Objects of Affection: Vietnamese Discourses on Love and Emancipation Harriet M. Phinney

Scholarship on the politics of love and romance and on the link between the construction of common sense and embodied behavior provide compelling reasons for looking at long-term construction of the way in which emotion, behavior, and language come to be conjoined so that they are embodied, assumed, considered rational, and spoken.1 Love, like any other emotion, need not be assumed to have an essential core. Decisions about whom and what one loves, whom and what one considers loveable, and when love is appropriate are malleable, shaped by changing rules, regulations and political economies, and are historically specific. This paper traces a genealogy of discourses on love in Vietnam from the 1920s to the present, in order to elucidate how narratives on love from the past are used and transformed by contemporary Vietnamese, enabling them to create new subjectivities and new social spaces. positions 16:2  doi 10.1215/10679847-2008-004 Copyright 2008 by Duke University Press

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Throughout Vietnamese history, Vietnamese intellectuals, nationalists, and political leaders have transformed existing conceptualizations of love to produce new discourses of love for the purposes of mobilizing and governing the populace. In the 1920s and 1930s, the desire to marry whom one loves became a focus of literary endeavors in contemporary intellectual social discourse. Yet, as revolutionary fervor for ousting the French once again began to gather momentum among intellectuals in the late 1930s, debates about personal versus common responsibility began to supersede discussions of individual romantic love. By the early 1940s and into the 1950s, literary efforts to portray individual romantic love, denounced as bourgeois, had become displaced by revolutionary calls for writers to focus on love of the country. In 1959, a concern for individual romantic love was taken up by the Lao Dong party. From the 1960s to the mid-1980s, the party promoted what I call socialist love as part of its efforts to create a modern socialist subject. This was not the same kind of romantic love advocated by 1930s intellectuals enamored with individual romantic love. Rather, socialist love was to be governed by the state. In 1986, with the advent of Doi Moi (Renovation), the Vietnamese state envisioned a new subjectivity, that of the happy, healthy, and wealthy family. This new form of governmentality necessitated that people shift their object of affection from building the nation to focusing on one’s family and oneself. This shift would be essential for producing modern subjects who, by taking responsibility for themselves, could ensure the nation’s success in the global market economy. An important component of this new governmentality was the state’s appeal to essentialist notions of maternal love to encourage women to focus on building a happy, healthy, and wealthy family. At different points in time, Vietnamese have drawn upon strains of these discourses in order to persuade, justify, require, or deny love, marriage, and childbearing. One of the most remarkable appeals to these discourses of love has come from older single women who found themselves unmarried and childless after the Indochina wars.2 Forced to abandon their prewar dreams of finding conjugal love, the women engaged in a novel reproductive strategy to create families of their own. A small number of single women asked

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men they would not marry to get them pregnant. They “asked for a child” (kiem con/xin con).3 The women justified their decisions to remain single based on their never having had true love or tinh cam (true understanding and sympathy).4 The women’s reproductive strategy, initially condemned, gradually gained social and governmental acceptance. That ideologies of love would play a significant role providing social acceptance of this radical reproductive strategy is due to the fact that love has been inextricably intertwined with Vietnamese revolutionary and socialist governing agendas. The importance of single women’s ability to cite not loving as a reason for not marrying lies in their ability to speak it and be heard. After all, most of their parents were married according to different marital principles, including the custom of arranged marriages.5 This paper argues that contemporary narratives on love derive legitimacy because individuals who appeal to them draw on narratives of love that have held social and political currency at different points in recent Vietnamese history.6 As Pierre Bourdieu suggests, “the constitutive power which is granted to ordinary language lies not in the language itself but in the group which authorizes it and invests it with authority.”7 Ultimately, the explanatory power of the single women’s narratives is due to its roots in the state’s and the party’s efforts to define love. Access to this discourse is not limited to these older single women. It is being used by younger women who do not want to marry, some of whom also want to bear a child. The younger women’s ability to draw upon socially acceptable narratives of love reveals the intricate interplay that takes place between structures of emotion, desire, and individual agency. Discourses of love shape the possibilities of how people can and cannot express themselves and act. At the same time, discourses are used and transformed for individual benefit in unexpected ways. The paper is based on ethnographic research conducted in 1995 – 96 and 2004 in the Red River Delta and on secondary sources.8 Many of these secondary sources were compiled by Vietnamese communist historians invested in a particular portrayal of the past. Because I am interested in what Lila Abu-Lughod and Catherine Lutz have described as the “way that power relations determine what can, cannot, or must be said about self and emotion . . . [and] how emotion discourses establish, assert, challenge, or

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reinforce power or status differences,” this historiography proves useful for tracing official discourses of sentiment at specific moments in time.9 What I cannot speak to are the silences provoked by the official discourses upon which I have relied. The fact that none of the women diverted from socially accepted narratives on love to talk about their decisions to bear children out of wedlock indicates the power these discourses hold for women, society, and the state.10 At the same time, we must recognize that these discourses are likely to produce silences to which I would not pretend to speak.11 I draw on Michel Foucault, who wrote: “I do not question discourses about their silently intended meanings, but about the fact and the conditions of their manifest appearance; not about the contents which they may conceal, but about the transformations which they have effected; not about the sense preserved within them like a perpetual origin, but about the field where they coexist, reside and disappear. It is a question of an analysis of the discourses in the dimension of their exteriority.”12 What I do speak to is the ways in which love is not simply an individual concern, but a public one as well. In attending to discourses of love at specific moments in time in Vietnamese history, it becomes evident how competing imaginaries of modernity percolate, disappear, and reemerge transformed in public narratives. Individual Romantic Love

When I was conducting ethnographic research in 1995 and 1996, older single women, many of whose loves had been thwarted or who had never met a man who made them “throb with emotion,” told me that they would never marry just for the sake of getting married. Other women whose loves had died in the war held onto the belief that they could never love again. An informant of mine who I interviewed in 1996 told me that her friend Chi Hoi had a boyfriend she loved so much that she was unable to consider anyone his equal: “She will not marry anyone else. She is a beautiful woman and has had many suitors, but she would rather live alone than live with someone she does not love. I am also the same. I have loved someone so I would not want to love again” (Chi Quy, married, born 1957). Chi Hoi’s appeal to a romantic love draws from the Vietnamese folk belief that one is preordained to marry one person and more pointedly from Western roman-

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tic notions of individual love that were part of Vietnamese intellectual discourses of the 1930s regarding what should constitute the modern self.13 In 1997, Xuan Dieu, one of the pioneers and most popular poets of Tho Moi, the New Poetry Movement, recalled that, in the 1930s, “little by little, there grew a new circle of intellectuals, Europeanized and open to a ‘new wind.’ ”14 Reflecting on the mood of that time, he wrote: Under the influence of French romanticism, which was very much in the air of the period . . . our feudal society felt the urge for individual freedom. Our parents and grandparents would use ta (we, us) when they talked about themselves. They failed to place the stress on themselves as individuals. They existed as subjects of their king, students of their master, children of their father. This trinity imprisoned the spiritual and material powers. They talked about human destiny in general terms. However, their children and grandchildren used the word toi (I, me) during the 1930s. It was the individual that was making the claim to his rights for existence. . . . Individuals in Vietnam during the 1930s threw out the swaddling clothes of the feudal society and came to be born for the first time. It was a marvel, a breathtaking discovery; it was sort of a first love.15 By the 1930s, two generations of mostly elite young Vietnamese had received advanced education in the French colonial school system. A number of these scholars, such as Xuan Dieu, became intrigued by characters portrayed in French literature, characters who were not restricted by familial conventions and who appeared to decide their own futures. Excited by French notions of the individual and the individual’s relationship to family and society, two groups of writers, the Tho Moi poets and Tu Luc Van Doan (Self-Reliance Literature Group), emerged to challenge traditional Confucian principles of collective responsibility, the role of women, and self-cultivation they had learned at home. In the 1997 interview, Xuan Dieu, looking back, refers to himself, his family, his friends, and Vietnamese society as being “primitive” in comparison to French and Western cultures. Although Vietnamese intellectuals ultimately would reject this binary and social Darwinian interpretation of

