigon University's Faculty of Medicine in 1968. During my medical training, I joined the
editorial staff, initially as general secretary, then as editor-in-chief, of
the monthly magazine Tinh Thuong
(Compassion) produced by students of the Faculty from 1963 until the magazine
was suspended in 1967. After
graduation, I served as Chief Surgeon of the 81st Airborne Ranger
Group. Some years later, I received
special training in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation at Letterman
Hospital in San Francisco. Upon
returning to Vietnam, I worked at the Military Medical College. After 1975, I was imprisoned in different
re-education camps for three years. I
then returned to Saigon where, after a time lapse, I worked at the School of
Physiotherapy and the Saigon Rehabilitation Center.
In
1983, I arrived in the United States, where I underwent five years of
re-education – with a difference this time: it was voluntary – the aim of
which was to become qualified to practice medicine in my adopted
country. In the beginning, I volunteered
as an orderly at a hospital and did some odd jobs for minimum wages after
normal working hours. Eventually I
succeeded in becoming an intern, then a resident physician in SUNY Downstate
at Brooklyn, New York. Subsequently, I
was certified by the American Board of Internal Medicine, and at present I
work at a hospital in Southern California.
NMT: How
did you begin your literary career?
Are there noteworthy memories associated with it?
NTV: My father was a teacher of literature. At an early age I already had good
opportunities to read books, mainly from my father's book case. My father died a year after the 1954 mass
migration to the South, when he returned for the second time to Hue city where
he taught at Khai Dinh
high school. He was survived by my
mother, my two elder brothers, and myself. I left home early, and lived in a
university dormitory as soon as I got out of high school. A whole new world was opened to me then,
with so many contradictions between dreams and reality. Against such a backdrop, May Bao (Storm Clouds, 1963), my debut novel, was written and
completed when I was twenty-one. It
carries many dreams and aspirations for the future, and unwittingly it also
prefigures a journey full of hardship whose desired destination is never
reached.
The
one notable memory in relation to the "Storm Clouds" manuscript
during that time involved the Ministry of Information where, for the first
time ever, I was lectured to like a school kid by the Chairman of the
Censorship Committee. He told me about
the responsibilities expected of a writer who is obligated to reflect the
bright side of society, not the wrong dark side of it. Naturally my own view of writing differed
from his, and time has done little to alter this.
NMT: You
were a student much involved in political activity, a doctor serving in a
battle-tested corps of the ARVN, and a writer who up to the present has
remained deeply concerned for the lot of the homeland. How have those different "beings", or different roles influenced your way of
thinking and your style of writing?
NTV: While still a student, like my peers I was
mindful of social issues. I believe
that aspirations and struggle for social equality is a dream shared by
youths. Of course it's never a simple
matter to find a path to reach that dream.
Inevitably from different perspectives and from diverse ways of action
arise confrontations and varying persuasions.
In a general sense, allowing oneself to merge into that common flow of
socially-concerned activities can be construed as involvement in
politics. However, if politics is
defined in terms of opposing cliques and sides, then I have not participated
in it, and will not want to allow myself to walk that thorny path.
To
choose medicine from among different fields of study is often likened to
committing oneself to being "a student for life". But then, whether you like it or not, you
must graduate after seven years of study and put an end to your student life,
and, under circumstances then prevailing, become a military doctor like
myself. At the time of my graduation,
the Vietnam War was at its height, and a few doctors on the battle front had
been killed. Even as a requisitioned
doctor, I chose to serve in the Vietnamese Special Forces whose area of
operation was the Central Highlands.
The choice stemmed from a predestined affinity between myself and the Thuong peoples,
an affinity that had been formed back in my student days.
So
you can see, all those different "beings" are but one, a consistent
one at that, marking different passages of my life.
NMT: How do
you see the difference between a doctor writer and a writer doctor? Which of the two designations is more
suitable in your case?
NTV: A few days immediately after I had carried a
rucksack to join my battalion, two of its companies were mobilized to
reinforce a friendly unit. As a rule,
only the medics attached to the companies and a medical assistant officer
were required at that level of military operation. However, at the airport, the Major who
commanded our battalion asserted his authority over me through a brief verbal
order, "First-lieutenant, get your equipment ready and join the
operation today." He emphatically
addressed me only by my rank. In any
event, I had prepared myself for such a call to action,
therefore I was very calm and actually took pleasure in participating for the
first time in a smooth and full-fledged operation. Though a military career was not my choice,
I understood very early on how military life should be conducted. In my opinion, the most important issue is
self-discipline.
A
number of my colleagues make a clear distinction between lieutenant-doctor
and doctor-lieutenant. But that was
not an issue to me then, nor is it now.
No matter which way that Major chose to address me, I remained the
surgeon whose responsibility was to take care of the soldiers in my
unit. I think by that little episode
I've answered your question relative to whether one should call me a doctor
writer or a writer doctor. Whichever
manner one combines the words to designate an author, such a designation by
no means assures the literary quality of his work, even when we're talking
about the work of an established writer, don't you agree?
NMT: Is
there reciprocal support or conflict of interest between profession and
predestinate career, like between the profession of a medical doctor and the
career of a writer?
NTV: Since I like both my medical profession and
my writing career, for me they are supportive of each other. In my medical practice, everyday I'm in
touch with those selves that are not myself. I face not only sicknesses but also the
sick, each with his own circumstances, and the
rapport sometimes would give me the benefit of accompanying them to climb up
the steep slope of life and death which confronts each of them at a different
time in their life.
Previously,
writers in North Vietnam were on the national payroll and thus financially
supported by the government to do field work in factories and mines and in the
countryside, so as to gather material for their writing. Whether you like it or not, the medical
profession is not markedly different from daily rounds of field work where
experiences and emotions are aplenty, piling up, waiting for expression. Unfortunately, I have little time to write
about them. In my case, the conflict
between a medical profession and literary creation lies in a very tight and
unbalanced schedule.
NMT: When
writing, do you ever ask yourself what you write for? Among your characters there are many
soldiers of truly modest low rank. Is
it your view that they represent those in the Vietnam War who most deserved
mention?
NTV: I only felt the need to write when inspired
by a certain situation that moved me.
For example, the story entitled 'A former ARVN Medical Corpsman' was
prompted by an occasion after 1975 when I met a former medic. Having been discharged from the army,
ironically, he stepped on a mine in his family's rice field and lost one of
his feet. That courageous sergeant had
survived so many fierce battles, many times being inserted into enemy
territory to come out unscathed; but after the war was over, he was dealt such a terrible fate. I remember that during the meeting, we
didn't have much to say other than reminding each other to take care of
ourselves. Through his voice and the
way he looked at me, it seemed that he had not abandoned his habitual
penchant for forgetting himself while caring for the welfare of others,
including me, treating me exactly the same way he had done, when I was his
superior.
I
hope to be able to write more about such ordinary but also significant people
who fought the Vietnam War. You may
say that writing is to liberate oneself from memories, but in actuality it's
to relive the emotions a second time.
