What war?

The death of Vietnam's most famous protest singer -- who was abused by authorities both North and South -- inspires historical amnesia.

By Adam Miller

Aug 3, 2001 | Family, friends and fans of the late Trinh Cong Son gathered last month in California's Little Saigon for a concert honoring the singer-songwriter/painter-poet Joan Baez called "the Bob Dylan of Vietnam." But instead of celebrating the life and legacy of Southeast Asia's best-known musician, those arriving at the La Mirada Theater in La Mirada, California on July 15 found themselves reliving the internal battles that decades ago had helped tear Vietnam apart. Hundreds of demonstrators had shown up, many of them veterans of the South Vietnamese Army, and were protesting the performance of songs by someone they still consider a pro-communist traitor.

Son, a slight man with a wispy beard and mustache, died in April at 62 from multiple disorders exacerbated by a history of heavy drinking. His tragic saga in many ways mirrored the evolution of the still-emerging Vietnamese state, as well as the lives of its citizens who fled to the United States after the war.

"I drink because I'm lonely," said the much-adored but never-married artist, whose soaring anthems and haunting ballads galvanized the South Vietnamese student-led opposition to the war. "If I don't drink I can't sleep."

During the war years, Son performed to vast throngs of university students. The students, in turn, shielded him from South Vietnamese police seeking to arrest him for draft dodging. When not surrounded by such supporters, Son lived in hiding to avoid being taken into custody.

At a time when just the wrong tone toward the government could result in imprisonment or even "disappearance," Son spoke out publicly and frankly, articulating the sentiments of a large portion of the country's students and becoming a hero to many of them.

"Even the most intelligent of [politicians] are imbeciles," he said. "I call them inspired murderers ... I only speak of what I dream: Call it a revolution with bare hands."

Given Son's immense popularity, which far exceeded that of any South Vietnamese military or political figure, successive governments in Saigon believed heavy-handed action against him might lead to an uprising. Instead, the secret police subjected Son to a covert campaign of nearly unending harassment. Nevertheless, the singer-songwriter eventually became so influential that the government decided to take its chances: It banned Son's public performances, radio and television broadcasts of him and the distribution of his recordings. Son was even forbidden to enter Saigon, where most of his audience resided. But despite these efforts, a thriving illicit market for his material developed.

In April, tens of thousands escorted the funeral cortege including a U.S.-made, Vietnam War-era Dodge van carrying Son's body to a Buddhist burial ground -- the contradictions and ironies of his legacy hung heavy in the hot and humid air. Hue, the once glorious cultural and intellectual center of Vietnam, has gone to seed and sadness in the last half-century -- first in the jaws of Western militarism and lately in the arms of global mercantilism.

In his early years, Son watched his recordings confiscated and destroyed initially by South, then North, Vietnamese authorities. His antiwar themes, which questioned the justice of the war on both sides and the value of war in general, "weakened the people's fighting spirit," in the words of the administration in Saigon, and were "defeatist," according to the regime in Hanoi. In his final years, Son again saw his songs and sheet music snatched up by the government -- this time because Vietnam's increasing integration into the world economy required that it comply with international capitalism's insistence on the enforcement of intellectual property laws. It was apparently beside the point that few in Vietnam can afford "official" rather than bootleg products.

"Now [Vietnamese] are in pursuit of the good life; everyone is chasing money," said Son, who, with the exception of his legendary drinking and five-pack-a-day smoking habit, had long pursued a nearly ascetic simplicity in his external life and affairs.

Next Page: A free reeducation, courtesy of the government

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