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Vietnamese society, their continual use of the term feudal when referring to Vietnamese families retained a sense of inadequacy, an indication that they felt Vietnam was undeveloped, not yet modern. The Tho Moi poets chose to explore love for its own sake as the route to becoming modern. They wrote in the Quoc Ngu (Romanized Script), not in the traditional Chinese verse, and became increasingly focused on developing a new sense of personal cultivation; they sought to explore their inner selves and the possibilities of love.16 The professed need to delve into one’s own feelings was a significant departure from the values, folk wisdom, and Confucian morals taught at home, in which the purpose of self-cultivation was for managing one’s family and, by extension, the country. The following verses from Xuan Dieu’s poem “Trai Tim Em Thuc Dap” (“Your Heart Is Awake and Beating”) provide an example of the romanticism of the time: I dare not imagine that this heart could be lost. I watch, I watch without respite all my devotion given up to love.17 While the Tho Moi poets explored the inner emotions and ramifications of love, novelists of the time portrayed the tension between romantic love and duty to one’s family. In 1930, Nhat Linh and Khai Hung, educated in the Franco-Annamite school system of Tonkin, formed Tu Luc Van Doan.18 Nhat Linh’s and Khai Hung’s novels focused on the conflicts between young people with a “modern” Western education and their parents who clung to family tradition. Through their novels, they critiqued traditional beliefs such as the notion that conjugal love develops over time, the importance of familial concerns over those of individuals, and the unwillingness to consider that love between two people could prove socially and politically advantageous in unforeseen ways. In 1933, Hoang Dao, a brother of Nhat Linh and the theoretician of Tu Luc Van Doan, wrote a ten-point manifesto for literature.19 They declared Confucianism outdated and instead advocated individual rights. Yet, they were not interested in simply modeling Vietnamese society after Western

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societies. According to Hoang Dao, Vietnamese intellectuals must “find the essence of Western civilization and then create our own to respond to our needs; in order to do so, we must break the ties which bind our souls, that is, outdated customs and the submissive spirit of our people.”20 Nhat Linh’s novel Doan Tuyet (Severance), written in 1935, portrays this agenda. In Severance, a young woman, Loan, is married off in order to raise the family’s social status. After a series of miserable events leads to the accidental deaths of her child and later her husband, Loan is brought to trial. A young Western-educated lawyer successfully portrays Loan as a victim of changing morals. Loan falls in love with her lawyer and marries him, changing her status from victim to someone fighting for individual rights and freedom from the family. Tellingly, Nhat Linh immediately channels Loan’s love into a different social milieu, that of the revolution. Loan’s desire comes to be defined not by her but by her husband and, in turn, the revolution to which he is dedicated. Loan’s ultimate dedication to the revolution foreshadows the fate of Tho Moi and Tu Luc Van Doan. As Hy V. Luong has noted, the contradictions inherent between French notions of “Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity” and the colonial policy of “racial diarchy” were becoming more apparent and less tolerable.21 The exploration of the Tho Moi poets into individual romantic love and the Tu Luc Van Doan’s efforts to promote alternative ideas of the modern Vietnamese self were attacked for going against both the familial values of Confucianism and the communist value of state responsibility. Although the Tu Luc Van Doan novelists wrote with social change in mind, their “revolutionary action was secondary to romance and to intergenerational conflicts.”22 Writing years later, the Marxist national and cultural historians Nguyen Khac Vien and Huu Ngoc would look back and all but dismiss the Tho Moi poets and Tu Luc Van Doan for failing to provide a solution to national liberation: “The last refuge for these men who were avid for action but who did not dare face the risks of action was love.”23

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Revolutionary Love

Is it appropriate to think of individual happiness while The whole nation was stirred up with bold spirits? Please put aside one’s private love for the fate of the country.  — Ngan Giang (pen name for Do Thi Que, a 1940s poet), from “Xuan Chien Dia” (“A Spring on the Battlefield”)

As Ngan Giang’s poem indicates, if Tu Luc Van Doan novelists did not provide a practical vision for how young people, especially women, could live outside of the family system, Vietnamese Marxists did.24 Vietnamese revolutionaries, needing to enlist the energy of the country’s youth for the purpose of liberating the nation from the French, strove to channel young people’s affection away from romantic love to love of the nation. By joining the revolution, young people could escape domestic oppression by substituting the party for their families. The International Communist Party (ICP) would become their new home. Young women were encouraged to join the party as part of the struggle to achieve equality with men. Though many women did join the revolution for this purpose, women’s personal concerns gradually became subsumed within larger discussions on national liberation. By the late 1920s, intellectuals were using women and gender as a narrative vehicle to address colonial oppression, freedom, revolution, and an imaginary modernity. By the 1930s, Hue-Tam Ho Tai notes, “the question of women operated as a discourse on freedom, in which differences between personal and political and national concerns blurred and merge together.”25 Yet, the revolutionary call for freedom was more than a promise to liberate women from the patriarchal family or a metaphor for the liberation of the state. It was also a matter of shifting the people’s object of affection from their loved ones to the nation. In 1927, Phan Boi Chau, an ardent anticolonialist, published a school primer on the subject of women. His basic message was that women should try to be “mothers to the nation.”26 He recommended that “if girls were teased with the question, ‘Do you have a husband yet?’ they should reply ‘Yes, his surname is Viet and his given name Nam.’ This husband was more than three thousand years of age, had resisted the Han dynasty and beaten the Ming, yet did not look old, he added.”27 That women did heed this call a couple decades later was

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attested to by Trinh T. Minh Ha’s rereading of the text pointing out the primer’s implications for women.28 Nguyen Thi Dinh, a prominent leader of the National Liberation Front (NLF) and chairwoman of the South Vietnam Women’s Liberation Association, in many ways embodies this fusion of personal and political freedom in her revolutionary memoir.29 Reluctant to marry, Dinh finally agreed to marry a revolutionary because it would allow her to continue her revolutionary activities without abandoning her family. Before her fiancé asked Dinh to marry him, he made sure that her foremost faithfulness was to the revolution. The love that would bind them in marriage was their vow of faithfulness to the revolution, not the romantic love explored by the Tho Moi poets. In this marriage, the party joins the family to serve as the ba moi (matchmaker). Like previous marital arrangements organized in line with Confucian tradition, love took a backseat to duty and responsibility — this time reframed in service to the revolution. After Dinh’s husband died, the party again assumed the role of matchmaker and found her another husband. There was never any pretense that she should marry for individual romantic love. In 1943, the Communist Party published its cultural program recommending that “all patriotic individuals adopt three basic guidelines for their work: that it be national, scientific, and popular.”30 Truong Chinh, the secretary general of the ICP from 1941 – 56, considered to be the “cultural czar” of Vietnamese communism in the 1940s and early 1950s, sought to redirect the subject matter of Vietnamese literature from romanticism and the individual to a focus on revolutionary spirit and the nation.31 Truong Chinh’s poem “La Thi Si” (“To Be a Poet”), published in 1944, speaks to the kind of poetry and object of affection he advocated: If to be a poet is, transposed with passion, To sing of white breasts That tremble for love, the next moment to find Life is but dreams and illusion all told, Smothered in flowers and doting on bodies of jade; If to be a poet is to spread To cover the sores of tyranny in decay,