That's happiness, but also hard work.
And there's always joy during the process of creation, not only in the
completion of a manuscript.
NMT: For
further elaboration, what is your aim when writing? To become famous, to express your feelings
and emotions, to share your ideas and thoughts with others, or…what?
NTV: To me fiction represents life circumstances
as viewed through the prism of the imagination of the writer. Every author hopes that his readers
participate in the life of his work.
Having your writing unread is no different from displaying a painting
to no viewing audience. Despite the
fact that once a work is completely written and published, it has its own
destiny and its own journey out there in the public domain, what we call
feedback from the audience – how they share or respond to ideas and feelings
in the work – cannot but exert some impact on the author.
When
entering the literary arena, I was not blessed with the same experience
enjoyed by many other writers, namely to start with publication in newspapers
and journals of a number of short stories, from there to be encouraged
further in creative writing until being recognized as an author. Indeed, I had not had any short story published
before "Storm Clouds", my first novel, was completed. And even then the motive for writing had
nothing to do with the illusion of seeking fame. Fame in this case is like a medal to a
soldier: if he is courageous when engaging in battle, certainly it's not
because he's motivated by a wish to gain a medal.
NMT: How
does life at present, always with a tight schedule, affect your creative
writing?
NTV: After 1975, in Vietnam, even as one always
talks about eight precious hours of labor everyday as exemplified by model
workers, it seems that there's still enough spare time at one's disposal,
more so than is the case here in the U.S.
Americans don't seem anxious to become model workers. They work only to wait for the coming of
Fridays – when TGIF, 'Thanks God It's Friday', is uttered in great relief –
and to welcome long weekends. Trying
to assimilate ourselves into this mainstream, we seem to have the impression
that we have less time for what we love to do or need to attend to. Our pleasure of watching coffee drip
leisurely through a tiny one-cup filter every morning has been replaced by
instant coffee consumed unfeelingly while driving a car to work, just before
plunging into the eight precious hours of labor.
NMT: Let's
return to the '60s when you were with the magazine Tinh
Thuong and engaged in student activities. What do you think about the role of the
magazine as well as that of various student-and-youth movements during those
turbulent years?
NTV: The time spent at the Faculty of Medicine
truly constituted "youthful years" in my life. I was preoccupied not only with my studies,
but also with extracurricular activities: functioning in student
representative committees and working with friends for care of Tinh Thuong. That magazine was born in the special time
and circumstances immediately after the November '63 dramatic event which put
an end to President Diem's regime.
Almost all other faculties of Saigon University also published
periodicals during that time. We
students at the Faculty of Medicine took that name for our magazine because
"compassion" is the sentiment suitable to the mission of medical
doctors. We started with a rather
large editorial staff featuring Pham Dinh Vy and Nguyen Vinh Duc as the first publisher and editor-in-chief,
respectively. It must be said that
from the beginning to the end when the magazine was suspended, there appeared
many different tendencies or inclinations among us. Counted among adherents to the academic
tendency were Nghiem Si Tuan (who was a Red Beret
M.D. killed at Khe Sanh
after graduation), Ha Ngoc Thuan and Dang Vu Vuong.
Politically-oriented were Pham Van Luong,
Pham Dinh Vy, and Truong
Thin, whereas Tran Xuan Dung and Trang Chau leaned toward
literature and the arts. I myself
covered student activities. There were
many more of us writing on diverse topics: Tran Xuan
Ninh, Le Sy Quang, Tran Dong A, Tran Doan, Vu Thien
Dam, Dang Duc Nghiem, Nghiem Dao Dai, Do Huu Tuoc, Duong Thien Dong. And mention must also be made of articles
contributed by writers from other faculties.
Even
though Tinh Thuong was
called a student magazine, it was not infrequent to see appear in it
contributions by faculty members like Dean Pham Bieu
Tam, professors Tran Ngoc Ninh, Tran Van Bang,
Nguyen Dinh Cat, Ngo Gia Hy... Layout was done and cartoons provided by two
talented home-grown artists, Liza Le Thanh Y and
Kathy Bui The Khai, while very beautiful covers
were contributed by artist Nghieu De. Initially, the magazine depended for its
existence entirely on advertisement fees collected from pharmaceutical
companies, and on its sales within the medical student population. But later, when the readership expanded
beyond the student circle to the general public, it became financially
self-supported. We even had our own
office on Nguyen Binh Khiem
street where the editorial board worked and held meetings, where we received
visiting international student delegations and foreign correspondents. Among them I still remember Takashi Oka,
who was a reporter for The New York Times in Vietnam at that time. Moreover, within our modest means, the
magazine was able to send reporters like myself to Central Vietnam, to the
Central Highlands for special on-the-spot reporting. Some memories connected to those field
journeys are imprinted in my mind: Quang Ngai in white mourning shrouds after the biggest ever
flood in Central Vietnam; the first U.S. Marine unit landing in Le My –
‘Tears of the Americans' as the name is literally translated – in Da Nang; life in the ancient capital of Hue when students
occupied the city's radio station; and especially my several trips to Pleiku, Kontum, and Ban Me Thuot, to follow closely the uprisings of the Thuong who belonged to the FULRO movement – Front Unifié de Lutte des Races Opprimées, or United Struggle Front for the Oppressed
Races.
NMT: Being
a medical student heavily burdened with your studies, how did you manage to
have time for those projects outside the medical school?
NTV: Truth to tell, at that time I was not
exactly a model medical student in the conventional sense of the word within
academia. I should have graduated
earlier. But even in my fourth year I
still had the intention of dropping out so as to devote myself full-time to
journalism, which I was very passionate about. Recalling it now, I cannot but thank one of
my elder brothers for having advised me to finish up the remaining two years
of medical school. His argument was
that upon graduation no one could prevent me from doing what I would like to
do. And so I completed medical school,
and subsequently fulfilled the duties of a doctor while still having an
opportunity to pursue writing.
NMT: As you
mentioned before, it seems that during that period, one could not find any
faculty within Saigon University that did not publish a magazine or bulletin:
from the one published by the Faculty of Pharmacy to the others produced by
the Faculty of Letters and the Faculty of Law, and by the General Union of
Students…Do you have anything more to add about the student magazine Tinh Thuong?
NTV: In my opinion, that the magazine survived
for a length of time was itself our primary success, even though we had our
share of problems in internal operations and relations among the editorial
staff, in addition to pressures from the outside meant to manipulate it.
With
regard to the content of the magazine, now, when having a chance to look
back, I recognize that besides regular columns on current affairs which
addressed political, social and cultural concerns of the time, there existed
also works of more enduring value which were serialized in all issues, but
which were incomplete because Tinh Thuong was suspended in August 1967. I still remember the names of some of those
works, like "History of Medicine" by Ha Ngoc Thuan,
a translation of a well-known short story collection from German by Nghiem Si Tuan and Nguyen Vinh Duc, and "Nuoi Seo" (Nursing a Scar), a social novel by author Trieu Son of which the only copy left after his death in
the 1940s had been kept by Professor Tran Ngoc Ninh
– which unfortunately is now lost.