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Straining to sing sweeter and louder To cover the groans of the people’s distress The cries of the laboring people’s long pain. Then, oh my friends, such a poet Is a curse to the whole human race .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . To be a poet is to be true, pure, brave, Firm-willed, to have purpose and fire; .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . He must free all the ardor and power of his heart To bring again to his people’s dark winter the courage of spring .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . Seize the pen to cast down the world’s tyrants Make rhymes into bombs and from verse make grenades.32 The replacement of family or individual love by the nation as the object of affection in public discourse was cemented by the triumphs of the party in the 1940 and 1950s.33 The Viet Minh came to power in the North and began to construct state organizations and associations to manage the nation and create the new revolutionary society. Xuan Dieu, once the leader of Tho Moi but now a dedicated party member, devoted his creative energy to writing for and about the nation. The triumph of revolutionary love and the demise of the individual romantic love once espoused by the Tho Moi poets is manifest in the poem “Nhung Dem Hanh Quan” (“Nights on the March”), written by Xuan Dieu on May 26, 1966. In the first stanza of his poem, Xuan Dieu’s switch from his previous focus on personal love and self-inquiry to a focus on the nation, the land, and the people is evident: Body and Soul, flesh and blood, I am with my people warm with the ardour of their heart, sweating their sweat sharing the life and the struggle of millions who suffer . . . the people I love.34 The success that the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV) would eventually achieve in winning over young people, however, was partially based on

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a binary that the literary romanticists like the Tho Moi poets and the Tu Luc Van Doan novelists had shaped between “traditional” and “modern” love. Lu Trong Lu, Xuan Dieu, and Nhat Linh had portrayed their parents’ notions of conjugal love as inhibited, outdated, and superstitious, helping shape a conception of what “the traditional” Vietnamese marital regime had been. This “historical other” came to be defined in contradistinction to “the modern” family. It is this binary, a formulation between “feudal” and “modern,” that the socialists would pick up in the mid-1950s to promote the “new socialist family.”35 The discourse on romantic love explored by the Tho Moi poets and the Tu Luc Van Doan writers was at heart a discourse of individualism, and as Lydia Liu observes, it served to “open up a new battlefront in their struggle to claim modernity.”36 Although it was denounced as bourgeois by those seeking to direct young intellectuals away from individual preoccupations and toward the liberatory needs of the nation, it had laid the groundwork for the revolutionaries’ continued efforts to sever the individual from the old patriarchal system. Socialist Love

Shortly after the DRV came to power in 1945, the new government embarked on its plans for creating a new socialist society. On April 3, 1946, the DRV institutionalized its agenda for reforming the customs, habits, rituals, and daily practices of the Vietnamese people by forming the Central Committee for Propagation of the New Ways (Ban Trung Uong Van-Dong Doi Song Moi). According to Shaun Kingsley Malarney: “Through the New Ways, the revolution endeavored to inculcate a ‘scientific spirit’ that would . . . not only liberate the consciousness of the masses [but also] make them their own masters in constructing socialism and the new revolutionary society.”37 The New Ways were part of the party’s broader effort to transform the cultural and ideological consciousness of the people. One of the party’s first tasks was to reform the ways in which individuals created families. Marriage and love became a focal point for the party’s efforts to eradicate existing social inequalities and to create the new socialist person. The party instituted both productive and prescriptive tactics to influence the nature of marital love, who could marry whom, and under what circumstances.

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Productive Tactics

In 1959, the DRV promulgated a new Law on Marriage and the Family. The goals of the law were to eradicate the marital system of the feudal regime and to promote one that was free and progressive.38 The new law promoted individual equality by making the individual responsible to the state, not to the family or extended kin as was previously the case. In doing so, the law specified the boundaries of interpersonal familial relationships. The law was organized in terms of the themes of marriage, the obligations and rights of husband and wife, the relations between parents and their children, and divorce. For the first time in Vietnamese history, love became a legal basis for marriage. Party documents on the new law published in Nep Song Van Hoa (Cultural Way of Life) proclaimed that marriage ought to derive from love and be completely voluntary.39 In order to ensure this result, the party could intervene on a couple’s behalf, displacing the family as the legal arbiter of marriage. In order for marriage to be “happy” and “harmonious,” women must be equal with men in all respects. In order to build a socialist state, the feudal social order of the patriarchal family must be abolished, and marriage must cease to be a legal contract between two families under which the couple’s principal obligations are to the husband’s extended family rather than to each other. Ho Chi Minh viewed the 1959 law as “an integral part of the socialist revolution” because it “aims at the emancipation of women.”40 What is notable is the link the law forged between individual rights, love, marriage, and women’s emancipation. On the surface, promulgation of the law appeared to represent the fulfillment of romantic individualism explored by Vietnamese intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s. Yet, if we follow Ho Chi Minh’s prescription and examine the law from the “viewpoint of the proletariat,” we realize that the link between love and marriage derives from his own political agenda. For Ho Chi Minh, like Engels, the institution of marriage and the patriarchal family reproduced many of society’s inequalities because they were based on and served to maintain a system of private property.41 Therefore, in the 1959 law, women’s emancipation is defined in terms of a loving marital union and revolutionary struggle.42

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The key to emancipation lies in the state liberating the individual from the traditional family. The law gave the state, not the family, the authority to create families — to define what a family will be.43 In so doing, the law aimed to shift the basis of authority and structure of obligations: the individual was no longer principally subservient to the extended family and the conjugal couple became obligated both to one another and to the state. The law also created the legal basis for enabling individuals to devote their labor elsewhere, to the revolution, to the public sphere rather than solely to domestic concerns. It provided legal stipulation for women (and men) to become involved in activities outside the home.44 The 1959 law was, in part, recognition of changes in marital formation that had already begun to take place among upper-class Vietnamese. The state utilized this shifting ideology to implement a marriage reform to produce a modern subjectivity defined by the state. In 1959 that subjectivity was defined in terms of socialist ideals and devotion to the homeland. Mass education became the avenue through which the party sought to inform the people about the new marriage law and the new society. The Women’s Union undertook the educative role of directing people’s affection to the nation. Ho Chi Minh became everyone’s “Uncle” in the party’s effort to channel individual’s emotions toward reunification of the country. The state, not the family, was to become the principal authority figure. The party continued to insert itself into family affairs in its efforts to create the new socialist citizen. The individualist romantic conception of love, having been first dismissed as bourgeois and then displaced with revolutionary love, now became formally transformed in socialist terms. The passing of the 1959 Law on Marriage and the Family represented a decisive commitment to the building of a new society, a new socialist family. Becoming a modern cultural citizen was not a matter of individual growth or freedom, but of participating in socialist reconstruction. The socialist ideal of linking love and marriage would be appealed to decades later by single women to provide justification for not wanting to marry. As Chi Tham (unmarried, born 1959) said in 1996, “I would never marry for the sake of getting married. That would be a feudal act.”