It's
incredible that almost thirty years have gone by since the suspension of Tinh Thuong. If the magazine has produced an echo and
borne some fruit, such success should be credited to all medical students in
the aggregate, and not to any particular individual person. Indeed, the most precious experience which
we gathered during that time was the democratic way of operation and unity
among us in the spirit of university autonomy. In the internal situation of the editorial
staff, there existed many different leanings which at times were in
opposition to one another, leading to arguments and even overt polemics that
were thought capable of causing a break-up, but thanks to our mindfulness of
responsibility toward the survival of the magazine – a symbol of democratic
activities – we eventually reconciled to a common denominator: the magazine
as an open forum, a free platform for expression of different opinions on all
issues, political, educational, and social.
I
cannot forget the extremely chaotic times during the years following 1963,
marked by a series of street demonstrations, one provoking the next. The compound of the Faculty of Medicine was
a cradle for activism. Typical were
the polemics, which I remember well, taken up by two men among the editorial
staff. While Bui The Hoanh advocated operation in a peaceful manner, Ton That Chieu was inclined to support agitation movements. Both presented sharp and persuasive
arguments for their positions. Their
war of words spread to the press outside of the Faculty. Neither won, even as each commanded a
following. And to me that truly was an
instance of democratic working. At
present both men live in the United States.
There seems to be a rapprochement of sorts between them in terms of
their views and evaluations of the current situation of Vietnam.
NMT: How
would you describe the student and youth movements at that time? Was there any controlling or manipulating
power behind them? What sort of lesson
would you cull from the 1960s?
NTV: In my view, thanks to honest motives, anywhere and
any place student and youth movements easily draw people's support, and their
role is always like an enzyme that vivifies society. In Vietnam, the various movements did not
constitute a political force in the proper sense of the term, but they were
truly a pressure that impelled progress on the road toward democracy. In general, these movements demanded
democracy, university autonomy, and social equality. All formulas of action were experimented
with. Though their impact on society
was limited, there's no denying the positive aspect which is that those young
people's strength and will were put to test, and I was not surprised to see
that so many years later they still found it easy to come together and work
for a common cause.
However,
as you can imagine, at any time and under whatever circumstances, there was
no shortage of "young opportunists". Though of a small number (they were either
seduced by others to join the movements, or they joined them on their own
initiative), ironically this minority was the strongest divisive element
causing loss of faith among the general public. Perhaps one needs to draw lessons from the
student and youth movements during the most confusing years after 1963,
which, with lots of anger and agitation, ended like an unfinished dream.
NMT: Having
gone through so many changes, at this moment do you have any thoughts that
differ from what you held in that time now in the past? Do you still like to write about that
war? And do you view it as a page of
history that has been turned, or do you still consider it an issue of
pressing concern for us nowadays?
NTV: That war has been relegated to the past for
more than twenty years now. It's not
exactly wrong to say that it's like a page that has been turned. But the issue that can be raised is: What
lesson have we derived from that page drenched with blood and tears? Naturally we want to orient ourselves
toward the future, but the point is, How do we step
onto a new page of history, without repeating the mistakes that we and our
younger generations are paying for?
And how can we say that the Vietnam War has been assigned to the past
completely? From my own experience,
not a day goes by without one or more Vietnam veterans being among my
patients: there were wounds inflicted by shrapnel of the B40 and bullets of
the AK being lodged in their jaws and throats, wounds that are still causing
them pain after more than twenty years.
They still remember and talk about Khe Sanh, Loc Ninh, Cua Viet, places where they survived ragingly fierce
battles. A few vaguely recall phrases
that entered the GI vocabulary like 'dinkidau',
crazy and mad, derived from the Vietnamese dien cai dau, which was perhaps learned
by American GIs from Vietnamese bar girls in establishments that mushroomed
around American barracks back then.
Some patients even refuse to let me examine them, for fear of
flashbacks of horrendous experiences they went through in Vietnam. Looking at them, I can
not but think of former ARVN soldiers and disabled veterans who still
live in our home country, who are completely disregarded if not maltreated by
the new regime. Their pain certainly
is a thousand times sharper and deeper because of that. So, as you can imagine, in no way one can
truly leave the war that is thought to have gone into oblivion more than
twenty years ago.
As
to my thoughts and view at present, they're not dissimilar to what I held
during that time in the past. The only
difference is, I view the war more calmly and want to explore more deeply the
reasons behind it. It's not correct to
say that I like to write about that war.
On the other hand, memories of it will haunt me for the rest of my
life. Reading and writing to me means
an exploration of The Vietnam Experience.
When reading articles in the press about the time past, I have a habit
of collecting them if I find in them a few details that may shed light on
nagging questions concerning the Vietnam War.
Let
me digress here. Maybe you remember
the 1954 refugee migration from North to South Vietnam. I was only thirteen then, and perhaps you
were even younger. There was impressed
upon me the image of the young American doctor named Tom Dooley who, newly
graduated, volunteered to go to Vietnam where, from 1954 to 1955, he
dedicated himself to serving refugees in transitional tent camps in Hai Phong port, those refugees
waiting to depart for the South. The
image was as beautiful as that of an idol.
His work entitled Deliver Us from Evil, published after his return to
the U.S., was a bestseller, touching the hearts of Americans. Afterwards, Dooley again volunteered his
services, this time in northern Laos, where he built a hospital to care for
poor and disabled children. At that
time he appeared no less than a version of Schweitzer in Asia, a shining idol
in the eyes of young generations about to step into the field of medicine,
myself included. That idolatry
continued until 40 years later when those who had collaborated with Dooley
revealed that he was but a doctor discharged from the American navy when his
homosexuality was discovered. Then he
volunteered to become one of the first tools of the CIA in a large-scale
strategic system which was designed to spread propagandistic false
information in preparation for the U.S. to subsequently embark on her
adventure into a turbulent area of Asia.
Another
example comes to mind. More than forty
years after Tom Dooley's arrival in Hai Phong, we had to witness the scene of McNamara walking
unsteadily over pavements of Hanoi on his way to see General Vo Nguyen Giap to whom he posed the question of whether or not
there indeed had been the claimed incident of attack against the American
ship named the Maddox. After a million
Vietnamese and about sixty-thousand American soldiers had been killed, he
came around admitting that he himself and America as a whole had been wrong,
very wrong in interfering in the affairs of Vietnam. So where was the truth behind the Vietnam
War? Hypocrisy and false propaganda
are the essence of communism, but how about our allies? If we do not engage in looking backward –
“In Retrospect”, to use McNamara's words – and meditate on past events, won't
we again be faced with the irony that Vietnam, after having once experienced
the tragedy of being an outpost of the free world, in a future not far from
now may again be honored, for a second time, as an outpost to prevent Chinese
expansionism?
As
you can see, on the page of history that has been turned is deeply buried
"a death of illusions", which our generation and future generations
cannot but seek to understand.
Post-Vietnam syndrome doesn't pertain to the Americans alone; it
applies to us Vietnamese as well.
"No More Vietnams", "Vietnam Never Again" should
be a constant reminder for the younger generations of Vietnamese leaders in
the future, both inside and outside the country.
NMT: Do
characters in your works May Bao (Storm Clouds),
Bong Dem (Darkness of Night), Gio Mua (Seasonal Wind), and Vong Dai
Xanh (The Green Belt) bear a slight resemblance to
the real person and the real life of their author? In The Green Belt for example, one finds
abundantly projected events and social reality as they existed around the time
you wrote it. In light of that, what's
the ratio of fictional elements in your works?
NTV: You are correct in saying that the then
current affairs and reality make their appearance very frequently in my
fiction, typical of which is The Green Belt.
But that's not a reportage as is commonly
known in journalism. Indeed, The Green
Belt embodies many details drawn from real life, but in the process of
creation these were sifted and selected by the author's perception so that
their overall interconnections can be seen, leading to a reality in fiction.
Looking
back, I remember that at that time there was no shortage of news articles
dealing with upheavals in the Central Highlands. In fact, the magazine Tinh
Thuong ran the reports I then wrote on this problem
area. I was deeply moved by the tragic
conflict between Kinh and Thuong
peoples, but at the same time I also thought that it was a big issue on the
national scale. Thereupon, instead of
writing a reportage, I projected the collected data
as literary images in a novel which I thought would have a more lasting
impact on the reading public.
I began writing the novel right
from the time when, as a special reporter for Tinh Thuong, I had many occasions to go to the Central
Highlands and witnessed bloody uprisings associated with the FULRO movement.
That conflict was devastatingly complicated, bordering on illogicality, which
involved Vietnamese of different ethnic groups in both
lowlands and highlands, the Americans, the communists, and also the
French. Tinh
Thuong devoted a few special issues to this
subject, following and analyzing the events by subsuming them under a
thematic slogan: "Central Highlands: a Horse Cart with Three Drivers
upon It". The Green Belt, in
truth, depicts a no-less-tragic war that was forgotten within the Vietnam
War, the latter most intensely discussed in the history of the American
press.
I still remember one detail in
connection with the theme of the novel.
Through the courtesy of Tap San Su Dia
(Journal of History and Geography) in Saigon, I received a long letter from
Professor Hoang Xuan Han, a respected Vietnamese
scholar living in France. He shared my
concern with the ethnic issue in Vietnam and expressed an attitude quite
distinct from that of the American researchers who had visited and consulted
with him. To me, the matter of
ethnicity and regionalism in Vietnam is not a thing in the past. It's still a painful wound which needs to
be healed by a far-reaching vision, by adequate concern and attention from
future leaders of Vietnam.
Coming back to The Green Belt, I
was able to complete it during the time I served as Chief Surgeon of the 81st
Airborne Ranger Group. The work was
published in 1971, a significant portion of it having been deleted partially
by myself and partially by the Bureau of Literature and the Arts in the
Ministry of Information. Regrettably,
after 1975 the complete original version of the manuscript was lost.
The novel takes the form of a
first-person narrative. As you know,
even though the narrator speaks as "I", this "I" does not
stand for the author. The protagonist
is a talented painter who very much resembles artist Nghieu
De, a good friend of mine. The only
difference is he gives up painting and switches to journalism where he finds
himself drawn deeply into the tragedy that befalls the Promised Land in the
Central Highlands of South Vietnam.
Readers often tend to identify the "I" in fiction with the
author. Recently, I received a letter
from a former student now living in Australia who had just read The Green
Belt for the first time. He expressed
surprise at having discovered through the novel that I'm also a painter. As you see, I like painting very much,
having painters for friends, but I've never learned how to paint. The female character named Nhu Nguyen, whose presence though not prominent is felt
throughout the entire book, can be considered the
truly fictional part of it.
NMT: Suppose
someone were to put together a collection of short
stories dealing with the Vietnam War from different perspectives, do you
think you would contribute your work to it if invited? Will you decline or accept the
invitation? Please give us the reasons
for your preferred decision.
NTV: Your
question brings to mind the book The Other Side of Heaven which recently came
out. It is indeed a publication of
literary works about the Vietnam War seen from many angles – American, North
Vietnamese, South Vietnamese – thus including "the third tear
drop", to use author Nguyen Mong Giac's words, a reference to a number of stories by
writers of former South Vietnam. To be
absent from such a collection would mean to have no voice and hence to be
forgotten.
In fact, there have been many
authors writing about the Vietnam War: American, communist North Vietnamese,
and naturally South Vietnamese. It has
been observed that the voice from former South Vietnam has produced little
echo within the international literary forum, chiefly because of a shortage
of translations into English, and even works originally written in English
have not achieved noticeable success.
In my opinion, the American
publishing industry is regulated by the market economy. Owners and directors of American publishing
houses are very sharp in detecting what investment will bring them maximum
profit. Given the communist bamboo
curtain that blocked the truth in favor of propaganda for so many years, the
image of the North Vietnamese soldier, supposedly symbolizing the army of the
people, was previously regarded mythical by many Americans. The American reading public
have the need to know the portrait of the North Vietnamese enemy who
was capable of defeating great America.
In the meantime, they don't care to learn about the ARVN soldier who
was described by the American press throughout the Vietnam War with a full
range of negative attributions – to a certain level such a view seems to have
served as a justification for their inability to win the war. Generally speaking, literary products and
art works coming from North Vietnam, including poetry, painting, and
sculpture, will not necessarily have real value, but they certainly will
maintain some power of attraction responding to the taste of the American
public for some time to come.
I don't mean to say that the
American reading public do not know how to appraise
literary works of value produced from the previous South Vietnam. Only, it's obvious that there are
hindrances related to marketing, which prevent those works from reaching
them. I strongly believe that when the
post-Vietnam syndrome is gone for the American public, a work of literature
of value, no matter which side of the Vietnam conflict it comes from, will
have the proper place it deserves.
NMT: What impact did the collapse of the South
Vietnamese government in 1975 have on your real life and on your literary
life, respectively?
NTV: Ever
since the 1960s, I had no illusion of an end to the war with South Vietnam
coming out as the winner. My judgment
was not based on the thought that the enemy side was very strong; rather it
had to do with weakness and decline of the South through a process of
self-destruction. Right on the first
page of The Green Belt, I put forward an evaluation of the Vietnam War at
that point in time, by saying: "When the Americans had moved beyond the
advisory stage, everyone knew this was their war – a war that had developed and was dealt
with in the interests of the United States." In spite of that realization, I could not
help being stunned by the speedy collapse of the whole of South Vietnam while
there were still a million well-armed ARVN men in place.
I chose to stay, not to run away
to another shore, only to witness the last days of ARVN soldiers. Their traumatic experience did not lie in
the last battle that they lost. It was
rather the humiliation and the overwhelming despair they felt in face of the
cowardice displayed by their commanding officers and the military leadership
as a whole. It was somewhat fortunate
that the war ended then. Had it been
prolonged, had there been more deaths and destruction, the end result
wouldn't have been any different, given the low quality of leadership.