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Prescriptive Tactics

Land reform, collectivization of labor, classification of citizens, and selfcriticism were prescriptive means by which the state, in its effort to create a socialist society, sought to transform personal relationships and insert itself into familial life.45 Xuan Vu, a combat reporter and propaganda chief, provides insight into party practices. He recalls that during the Land Reform Campaign (1953), in order to prove that they could be members of the new society, party members had to go through Three Gates of Social Reform. The third gate was considered to be the most important: “You not only had to have proven yourself fighting the outside enemy, you had to overcome the inside enemy. . . . You had to prove that you were loyal to the revolution with your whole heart, and that you could renounce all your other loyalties — to your family especially.”46 Though the period of land reform in Vietnam was short-lived, the practice of self-criticism was ongoing. What is fascinating and relevant here is the desire of the state to consider party member’s personal romantic affiliations as either counterproductive to reuniting the country or as evidence of an inadequate devotion to the revolutionary agenda, and to the war effort in particular. It was not just that the party sought to insert itself between individuals and their families for the benefit of the revolution; with the classification of people, the party developed a new formula for what would constitute proper objects of affection. The practice of class labeling would influence whom people considered desirable spouses.47 Tuyen, one of my informants, shared her memoirs with me; they are an intensely personal recounting of the way in which love in her family was shaped by revolutionary concerns and socialist fervor. Tuyen received a bad revolutionary classification because she was from a family of mandarins. This classification prompted her to associate with a group of twelve students who had the same classification. They made a pact that they would not fall in love with each other so that their children would not have to grow up with a double negative classification. When Tuyen married, she chose not to marry a revolutionary, fearing it would taint his record and ruin his chances for advancement. As Tuyen’s decisions regarding love and marriage indicate, the party had,

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at some level, successfully disciplined love. In disciplining love, the party laid a foundation for making requests on its own behalf. This groundwork proved critical in the mid-1960s and late 1960s when Ho Chi Minh called upon the Vietnamese youth to set their personal lives aside and help with the DRV’s final push to liberate the South.48 Le Thanh, a mechanical engineer from Hai Phong, recalls those days: I think almost all of us in the youth organizations felt pretty much the same way. We had no private lives to speak of. Although we were teen­ agers, we didn’t have any girlfriends. I told myself that I should live as a real Communist lives, the pure life of a revolutionary. At that time the Party had a slogan called the “The Three Delays” [Ba Khoan]: “if you don’t have a child delay having one, if you aren’t married, delay getting married, if you aren’t in love delay love.” So we delayed love. Instead we built up our feelings about the mountains and the rivers and the flowers in places we lived. We loved these things and we felt strongly that we were ready to die for them.49 For the party and for many Vietnamese, love became a tool for liberating the country and constructing the idealized socialist state. The party thought that in order for soldiers to be fully committed to the war effort, they should have little or no romantic involvement or emotional ties to “the rear.” Another informant of mine, a literature teacher in Hanoi who was a teenager at the time, said that though the Youth Association had little authority to make young people follow its advice and never forced anyone to step in line, the youth at that time responded with great enthusiasm and ardor because they loved their country. The teacher recalled, “Their formidable love of the country compelled them to participate, and almost everyone wanted to participate in protecting the nation.” Married women’s conjugal love also was subject to disciplinary measures. According to Ashley Pettus, “War inevitably presented mothers with a conflict between self-interest and national duty — a contradiction which the party sought to resolve by celebrating motherhood as a foundation of revolutionary virtue in society.”50 In the 1960s, the Women’s Union set out to educate married women on the proper notion of love and happiness through the advice column in Bao Phu Nu Viet Nam (Vietnamese Women’s News­

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paper). Married women whose husbands and sons were sent off to the war were advised to put aside their personal suffering in order to recognize that “correct” happiness comes from enabling their loved ones the fulfill their patriotic duty.51 Maternal and conjugal love became not just the love of one’s son or husband, but a mother’s love of the nation. Hundreds of thousands of young men who went to war died, leaving their wives of girlfriends without children or unmarried. Many of the women I interviewed participated in mobilization waves or remained at home declining marital opportunities to take on familial duties that otherwise would have been left to their brothers. These women sacrificed their marriageable years in the name of their devotion to the nation. Betrayal

The tension between the socialist goals and the individualistic promise of the 1959 law lead to a betrayal of the latter.52 Under the exigencies of the liberation struggle and the excesses of the revolutionary program, the state’s avowed goal to promote marriages based on love was lost. First, although the state tried to carry through on its goal to eradicate parental authority for forming marital unions, its efforts were not entirely successful. Marriage continued to be viewed by many parents as a way to create alliances, this time to enhance or maintain one’s standing within the party or to benefit from having a son-in-law or daughter-in-law who worked for the state sector. At the same time, the state’s other goal, to replace the family as the authority figure, was successful (for a time): party members, soldiers, and state office workers had to obtain the approval of the party when choosing a spouse. Or, as some state employees did, they obtained parental agreement to marry by threatening to go to their state offices to obtain permission.53 Note that these were still not marriages being decided between two individuals in love, as the party had promised. Rather, the party either replaced or added a layer to feudal patrilineal concerns and family control with new forms of external authority and a new set of criteria for determining desirable mates. Le Luu portrays this betrayal in his 1986 novel A Time Far Past, one of the first postwar novels to be published that did not follow the literary dictates

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of the party.54 Le Luu broke from the socialist realism endorsed by the party in his use of the diary motif. Le Luu also diverged from the accepted literary forms and topics of socialist realism by portraying the negative effects of putting the needs of the collective before individual needs. Le Luu’s concern with romantic love (as opposed to patriotic love), marriage and the family, and individual yearning to be free from intrusions into his personal life is reminiscent of Tho Moi and Tu Luc Van Doan. In A Time Far Past, Sai, the protagonist, embodies the persistence and continued frustration of individual desire despite all the socialist propaganda to the contrary. Having been forced to marry a girl who he finds physically and emotionally repulsive (a match created to form a politically influential relationship for Sai’s family) and unable to confront his elders about his desire to be with Huong, a schoolmate he loves with all his heart and soul, Sai enrolls in the army to escape his unbearable situation. No longer at home in the company of friends to whom he could complain, Sai starts to keep a diary. The diary serves as a means for self-expression in a world where individual emotions are rendered irrelevant at best and unpatriotic at worst. In the diary Sai writes a letter to Huong. The letter represents Sai’s longing for individual freedom to think and love as he wishes. The letter speaks to the impotence of a young man whose life has been shaped by his male relatives and their concerns for political status in a complicated world where Confucian tradition and Communist Party ideology mingle at all levels of life. Sai’s diary is found and read by a company political officer who then passes it along to higher authorities who encourage Sai to rid himself of his “ideological” sickness. At the end of the novel, when the war is over, Sai no longer knows who he is or what he really wants. After a failed marriage to a woman who married him to cover up her pregnancy out of wedlock by another man, Sai lives alone. The fact that Le Luu leaves Sai alone at the end of A Time Far Past ultimately signifies a failure of collectivist efforts, both socialist and familial, to mold individual loves in the postwar era. A Time Far Past critiques the state’s intrusions into the personal lives of its citizens and reveals the tension inherent in the state’s displacement of the populace’s affections during the nation-building process. Revolutionary love struggled and won, but, having forged a united nation, it is no longer

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able to command the attention it did during the war era. As Liu states, “the modern self is never quite reducible to national identity.”55 Ironically, Sai, living alone, without natal or conjugal family is left to explore, develop, and cultivate his own self, as the Tho Moi poets desired in the 1930s. The difference is that here there is no love, but there is a struggle to love one’s self. The text of Le Luu’s novel expresses continued frustration, but the fact of its publication is testament to the state’s willingness to let discussion of individual desire surface; we might view this as part of the state’s experimentation with a new form of governmentality — one in which the individual, ultimately, is to become responsible for him/herself in the new Doi Moi era. Doi Moi and the Happy Family

Le Luu and other authors, such as Bao Ninh, Ma Van Khang, and Nguyen Khai, rejected socialist realism and portrayed the effects of war and socialist policies on individuals’ material and inner lives;56 they received official sanction in October of 1987, when general secretary Nguyen Van Linh told a gathering of writers and artists, “Speak the truth. . . . No matter what happens, Comrades, don’t curb your pen.”57 At the Sixth National Congress in December of 1986, the party admitted that the economic model it had been following since 1954 had failed. This acknowledgement laid the foundation for the state to change the Vietnamese economy from a centrally planned economy to a market economy with a socialist direction. One of the most fundamental changes was the shift from collective land use to a household economy based on the land rights of individuals and families. By the late 1990s, according to Jayne Werner and Daniele Belanger, the “doi moi state [was] using and reinscribing the domestic sphere in the form of newly validated household economic units for political-economic purposes of integration into the market economy.”58 Institution of Doi Moi in 1986 represented both the party’s recognition of the failure of its economic policies and a strategy for regaining its moral authority and political legitimacy. As Christoph Giebel points out, “The waning of the Cold War and the decline and ultimate demise of the socialist camp in the 1980s increasingly weakened the external moral authority and

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political legitimacy that Marxism-Leninism had long afforded the ruling Communist Party. . . . The Revolution itself was compelled to seek an alternative model of authority.”59 Doi Moi would become the party’s solution for regaining its authority in the economic sector. But, having set up the household as the primary economic unit, the state now had to figure out what tactics would work best for governing in a new era. No longer able to call on a “community of sentiment” characterized by the people’s love for the nation and devotion to its liberation, the state decided to cede itself as an object of affection, instead actively promoting conjugal and familial love.60 It would be tempting to view the state’s benevolence as a retreat from its citizens’ private affairs, a return of the repressed.61 However, the state relies on the economic success of its citizens and families to achieve its own success in the global market economy. Promotion of the Doi Moi family represents the state’s latest effort to produce a new private life. In order to do so, the state updated and intensified the Law on Marriage and the Family. Around the time the state began its first land reform (1980), it also began to recognize that there was great discrepancy between the state’s official policies on marriage and the family and actual interpersonal and intrafamilial relations, as Le Luu’s novel attests. A 1982 “scientific” investigation into the condition of the “Vietnamese family” revealed surprisingly high incidences of women seeking divorce, extramarital affairs, and under-age marriages, among other “social problems.”62 Determining that the 1959 Law on Marriage and the Family was no longer adequate for postwar society, the party promulgated a new Law on Marriage and the Family in 1986.63 The 1986 law reiterated provisions regarding the implementation of a “nha nuoc bao dam thuc hien che do hon nhan tu nguyen, tien bo, mot vo chong, vo chong binh dang, nhan xay dung gia dinh dan chu, hoa thuan, hanh phuc, ben vung” (voluntary, progressive, and monogamous marriage in which husband and wife are equal, with a view to nurturing a democratic, united and happy and lasting family).64 Love remained the basis for a happy and lasting marriage. Most significant for single women was the importance the 1986 law placed on biological motherhood. Article 3 states: “Nha Nuoc va xa hoi bao ve ba me va tre em, giup do cac ba me thuc hien tot chuc nang cao quy cua nguoi me” (“The state and society shall protect mothers as well as their children,

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and shall assist the mothers in fulfilling their noble tasks of motherhood).65 Article 3, in conjunction with three other articles, is widely interpreted to give all women, including older single women, the right to bear a child. For the first time, a legal space was created providing a new social context for single motherhood. A second and related tactic to shifting the populace’s object of affection directly to the family as a means for improving the nation was the state’s decision to intensify its focus on population control.66 As Ann Anagnost has said about China, “Population becomes the means to express the persistent problem of how to produce a modern citizenry out of the undisciplined masses, a problem that acquires new urgency with the dissolution of collective agriculture and with the new freedoms accorded to the household economy.”67 In the late 1980s, the National Committee for Population and Family Planning began to promote the idea of a “Happy Family.” The Happy Family is orderly, has an adequate income, stable conjugal relations, and two children whose parents educate them properly. Family planning billboards portray the Happy Family of well-dressed mother, father, a boy, and a girl. One slogan reads: “Stable population, wealthy society, happy family” (Dan so on dinh, xa hoi phon vinh, gia dinh hanh phuc). Family planning messages link family size, family finances, family happiness, and national wealth. As Werner and Belanger note, by “linking small families to happiness and prosperity” the state “harness[es] the promise and lure of modernity to the developmental project of the state.”68 It is telling that family planning posters replaced revolutionary posters calling for women to participate in the war effort with calls for women to focus on their domestic lives. Women were the principal targets of the family planning campaigns, the focal point for the state’s efforts to produce a modern subjectivity. Women were advised when they could marry, what kind of man would be best to marry, when to bear children, and how far to space them apart. These prescriptions shape the timing and nature of family love. It is under the guise of helping people create and maintain happy families that the state maintains its authority through the microtechnologies of the family planning program, as well as through other programs implemented by the Women’s Union. Once again, the goals of governance and creation of the nation are served by seeking to redirect the affections of the populace, particularly women. This

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would not be a new tactic for the DRV, but one geared to a different goal, that of revalorizing the private family sphere by relocating the individual back within the family. Lisa Rofel’s comment about China’s family planning program applies equally well to Vietnam: Far from restraining women from a “natural” desire to have children, it actively creates “female” nature that will place their primary attention on the mode and manner of giving birth. It encourages women to adopt an intensified focus on their bodies as the locus of their “femaleness.” The practice associated with birth planning thus participates in the Post Mao production of modern identities in which women are made to feel that their most important goal is fulfilling a biological desire for motherhood.69 In the new political economy of Vietnam, it behooved couples to direct their attention and objects of affection toward creating an economically productive family because a productive family would be a happy family. No longer able to provide the incentives necessary for commanding the Vietnamese populace’s attention as it had in the past, the state also was not able to capture the people’s affection to the same degree. Setting up a new form of governmentality under which the individual and family are responsible for themselves, the state sought to maintain its moral authority by promoting behavior that was already in the hearts and minds of the people. The gendered concept of these new subjectivities was evident in the Women’s Union’s praise of maternal love symbolized by the statue Me Viet Nam (Mother Vietnam) at the Hanoi Women’s Museum.70 Drawing upon the Doi Moi discourse of maternal love, many single women transformed the state’s family planning message regarding the Happy Family by rendering maternal love more important than conjugal love. Chi Nga’s (unmarried, born 1949) commented: “Taking a husband is something you are compelled to do, must do. Having a child is more important, much more important. Women really take a husband to have a child.” Echoing the state’s rhetoric regarding the importance of maternal love, Chi Minh (unmarried, born 1958) said to me, “I want to reserve all of my love for my child.” If, in the 1990s, a woman did not love a man, then there was no reason to marry; she could bear and raise a child on her own.