Through sharing hardship with
soldiers in battle, witnessing their shame and humiliation afterwards amidst
a group of winners untidy and in not-much-better condition, I perceived it
was a tragedy shared by both parts of the country. Riding out such an earth-shaking event, how
could I not feel a deep impact on my real life and my literary life?
NMT: You're a soldier who writes
literature. Some people have observed
that you did not simply depict military life but used that environment as an
excuse to embark on addressing other issues more complicated and more of a
strategic nature. Do you consider that
observation correct?
NTV: I've
never written in the name of a soldier.
Army life to me can be viewed as an aggregate of circumstances. Even when I wrote about those
circumstances, I didn't stop with simply depicting army life through
fragments of experience as undergone by soldiers. It's not that those fragments were not rich. Rather, as you've noticed, they formed only
a starting point from which I could generate an integrated view of other
complex issues. At times it would
appear as though those issues were disconnected and spontaneous, but in fact
they were connected in the context of causality within an evolving process,
one being both regulatory and strategic.
NMT: During the war
you underwent much hardship, moving from one battlefield to another. However, the element of anger can hardly be
detected in your work, not even in the newspaper piece you wrote about inmost
feelings of a combat soldier lost in the city amidst political turmoil. Can you explain that?
NTV: When
choosing to work on battlefields, I did not view my engagement as hard and
miserable. If there was any hardship
or misery, it was nothing in comparison to that suffered by soldiers during
the war and in its aftermath, not to mention the tragic consequences that
befell their families. Having to live
for a considerable length of time with adverse circumstances in the war,
including sacrifices and deaths, only to witness a society filled with
injustices, who would not feel anger and indignation? Only, the manner of expressing it varies. The day a soldier spends in the city away
from his familiar combat environment seems to have been described rather
frequently in literature of the former South Vietnam: in a tea house cum
night club, or in a theatre, there often occurs a scene where a male singer
or an actor is dragged away from the stage and attacked by some soldiers
because he wears combat fatigues and sings a soldier's song while he himself
is a draft dodger, so on and so forth.
I can understand and appreciate the anger of those soldiers, but in my
view that singer or actor is also a victim.
The furious reaction by those soldiers is called, in psychological
terminology, "displacement", or displaced response. Angry with a slippery fish, the soldiers
whack the cutting board, as a proverbial saying goes. I'm not defending the soldiers' action, but
at the same time I'm not a moralist to condemn it either. As a writer, I want to explore hidden
reasons rather than overtly expressed feelings. You say the element of anger is rarely seen
in my writings, but actually it's there.
Only, it takes a different form, and as always I'm situated at neither one or the other extreme. Even at a young age, when trying my hand at
writing through working as a student reporter, I kept a proper balance in
what I wrote.
NMT: Some time
before 1975, you were summoned to court because of a publication. How did that happen? Can you relate it to the readers?
NTV: As you
know, our 81st Airborne Ranger Group was a general reserve unit
whose area of operation embraced the mountains and forests of the Central
Highlands. But members of the Group
also proved to be excellent in battles that were waged in the city, an
example of which was our wiping out concentrations of enemy troops at Cay Thi and Cay Queo in Saigon
during the Tet Offensive of 1968. Perhaps because of that, in 1971 the
central government recalled this battle-tested group from the highlands to
Saigon for the purpose of suppressing the series of demonstrations that had
gone on for a long while in that city.
As I remember it, it was also the time
when reconnaissance teams of Airborne Ranger Groups discovered that the Ho
Chi Minh Trail had become as broad as a superhighway on which supplies were
being transported day and night all the way to the Tri-Border Area. The trail was like a knife stabbing into
the throat of that strategic border area in the highlands at that time. From the President's Palace down to the
General Staff office, no one could have been uninformed about this.
Let me digress here. Up to this day, I cannot understand why at
that point in time there was no effort whatsoever, not even by the Americans
with their surplus of B-52s, to eliminate that strategic target.
Against that back drop, the 81st
Airborne Ranger Group was recalled to Saigon, as I have mentioned. Instead of being surrounded by green
forests, the courageous soldiers of the Group were confined to Tao Dan Park
behind the Presidential Palace and adjacent to Hoi Ky
Ma, the Equestrian Club. They found
themselves bewildered and lost, like wild animals deposited in the city. They were given gas masks and bayonets and
ordered to break up and disperse demonstrations. But who were among the demonstrators? They might be youths and students enthused
with idealism; they might be hungry orphans and widows; or they might very
well be war invalids – those disabled fellows who, at one time or another,
had wielded their weapons and fought alongside these soldiers.
Indeed, the soldiers found
themselves posted in the heart of Saigon, surrounded by high-rise buildings
bustling with prostitutes, next to the Equestrian Club where constantly were
seen plenty of stud horses with their glossy rumps. Those combat soldiers could not help but
realize that in this life, not only the sorrowful war afflicted them; but
more than that, in this motherland of theirs, no farther than on the other
side of the fence, there existed a separate high society, magnificent and
gloriously bright, wrapped in its detached happiness. That separate society was a world alien to
the soldiers, drenched with a pervasive fragrance and excessive
consumption. It was the world of those
people who clamored for war while managing to stay above the fighting or to
remain outside of it.
"The Battle of Saigon"
is the title of a short story written against that background, which ends
with a moment of awakening for the soldiers who realize that besides the
battlefield familiar to them, they have to face a more depressing frontline –
which is defined by corruption and injustice in society. That their foremost struggle is not in the
border area of the highlands, but on the more challenging battleground right
in the heart of Saigon.
That story was published in the
journal Trinh Bay (Exposition), number 34, in 1971. And as expected, that issue of the journal
was confiscated. Both the author and
the director of the journal were summoned to court for the crime of
militating against the morale of the army and thereby benefiting the
communists. At that time I was with my
unit on a military operation back in the Central Highlands. Receiving the summons to Saigon, I appeared
in a court of law as the accused in full military uniform. Even though the whole affair evolved with
all court rituals observed, I had the impression that I was in a play in
which all actors, from the judge to the public prosecutor, no longer believed
in the roles they played. The press,
including the military paper, followed the trial and published updates on
developments as well as their comments.
All this led to a reversal of the normal situation, wherein the
Ministry of the Interior found itself shifted in the view of the public from
the position of prosecutor to that of defendant. The authorities then seemingly realized
that it was not to their advantage to prolong the game of mimicking
democratic legal impartiality, and thereupon the trial was quickly concluded
with a suspended sentence for the author and a large fine for the magazine.
NMT: Before 1975, the government of the Republic
of Vietnam imposed censorship and had firm measures to deal with transgressions
exhibited in papers and other publications.
The present communist authority is more strict
and more oppressive in this area of cultural activities. Let me ask you, what do you think about the
situation among the Vietnamese Diaspora?
Is there actually some unofficial channel of censorship which is very
influential as has been mentioned by many writers?