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Contemporary appeals to narratives on love demonstrate a way in which women have exerted their agency to successfully engage in a new reproductive strategy, one that could be based solely on maternal love rather than patrilineal interests. As Bac Hanh (unmarried, born in 1930) said in 1996: “I did not once consider having a child out of wedlock. In the past, they shaved women’s necks. . . . I remember situations where they humiliated and shamed the women. I would have been afraid of public opinion. . . . But that was a different day. In general, now, this village considers it normal.” Conclusion

The genealogy of love I have traced in this paper provided unmarried women in the late twentieth century access to narratives of love that they could use to explain their decisions to “ask for a child.” The literary romanticists of the 1920s and 1930s can be credited with making the subject of individual love a public discourse and creating a narrative that legitimized the notion of a single love and rejected marriage in the absence of love. Older single women held on to this belief in refusing to marry men they did not love or in their refusal to love again. Party revolutionaries solidified the portrayal of the traditional modern binary regarding love, initially shaped by Vietnamese romanticists. In the process, the state began inserting itself between individuals and their families, creating a space to redefine the meaning and purpose of marriage. Though the party ultimately betrayed its promise of letting individuals choose their own marriage partners by disciplining love in class terms, it did create the legal framework upon which conjugal love is based. By the mid-1980s, with the reunification of the country complete, the party no longer needed or was able to direct the people’s object of affection toward the collective, the nation. Having promoted a concept of the modern socialist family based on marital love and women’s emancipation in contradistinction to the prerevolutionary feudal traditions, the state had to support women’s decisions not to marry should love be absent. These women, who earlier responded to the state’s call for patriotic love to free the nation, could now take advantage of the new portrayal of feminine responsibility, produced by the state’s focus on family planning as a way to build a wealthy nation, by

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using the narrative of maternal desire to justify their decision to bear children out of wedlock. On the one hand, the state’s reinscription of women’s love from country to lover to child once again situates women in relation to an other. This contemporary configuration, despite its beneficent and progressive nature, ironically reduces female subjectivity by defining it in terms of maternal identity. Yet, at the same time, the Doi Moi discourse on maternal love retrieves a sense of individuality and self-expression inherent in the prerevolutionary discourses on romantic love and the romantic longings of postrevolutionary fiction so poignant in Le Luu’s A Time Far Past. Perhaps as significant is the way in which discourses of maternal love, most recently valorized in a 2004 decision by the Hanoi Women’s Union to include single mothers as potential candidates for the honorary title of Happy Family — a title previously reserved for married couples — reaffirm the 1959 socialist agenda for producing a modern subject who will not be subservient to the patrilineage. In all cases, shifting notions of love serve as a pivot point around which individuals are encouraged to create a modern self. Older single women drew upon different strains from recent discourses on love to create a new reproductive and social space for themselves. In doing so, they paved the way for other women of marriageable age not interested in marrying to go ahead and have a biological child of their own to love.71 These discourses have served to constitute what we might call, borrowing a phrase from Rudolf Mrazek, an unruly “language of the future.”72 Notes



I would like to thank Ann Anagnost, Judith Henchy, Christoph Giebel, Charles Keyes, Michele Thompson, and Laurie Sears for their thoughtful reading of this article when it was in a formative stage as a chapter in my dissertation, “Asking for the Essential Child: Revolutionary Transformations in Reproductive Space in Northern Viet Nam.” I am indebted to Adam J. Berger for his tireless rereading of the manuscript and subsequent editorial suggestions. Special thanks go to Haiyan Lee for her dedication to and her editorial work on this edition of positions.   1. For scholarship on the politics of love and romance, see Lila Abu-Lughod and Catherine Lutz, “Introduction: Emotion, Discourse, and the Politics of Everyday Life,” in Language and the Politics of Emotion, ed. Catherine Lutz and Lila Abu-Lughod (Cambridge: Cam-

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bridge University Press, 1990); R. A. Rebhun, The Heart Is Unknown Country: Love in the Changing Economy of Northeast Brazil (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); Sara L. Friedman, “The Intimacy of State Power: Marriage, Liberation, and Social Subjects in Southeastern China,” American Ethnologist 32 (2002): 312 – 27; Yunxiang Yan, Private Life under Socialism: Love, Intimacy, and Family Change in a Chinese Village, 1949 – 1999 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003). For scholarship on the construction of common sense and embodied behavior, see Angela Zito and Tani Barlow, Body, Subject, and Power in China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Michel De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); Norbert Elias, The History of Manners, vol. 1 of The Civilizing Process, trans. Edmund Jephcott (New York: Pantheon, 1978); M. L. Lyon and J. M. Barbalet, “Society’s Body: Emotion and the ‘Somatization’ of Social Theory,” in Embodiment and Experience: The Existential Ground of Culture and Self, ed. Thomas J. Csordas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).   2. I define “older single women” as women who have passed marriageable age.   3. Harriet M. Phinney, “Asking for the Essential Child: Revolutionary Transformations in Reproductive Space in Northern Viet Nam” (PhD diss., University of Washington, 2003).   4. Up until this time, a single woman who wanted a child could “adopt” a niece or nephew and call it her own. If feasible, her brother would give her a small house in which to raise the child. None of the women who “asked for a child” considered this a satisfactory arrangement principally because they did not believe it possible to develop the same kind of emotional attachment to an adopted child as one could with one’s own biological child.   5. That single women were able to cite not loving a man as a reason not to marry and as justification for their choice to bear a child out of wedlock is remarkable. Prior to the promulgation of the 1959 Law on Marriage and the Family, marriage’s principal purpose was to unite two families who aimed to benefit from forming a marital union; young people had minimal say in who they married. Neo-Confucian family doctrine, a system of beliefs said to dominate family values among highly educated Vietnamese prior to the 1920s, maintains conjugal love is a sentiment that develops over time as a couple lives, works, ages, and becomes intimate with one another. Bearing and raising children provides the necessary string (so day) to bind a couple, enabling them to live together until “their teeth were loose and hair grey” (rang long dau bac). But the primary purpose of reproduction was to perpetuate the patrilineage.   6. I am not positing a causal relationship between the discourse of love as represented in the literature of the 1930s and its use in the 1990s by single women citing love as a reason for not marrying. As Nietzsche writes, “The cause of the origin of a thing and its eventual utility, its actual employment and place in a system of purposes, lie worlds apart.” Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals, trans. W. Kaufman (New York: Vintage, 1969), 76.

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  7. Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 21.   8. The names of my informants have been changed to protect their privacy. I would like to thank the Fulbright-Hays Foundation, the Social Science Research Council, and the National Institutes of Health for providing me with the funding to conduct research in Vietnam.   9. Abu-Lughod and Lutz, “Introduction: Emotion, Discourse,” in Lutz and Abu-Lughod, Language and the Politics of Emotion, 14. 10. The circumstances of conducting research in Vietnam during the late 1990s often necessitated being accompanied by a state Women’s Union official. In many ways then, it was imperative for the women to follow the narrative. 11. See Gayatri Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois, 1988), 271 – 313. 12. Michel Foucault, “Politics and the Study of Discourse,” in The Foucault Effect: Studies in Governmentality, ed. Graham Burchell, Colin Gordon, and Peter Miller (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 60. 13. According to Judith Henchy, scholar of twentieth-century Vietnamese intellectual history, there were many competing attempts to fashion the modern self at this time, including those of the Catholic Church, the Buddhist hierarchy, and the Cao Dai (Judith Henchy, personal communication, 2003). This complexity is missing from my account, particularly with regard to the relationship between literary and social discourses of the time up until about 1943, when the Lao Dong party sought to squelch all alternative literary productions in the North that ran counter to party doctrines. Cognizant of these histories to which I do not yet have access, I aim, nonetheless, to call attention to the manner in which objects of affection in Vietnam have been and continue to be constructed. For one discussion of modernist discourses of the self during the 1930s in Vietnam, see Peter Zinoman, “Introduction: Vu Trong Phung’s novel Dumb Luck and the Nature of Vietnamese Modernism,” in Vu Trong Phung, Dumb Luck, trans. Nguyen Nguyet Cam and Peter Zinoman (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 1 – 30. 14. Xuan Dieu, “Influence of French Poetry on Modern Vietnamese Poetry: A Poet’s Account,” Vietnamese Studies, no. 2 (1997): 46. 15. Ibid., 47. 16. Quoc Ngu enabled young intellectuals to differentiate themselves from older Vietnamese poets writing in Chinese verse or from Vietnamese writing in French. David G. Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial: 1920 – 1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981); cf. Partha Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories (Prince­ ton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993). 17. Xuan Dieu, “Your Heart Is Awake and Beating (Trai Tim Em Thuc Dap . . .),” in Vietnamese

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Literature: Historical Background and Texts, ed. Nguyen Khac Vien and Huu Ngoc, trans. Mary Cowan et al. (Hanoi: Red River Foreign Languages Publishing House, n.d.), 664. 18. Nhat Linh was Nguyen Tuong Tam’s pen name. Khai Hung was Tran Khanh Giu’s pen name. 19. Hoang Dao is Nguyen Tuong Long’s pen name. 20. Hoang Dao quoted in Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Radicalism and the Origins of the Vietnamese Revo­ lution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 250. 21. Hy V. Luong, with the collaboration of Nguyen Dac Bang, Revolution in the Village: Tra­ dition and Transformation in North Vietnam: 1925 – 1988 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1992), 18. 22. Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Radicalism, 251. 23. Nguyen Khac Vien and Huu Ngoc, Vietnamese Literature, 124. 24. Ngan Giang’s poem is quoted in Nguyen Huong, “Vietnamese Women Writers during the French Colonial Period,” Journal of Vietnamese Studies 8 (1995): 62 – 80. The International Communist Party (ICP) guidelines on emancipation encouraged, not demanded, that party members sacrifice family. Emancipation from one’s family, however, was not necessarily problematic; many young revolutionaries were from families who had long histories as revolutionaries. See Marr, Vietnamese Tradition. 25. Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Radicalism, 89. 26. Quoted in Marr, Vietnamese Tradition, 210. 27. Ibid. 28. Trinh T. Minh-Ha, Framer Framed (New York: Routledge, 1992). 29. Nguyen Thi Dinh, “No Other Road to Take: Memoir of Mrs. Nguyen Thi Dinh,” trans. Mai V. Elliot (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Southeast Asia Data Paper 102, 1976). 30. Nguyen Khac Vien and Huu Ngoc, Vietnamese Literature, 119. 31. Neil Jamieson, “Shattered Identities and Contested Images: Reflections of Poetry and History in Twentieth-Century Vietnam,” Crossroads 7 (1992): 71 – 135. 32. Truong Chinh, “La Thi Si” (“To Be a Poet”), quoted in Nguyen Khac Vien and Huu Ngoc, Vietnamese Literature, 568 – 70. 33. Lest my portrayal of the move from romanticism to revolutionary love seems too smooth, William Duiker points out: “It is important to remember that Ho Chi Minh faced serious obstacles in persuading his countrymen to accept the logic of his conclusions. Not only did Ho’s message of self-sacrifice and subordination to the needs of the collective run counter to the fatalism and ‘attentisme’ that had characterized new attitudes of many Vietnamese since the original French conquest . . . but also to the post – World War I emphasis on individual expression and self-realization that characterized the generation of urban youth who had entered the state in the 1920s.” William J. Duiker, “What Is to Be Done? Ho Chi Minh’s Duong Kach Menh,” in Essays into Vietnamese Pasts, Studies on Southeast Asia no.19, ed. K.

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W. Taylor and John K. Whitmore (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Southeast Asia Program, 1995), 215. 34. Xuan Dieu, “Nhung Dem Hanh Quan” (“Nights on the March”), quoted in Nguyen Khac Vien and Huu Ngoc, Vietnamese Literature, 666. 35. The opposition formulated between Confucian family tradition and communism, as characterized by revolutionaries of the period, needs to be understood in the context of revolutionary struggle. Christoph Giebel suggests that “it would be helpful to distinguish between the Party in struggle and mobilization and the Party in leadership and power, as these fundamentally different positions conditioned the revolution’s varying judgments of Confucianism either as obstacle and opponent or as (partial) paragon and precursor.” Christoph Giebel, “Museum-Shrine: Revolution and Its Tutelary Spirit in the Village of My Hoa Hung,” in The Country of Memory: Remaking the Past in Late Socialist Vietnam, ed. Hue-Tam Ho Tai (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 94. 36. Lydia Liu, “Translingual Practice: The Discourse of Individualism between China and the West,” positions: east asia cultures critique 1 (Spring 1993): 182. 37. Shaun Kingsley Malarney, “Ritual and Revolution in Vietman” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 1993), 288. 38. Article 2 of chapter 1 sets forth this goal: “To eradicate the vestiges of the feudal regime (phong kien) of forced marriage in which men were respected, women looked down upon and children’s interests slighted.” Among the most significant articles in the 1959 law are articles 4 and 13. Article 4 states, “Men and women reaching the age shall be eligible to freely decide their marriage; without coercion of one party over another; without coercion or obstruction by anyone.” Article 13 states, “The husband and wife shall be obligated to love, respect, care for and help each other; to bring up the children, participate in productive labor, and to build a harmonious and happy family.” Luat Hon Nhan Va Gia Dinh (Law on Marriage and the Family), 1960. 39. Malarney, “Ritual and Revolution.” 40. Ho Chi Minh quoted in Mai Thi Tu and Le Thi Nham Tuyet, Women in Vietnam (Hanoi: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1978), 220. 41. See Adam Kuper, The Invention of Primitive Society: Transformations of an Illusion (London: Routledge, 1988). 42. An earlier precursor to the 1959 Law on Marriage and the Family was a Marxist-inspired two-volume book written by Cuu Kim Son (pen name of Tran Duc Sac, better known by the pseudonym Van Tan) and Van Hue (in reality Pham Van Hao, who was the director of the Revolutionary Museum in Hanoi until 1975). The first volume, titled Doi Chi Em (Sis­ ter’s Life) published in 1938 focused on the sociocultural institutions believed to hold women back: “engagement ritual, marriage, divorce, polygamy, intra-family hierarchy, prostitution, and restricted educational opportunities” (Marr, Vietnamese Tradition, 239).