NTV: For a
moment I was surprised at this question.
Is there really a system of censorship among overseas Vietnamese? But then I knew what you mean. Though living in a country full of
freedoms, the writer is still under constant pressure from the public, from
fellow Vietnamese immigrants. In
extreme cases, the pressure is expressed in the form of a gun that
immediately and effectively silences the voice of the writer. Less violent are newspaper articles and
radio messages carrying heavy criticism, ascribing political colors that are
not there in his work. Even more
deplorable is the practice of labeling the writer a communist sympathizer. But in so far as I am concerned, if one
believes in what one writes, if one believes in justice with all sincerity,
and if one does not nurture the bad intention of doing harm to others, why
should one be afraid and influenced by outside pressure? And to submit oneself or not to outside
influence depends on the strength and spirit of oneself as a writer.
Looking into the overseas
Vietnamese press, one recognizes that there really are very subtle forms of
censorship or sanction. One such is
through manipulating the survival of the paper in question: reduction and
withdrawal of advertisements. That
kind of threat is real when it comes from those groups having financial and
economic power. Concerning this, one
should remember that this phenomenon happens not only within the limits of
the new Vietnamese community; the American mass media is not free from the
control of capitalist forces either.
The second type of censorship is achieved through monopolization of a
paper by a person or group of persons who publish only their own articles and
publicize their own opinions, who even in the name of freedom and democracy
assume exclusive right to criticism and at the same time block and reject a
dialogue with any other voices in their forum.
In life, even in American society
supposed to be most free, the choice of a particular attitude always comes
with a price you have to pay. I'm
thinking much about the circumstances of a Phan Nhat Nam, a Nhu Phong, a Doan Quoc Sy – those writers with an
eventful past, none of them struggling in the communist prisons for less than
10 years. Had they died in prison they
might have been honored as heroes; unfortunately, to use the word of author Thao Truong, after they survived the ordeal and chose to
live abroad, they would easily be abused if what they expressed were not
exactly to conform to what a number of people among the Diaspora expect.
When in prison, at least it was
clear to these writers where they stood, one position or its opposite, black
or white. Now that they are back in
the outside world, they have stepped into a gray area amidst shouts of
applause and of disapproval. Their
paths suddenly become complex and much more difficult to tread. Thus, in no time and in no place is there a
secure refuge for writers. A writer
with a chosen attitude finds every circumstance a challenge.
NMT: Even today,
the demarcating borderline between nationalism and communism still exists in
both the thought and the actions of a number of people. How about yourself? Have you ever had the feeling that you are
a stormy petrel, a bird that forewarns the coming of a storm, when your
intuition predicted a few tragic events that befell our people?
NTV: What
borderline are you alluding to: the Ben Hai river,
the 38th parallel, or the Berlin wall? Is there really an orthodox communist
regime, or is it simply a feudalistic authoritarian system in Vietnam at
present? Communism is dead, and the
capitalist model cannot serve as an example for Vietnam at the threshold of
the 21st century. If you
look toward the Asian dragons – Taiwan, South Korea, and Singapore – which model do you think fits Vietnam most? There's a very clear borderline between
democracy and dictatorship, including the kind of dictatorship promulgated by
those who call themselves nationalists but who appear to be no less inclined
to violence than did the communists previously. A writer stands on neither side of that
artificial divide. Instead, he must
look forward to the future. If he is
not one endowed with the power to foresee things, he should not be an
obstructing force that blocks new visions for a renewed Vietnam.
NMT: When writing do
you ever see yourself standing on one side opposing the other side? A writer must be a fighter also, must he
not?
NTV: I like the simple, almost rough sentence
expressed by author Hoang Khoi Phong
in an interview conducted by the journal The Ky 21
(21st Century): "Just to be a writer is enough." It's not necessary to affix a label or any
phrase to a writer. The debates that
have wasted so much paper and ink, like that between "art for art's
sake" and "art for life", or literature of commitment versus
literature of fantasy, all are rather contrived, not of any help to both the
writer and his audience. Whether he
likes it or not, the author's written lines are seen to embody his chosen
attitude essentially born of independence and freedom of expression, two
ingredients that also mark his dignity as of a writer.
NMT: What do you
think about cultural exchange between Vietnam and Vietnamese Diaspora? Unilateral or bilateral? At present and in the future?
NTV: Whether it's a one-way or two-way exchange,
we don't need any traffic policemen on either side to monitor the
communication process. The most
important quality of literature and the arts is freedom of expression;
therefore, any restrictions imposed by whichever side deserve
condemnation. To have published
overseas those works that are banned in Vietnam is meant to not only serve
the limited readership outside the country, but partially also to reach the
reading public inside the country through avenues provided by current
information technology. Everyone can
see that freedom of literature and the arts is not a gift that one waits to be
given by the government; no matter where he might be, a writer has a price to
pay for his chosen attitude.
NMT: Have
you read any works published in Vietnam?
Can you give us your general impression?
NTV: Before 1975, during my student years and
later, I always tried to search out and read books and papers published in
the North, including books on literature.
Honestly speaking, to a certain extent, the North Vietnamese produced
a number of good research works in the social sciences. It was due to a collective effort on their
part, coupled with direct financial support from their government. Putting aside the so-called
Marxist-Leninist research viewpoint, one should recognize that those
published volumes contain a vast amount of data valuable to objective
research works in the future.
However,
in so far as literature is concerned, in which creativity is of the essence,
we cannot but notice that the contrivance of socialist realism has killed off
real talent in the generation of writers and artists of the pre-World War-II
period and their successors. Having to
create under constraints, adhering to the Party's ideology, it's not
surprising that what they produced is a type of conformist literature, a
whole garden of nothing but uniform marigolds, to quote Phan
Khoi who was a member of the Nhan
Van Giai Pham group of dissident writers and poets
in the North in the late 1950s.
Recently,
in Vietnam one talked about Doi moi,
or Renovation, then Coi Troi,
or removal of restrictions, from writers and artists. I like what writer Mai Thao
said with regard to this phenomenon, that artists and writers are not pigs
and chickens to be tied and untied.
Fortunately, at whatever place you can always find courageous writers
who either form a movement like that created by the Nhan
Van Giai Pham group, or who are independent
individuals. Even though they are not
successful in their attempt to affect changes, they represent the light at
the end of the tunnel, those who nurture hope and plant seeds of protest
which mature later on.
In
the book entitled Thu cho Me va
Quoc Hoi (Letters to Mother and the National
Assembly) by Nguyen Van Tran, published by Van Nghe,
an overseas publisher, in 1995, there is mention made of a gathering of
"members of the Club of Former Resistant Fighters in South Vietnam,
where forty men commemorated one man who had been of the Nhan
Van Giai Pham group: poet Phung
Quan who had died on the 22nd of January
1995. The living members prayed that
the departed soul bear his anger while resting assured that the struggle for
human rights and for freedom and democracy was being pursued without
slackening." (p. 18)
Someday,
when a free and democratic Vietnam comes into being, people will not be able
to forget the courage and sacrifice of writers. I'm thinking in this regard of a memorial
for the Nhan Van Giai
Pham group built right in the cultural capital Ha Noi,
at the exact place where the Lenin sculpture was previously set. That would be a symbol of freedom for
Vietnamese culture. It would also
serve to warn against and to challenge potential young dictators in the
future.
NMT: In
your opinion, have there been changes related to literature in Vietnam
following the economic and social changes?
NTV: The term Doi Moi is no more than a figure of speech referring to an
inevitable transformation process of communist societies, when the most
important leaders themselves no longer believe in communist dogma. In order to survive, they alter and patch
up their inconsistent doctrines, and combine socialism with a market economy,
like mixing water with oil, no matter how vigorously you stir them they
refuse to blend. But on the political
level, it would be quite naïve of us, almost like wishful thinking, to demand
or expect that they peacefully and smoothly transfer power to the
people. Who should be people in this
context if not political organizations with real strength, both internal and
external?
The
experience of Poland in Eastern Europe deserves our consideration. Walesa, the renowned founder and leader of
the Solidarity movement that organized free non-communist trade unions, was
elected President of the Republic of Poland in 1990, winning victory over the
communist party. But only five years
later, that very hero of the people was defeated, ironically through a
democratic election, by a young former communist of a not-much-distinguished
background. But everyone knows that
even though the communists returned to power in that country, there is no
chance of restoring the old communist regime, because the communists
themselves realize what has transpired is an irreversible process.
Coming
back to your question regarding changes in literature "after"
economic and social changes in Vietnam: in my view, it isn't as if there were
no writers as precursors to the renovation movement, though admittedly they
were few. Of note was the exuberant
movement of the Nhan Van Giai
Pham group that exploded on the scene at that point in time when the
socialist stronghold was at its most solid stage. Though the movement was crushed, in
practice it succeeded in planting seeds of doubt not only among the public
but also right in the ranks of cadres who were members of the Party. From the Nhan Van
Giai Pham group to subsequent dissident writers and
artists, they all were stormy petrels, and in that light they truly and
practically preceded renovation and helped propel the collapse of
communism. Of course, I don't take
into account the type of writers serving the communist government, those who
only put on the cloak of renovation on orders from comrade General Secretary.
NMT: What
do you think about overseas Vietnamese literature? Are you pessimistic or optimistic about
it? And what's your projection of its
future?
NTV: Why should there be pessimism? I have a habit, probably shaped by my
medical profession, of looking at the half of a glass full of water instead
of at the other half which is empty.
While still in Vietnam, could you ever have imagined such a scene of
variegated publishing enterprises and activities in literature and the arts,
in Vietnamese, as currently exists wherever the Vietnamese Diaspora
concentrate and live? Vietnamese
press, television and radio stations all have developed spontaneously and
independently, without any need for support from any government.
Some
people make a value judgment on the confused nature, the commercialization,
and the low cultural level of those mass media activities. But to be fair, we should give due credit
to those activities for their role in maintaining and developing the
Vietnamese language as it is used overseas.
Gradually we will have better newspapers and radio programs, and books
of various genres that are more beautiful in both content and form, either
produced by overseas writers or brought out from Vietnam. Furthermore, we have the book-promotion
reception that occurs rather frequently, every month, and sometimes even
every week, which is a good tradition, one that helps to foster the
author-audience relationship. That is
to say nothing of the influential effect that such activities have on
cultural life inside Vietnam.
Given
the electronic facilities for information transmission these days – the
computer, the fax modem, and the Internet – when Vietnamese books and
articles have begun to appear online, I believe that all efforts of
censorship from whichever side will become ineffective. Therefore, I have a very optimistic vision
of the future. The Vietnamese language
network on the Internet can't possibly run without inclusion of Vietnamese
literature. I want to suppose that if
there was a second Nguyen Chi Thien, he would not
have to risk his life running into the British embassy where he would seek
help smuggling out of the country Hoa Dia Nguc (Flowers from Hell), a
collection of his poetry of protest. By
the most simple method, he would be able to use a
small diskette which stores not only his manuscript but also all available
literature of dissent written by people inside Vietnam, and there would not
be any difficulty exporting it abroad.
As for posting works on the Internet…Well, as an electronic expert
yourself, certainly you have clearly visualized what that projected future is
likely to be.
Now,
with a vision of "The Road Ahead" (to borrow the title of a book by
Bill Gates), it's not too early for us to ask ourselves how to use that great
freedom on the information-technology superhighway to our benefit. Wouldn't this be a very interesting subject
for the second round of interviews you will conduct in the year 2000?
NMT: Do you
think there is a standstill in the writing of overseas authors? If you do, can you give some reasons
why? And if you see no indication of a
deadlock, please also explain your thoughts on this.
NTV: I don't think there is a standstill. Isn't it possible that such an observation
has resulted from people's placing too much hope in
seeing great works of literature?
When
you stop and look at the situation of our writers, you must remember that the
earliest date of their arrival in the U.S. was only 20 years ago. There followed batches of them since
then. All of them have had to start
from the beginning; they have had to adjust to a new way of life – the length
of time required for re-settlement being reckoned in terms of years. Uprooted from the homeland, arriving in a
place quite unfamiliar and alien, having spent not long enough a time in
their adopted country, and seeing their free time reduced almost to
non-existence by unavoidable preoccupation with the practical matters of
survival, they can't be expected to immediately produce good and substantial
works. I think such an expectation is
an excessive demand on writers and artists.
To my knowledge, at present there exist talented authors who don't
announce any grandiose plans for writing, who are quietly and patiently
laboring on substantive works that they have long nurtured. Moreover, based on common experience of the
aftermath of any war, one should realize that a sufficient distance in time
is necessary for past events to settle before one can hope to have great
works drawn from them. Indeed, a
distance both in time and space is essential for a panoramic view of
experience. Many people are worried
about the future of Vietnamese culture abroad, when the second generation of
Vietnamese immigrants will soon be completely assimilated into the American
mainstream, the majority of them forgetting their mother tongue and having no
necessity to read printed works in Vietnamese. It is believed that when that situation
reaches a pinnacle, the dilemma as to whom to write for will be a type of
negative feedback to overseas writers.
I myself have a different idea: the Vietnamese language will persist
in the Vietnamese Diaspora and will develop further when it targets and is
determined to serve the more than 70 million people inside Vietnam.
I
also want to refer to the image presented in the LA Times of the American
Secretary of State's visit to Hanoi after normalization of relations. He was aware enough to seek a dialogue with
students and youths as symbolic of a future Vietnam. Witnessing that scene in the Vietnamese
capital, 20 years after the defeat of the Americans, an American journalist
expressed his impression that only now did Americans win the war in Vietnam,
not by the use of firearms but through the agency of a body of entrepreneurs
who, equipped with laptop computers, freely enter and exit Vietnam with the
aim of building a network for a market economy.