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43. Article 11 requires that all marriages be recognized and registered with the state and declares all other marital unions or ceremonies invalid. 44. Article 14 states, “The husband and wife shall be eligible to freely choose their respective professions and to participate in political, cultural, and social activities.” 45. See Edwin E. Moise, Land Reform in China and North Vietnam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983), 146 – 281. 46. Xuan Vu quoted in David Chanoff and Doan Van Toai, “Vietnam”: A Portrait of Its People at War (New York: I. B. Tauris, 1996), 78. 47. Party members who worked in state offices (co quan) had to obtain office approval to marry. See Daniele Belanger and Khuat Thu Hong, “Marriage and the Family in Urban North Vietnam, 1965 – 1993” (paper presented at Population Association of America annual meeting, San Francisco, April 1995); and John C. Schafer, “The Collective and the Individual in Two Post-war Vietnamese Novels,” Crossroads 14, no. 2 (2000): 13 – 48. 48. See Sandra C. Taylor, Vietnamese Women at War: Fighting for Ho Chi Minh and the Revolu­ tion (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1999), for a discussion of the NLF’s concern with romance among cadres in the South; the NLF believed an individual could not fight a war and carry on a love affair at the same time (64). 49. Le Thanh quoted in Chanoff and Doan Van Toai, “Vietnam”: A Portrait, 61. 50. Ashley Pettus, Between Sacrifice and Desire: National Identity and the Governing of Feminin­ ity in Vietnam (Routledge: London, 2003), 48 – 49. 51. Ibid. 52. My use of the term betrayal is not intended to evoke the use of the word by second-wave Western feminists who felt that the socialism in China and Eastern Europe had failed women. As Lisa Rofel points out with regard to China, socialist policies affected cohorts of women in different ways; not all women felt betrayed. Lisa Rofel, “Liberation, Nostalgia and Yearning for Modernity,” in Engendering China: Women, Culture, and the State, ed. Christina Gilmartin et al. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), 226 – 49. 53. In addition to making sure cadres married the right kind of person, the party also monitored personal intimacy in public space. In 2004, a middle-aged man told me how a cadre from the Youth Union chastised him for having his arm around his girlfriend and for sitting so close to her on a public bench at Ho Hoan Kiem (Lake Hoan Kiem) when he was in his youth. The Youth Union cadre said it was late and told them they should be getting home. 54. Le Luu, Tho Xa Vang (Hanoi: Nha Xuat Ban Hoi Nha Van, 1986); translated by Ngo Vinh Hai, Nguyen Ba Chung, Kevin Bowen, and David Hunt as A Time Far Past (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1997). For a brief historical discussion on the relationship between the Vietnamese political agendas and the role of literature as a “moral beacon” and Le Luu’s place within that history, see Linh Dinh’s introduction to Night, Again: Contempo­ rary Fiction from Vietnam, ed. Linh Dinh (New York: Seven Stories Press, 1996). 55. Liu, Translingual Practice, 169.

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56. Bao Ninh, The Sorrow of War, trans. Vo Banh Thanh and Phan Thanh Hao, with Katerina Pierce (London: Secker and Warburg, 1993); Ma Van Khang, “Me va con” (“Mother and Daughter”), Van Nghe, 1985; Nguyen Khai, Past Continuous, trans. Phan Thanh Hao and Wayne Karlin (Willimantic, CT: Curbstone, 2001). 57. Nguyen Van Linh quoted in Linh Dinh, introduction to Night, Again, xii. 58. Jayne Werner and Daniele Belanger, “Introduction: Gender and Viet Nam Studies,” in Gender, Household, State: Doi Moi in Viet Nam, ed. Jayne Werner and Daniele Belanger (Ithaca, NY: Cornell Southeast Asia Program Publications, 2002), 22. 59. Giebel, “Museum-Shrine,” in Hue-Tam Ho Tai, Country of Memory, 98. 60. For “community of sentiment,” see Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflection on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1991). 61. See Michel Foucault, An Introduction, vol. 1 of The History of Sexuality, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Pantheon, 1978). 62. In 1982, in order to ascertain the extent of societal and familial changes, the Hoi Dong Bo Truong (Ministerial Council) established a committee to draft a new “Law on Marriage and the Family” based on scientific information. The drafting committee decided to carry out an investigation on marriage and the family during 1982 and 1983 in thirteen provinces and “centrally dependent cities” (thanh pho truc thuoc trung uong). Data was collected on population, births, marriage, divorce, separation, orphans, etc., during the time period from 1979 to 1983. The committee also organized a number of “scientific” workshops to collect opinions regarding the connection between marriage and the family from scientists in the different fields of knowledge such as medicine, genetics, sociology, ethnography/ethnology, demography, and jurisprudence. Information was obtained from the Central Women’s Union. The drafting committee also consulted with the Ministries of Family Law of many socialist countries. On December 29, 1986, the National Assembly passed the new Law on Marriage and the Family; it was published on January 3, 1987. Nguyen Thi Dinh, “Van de bao ve quyen loi phu nu trong Luat Hon Nhan va Gia Dinh” (“The Issue of Protecting Women’s Interests in the Law on Marriage and the Family”), Bao Nhan Dan, August 13, 1986. 63. The 1986 law provides far more detail on roles and regulations of family life, giving the state even more legal say in this sphere than the 1959 law. See Phinney, “Asking for the Essential Child,” chap. 6. 64. Cited in Nguyen Quoc Tuan, Tim Hieu Cac Qui Dinh Phap Luat Ve Hon Nhan Va Gia Dinh (Understanding the Stipulations of the Law on Marriage and the Family) (Ho Chi Minh City: Nha Xuat Ban Thanh Pho Ho Chi Minh, 1995), 100; English translation from Fundamental Laws and Regulations of Vietnam (Hanoi: The Gioi, 1993). 65. Cited in Nguyen Quoc Tuan, Tim Hieu Cac Qui Dinh Phap Luat Ve Hon Nhan Va Gia Dinh, 100; translated in Fundamental Laws, 298. 66. Article 2 of the 1986 law states: “Vo chong co nghia vu thuc hien sinh de co ke hoach” (Hus-

positions 16:2  Fall 2008

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band and wife shall have the obligation to implement family planning. Parents shall have the duty to make their children useful to society, and children shall be obliged to respect, take care of, and support their parents). Nguyen Quoc Tuan, Tim Hieu Cac Qui Dinh Phap Luat Ve Hon Nhan Va Gia Dinh, 100; translated in Fundamental Laws, 297 – 98. 67. Ann Anagnost, National Past-Times: Narrative, Representation, and Power in Modern China (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 123. 68. Werner and Belanger, “Introduction: Gender and Viet Nam Studies,” 40. 69. Rofel, “Liberation, Nostalgia,” in Gilmartin et al., Engendering China, 246. 70. Me Viet Nam is a golden statue, majestic and heroic, elegant. She has notably large breasts and she carries a boy child on her left shoulder. He too, majestic, raises his hands wide welcoming life, welcoming the future. Me Viet Nam’s right arm extends downward, her palm toward the ground as if to squelch life difficulties. She stands at the center of a rising four-story breast-shaped cupola and directly under a silver chandelier. The chandelier’s main down light is oval shaped. Five arms with large milky white light bulbs at each end radiate out and downward from the middle rod (the font) creating a lighted dome over her and her boy. The oval is meant to represent a woman’s breast, the long metal arms milk ducts, and the bulbs drops of breast milk. The sky is raining milk. Behind Me Viet Nam is a mural — a blue river of milk streams by as do clouds filled with milk. For a discussion on the Women’s Union discourses of maternal desire, see Harriet M. Phinney, “Discursive Transformations: Maternal Desire among Older Single Women in Northern Viet Nam,” in Le Viet Nam au Feminin (Vietnam: Women’s Realities), ed. Gisele Bousquet and Nora Taylor (Paris: Le Indes Savants, 2005), 267 – 86. 71. Phinney, “Asking for the Essential Child.” 72. Rudolf Mrazek, “Let Us Become Radio Mechanics,” in Engineers of Happy Land: Technol­ ogy and Nationalism in a Colony (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2002), 163.

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