Then
I think of the role of two million Vietnamese living overseas. Gone is the time when anti-communist
resistance armies were organized, when establishment of a government in exile
was advocated, a government in name only without any substance, as everyone
knew. Instead, the strength is vast
knowledge of science and technology exhibited in a young generation that
boasts of a large number of experts, coupled with the economic potential
possessed by businessmen. It's
precisely these types of people who will form a strong army whose task is not
only to liberate but also to contribute to development of a future Vietnam of
more than 70 million people, development not meant for any temporary
political regime.
In
fact, I don't think it's too much of a dream to envision a near future in
which we will have books, newspapers and periodicals printed simultaneously
inside and outside of Vietnam. There
won't be any iron or bamboo curtain to hide realities, and any effort to
maintain censorship will become an obsolete utopian exercise. Readers' letters sent out from Vietnam,
from Lang Son in the North to Ca Mau in the South, will provide great
encouragement to overseas writers and journalists. Wouldn't you think so?
NMT: What
great hope do you have for the role of literature in life at present? Do you
think you can make out, even very much subconsciously, the fundamental
mission that is a haunting question for writers?
NTV: The country was divided and the war lasted
for more than 30 years, during which time the language was abused to the
utmost in the service of divisive and deceptive political purposes, so much
so that it became corrupted. The word
and the true meaning it's supposed to carry don't move in the same
direction. One talks about damage and
loss in terms of human lives and material destruction. But to me it was destruction within living
beings who survived the war, and sadly even within
the hearts of children whose inborn compassion was decimated by corruption of
language as one among a complement of destructive factors. Now I ask myself how many more years it
will take to restore the purity of Vietnamese words. It's in this task of restoration that I
have high hopes that literature will play an important role. Really, I'm thinking of the function of
writers through their authentic works of art which are capable of deeply
evoking emotions in the hearts of readers, works in which word and meaning
will be joined together as an integral unit, returning to full functionality
language as a connecting bridge for communication and dialogue in society.
NMT: How
about a day in the life of the author Ngo The Vinh?
NTV: Usually I don't have a day like any other
day. Nonetheless, I have a habit of
getting up early, taking a brief look at the daily newspaper and watching
morning news on TV. Then I arrive at
the hospital also very early. If
there's no need for me to check on the hospital ward, I will have almost a
quiet hour in my office to take care of whatever comes along. I have a flexible schedule, but generally
speaking, I devote eight hours a day to my job as a doctor. To me, happiness, in a manner of speaking,
is the evening hours in the familial atmosphere where if I don't read, I can
sit down at the computer to write or to edit the pages half finished.
NMT: Have
you any plans for writing right now?
It is said that you are about to have a work published
. If possible, would you brief
us on the content of the work?
NTV: By chance, a friend from London sent me a
copy of my short story "The Battle of Saigon" that was published in
the journal Trinh Bay (Exposition), number 34, in 1971. As I have mentioned, that issue was
confiscated because of my story, followed by the troublesome episode of my
having to appear in court. Anyway, the
copy from my friend gave me a chance to re-read this piece and a number of
short stories I wrote afterwards. They
were created at long intervals between 1970 and 1990, but they show
consistency in content. Therefore I am
planning to have the Van Nghe publishing house put
out an edition of a collection of twelve stories: "Mat Tran o Sai Gon" (The Battle of
Saigon) will be the first and "Giac Mong Con Nam 2000" (A Small Dream) the last. "The Battle of Saigon" will be
the title story, and the book is expected to be available at the beginning of
1996.
NMT: Do you
have a lot of dreams? And do your
dreams transcend time and space?
NTV: After having gone through experiences of
disintegration and circumstances thought to be devoid of all hope, at the age
of 50 looking backward to the past and forward to the future, I seem to still
nurture many dreams, "great dreams, small dreams" – to quote poet
Tan Da's expression. After 1975, while still in Vietnam and
confined in prison, like my friends and colleagues, I hoped and dreamed of
what to do once set free. At that
point I did not think of returning to medical practice, but only dreamed of a
book I would write. But eight years
after that, upon coming to the U.S. for the second time in my life – this
time as a refugee – I had to temporarily shelve my literary dreams, so as to
cross a river where I would either swim or drown. At times I had the impression of having
drowned in the river I had chosen to throw myself in. Eventually I returned to the practice of
medicine at the age of 50. In a
certain sense, I still love the medical profession, so it's not an
exaggeration to say that it's a channel through which I pay my debt for
survival to society. Now I have more
free time to think about and to work on that book of short stories.
Your
question as to whether my dreams transcend time and space reminds me of the
point of view expressed by the renowned novelist Nhat
Linh,
that a good novel remains good no matter where and when it is
read. To be able to produce a good
work of true value is always the dream of a writer. I'm especially fond of the image in a line
of verse by poet Tan Da: "The load on my
shoulder is heavy, while the road is far." As to how far one can walk, it depends on
the heart and mind as well as the strength and spirit of each writer, doesn't
it?
I
have another dream, which is not exactly related to literature, but certainly
one shared by all members of the Vietnamese Diaspora: the construction of a
Cultural Park complex in the year 2000.
It should be completed about the same time, if not earlier, as Valor
Park which is to be built by Americans in Maryland. Valor Park is to comprise a series of
museums dedicated to the seven wars in which Americans were directly involved
since the formation of their country, including of course the Vietnam
War. From possibility to actual
realization, there is a distance; the distance can be covered by knowing how
to reach a common denominator that unites Vietnamese people's hearts.
A
doctor friend and colleague of mine, of Jewish extraction, was
rather surprised to see the high ratio of Vietnamese resident interns who
came to our hospital to undergo practical training. He observed that it took our Vietnamese
community only twenty years to progress as much or better than other Asian
groups who had arrived here a hundred years ago. When he held in his hands a CD-ROM
featuring songs by the well-known Vietnamese composer Pham Duy, and another featuring Chopin music played by the
award winning pianist Dang Thai Son, my friend added that he could not have
imagined us to have entered high technology fields so early. And I'm sure you agree with me that his was
not merely a diplomatic comment.
NMT:
Lastly, readers would appreciate hearing whatever else author Ngo The Vinh cares to share with them.
NTV: I have always hoped to share thoughts and
feelings with my audience through the books I have written and am currently
writing. I think also of the readers
inside Vietnam.
Interview
conducted by Nguyen Manh Trinh
Little
Saigon, California, January 1996.
(English version 2004)
·
THE WRITERS POST (ISSN:
1527-5467),
the magazine of Literature & Literature-in-translation.
VOLUME
7 ISSUE 1 JAN
2005
Editorial
note:
Works published in this issue may be simultaneously published in the printed Wordbridge Magazine Issue 6 January 2005 (ISSN:
1540-1723).
Copyright © Nguyen Manh Trinh & The Writers Post 1999-2005. Nothing in
this issue may be downloaded, distributed, or reproduced without the
permission of the author/ translator/ artist/ The Writers Post/ and Wordbridge magazine. Creating links to place The Writers
Post or any of its pages within other framesets or in other documents is
copyright violation, and is not permitted.
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