Born in 1940 in the south-central province of Bình Định, Nguyễn Mộng Giác worked in various capacities in education while pursuing an acclaimed writing career before the end of the Vietnam War in 1975. His novella Đường một chiều [One-Way Street] received South Vietnam’s PEN Award in 1974. He fled communist Vietnam by boat in 1981 and resettled in California the following year. He then founded and served as editor in chief of Văn Học [Literature] magazine from 1986 to 2004 before passing away in 2012 after a long struggle with liver cancer.
Nguyễn Mộng Giác was best known for his two epic novels: the five-volume Mùa biển động [Season of Stormy Seas] (1984–1989), set in South Vietnam from the fall of the Ngô Đình Diệm regime in 1963 to the exodus after the fall of Sài Gòn in 1975, and the four-volume historical saga Sông Côn mùa lũ [The Côn River in Flood Season] (1990–1991), which drew upon the historical heritage of his native Tây Sơn heartland at the end of the eighteenth century to reflect upon the vicissitudes of intellectuals against opportunists and tyrants in times of chaos, reminiscent of wartime and postwar Vietnam in the twentieth century.
Drawn from the collection Ngựa nản chân bon [Even Swift-Legged Horses Grow Weary] (1984), this short story “Về nguồn” [Back to the Source] shows an unexpected satirical side of Nguyễn Mộng Giác in his irreverent send-up of postwar socialism under the long-ruling Vietnamese Communist Party (VCP) General Secretary Lê Duẩn (1907–1986). It pokes fun at postwar efforts at ideological purification through actual discriminatory background screening, and by extension lampoons the wishful perpetuation of revolutionary bloodlines through preposterous eugenic designs. Three other short stories from the same collection have been translated by the late Huỳnh Sanh Thông in the collection To Be Made Over: Tales of Socialist Reeducation in Vietnam (Yale Center for International and Area Studies, 1988).
—Vinh Quoc Nguyen
Back to the Source1
Translated by Vinh Quoc Nguyen
As he turned on the TV to watch the Saturday evening program of southern cải lương opera to forget the vexation at the office, the comrade chief of the college admissions committee stumbled upon the weather forecast.2 When the S-shaped map appeared within the TV frame, the announcer was reading in a droning sleepy tone, “Weather forecast for tonight and tomorrow: It is cloudy, there will be heavy rain in the morning; there might be a storm in the afternoon and evening. Meteorological news for coastline boats: In the region of Hồ Chí Minh City and special region Vũng Tàu–Côn Đảo, visibility is less than one kilometer, stormy to extremely stormy sea. Wind gusts at force 6, force 7, and force 8 [on the Beaufort scale] in some places…”
He was numb with worry…The announcer had correctly forecast the weather of his office. If every office had its own spring and winter, then the admissions committee was in a sad winter. Everyone was working hurriedly, as if wrestling with the heaps of files without finding any glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. The committee was also singled out for review and criticism at every summary meeting at the office. Cadres and staff even brought dinner to eat at the office to work through the night, everyone’s eyes showing dark rings, and yet their work remained mired in inertia. Phone calls from colleges and specialized high schools kept ringing, pressing for the urgent release of the summary report about student backgrounds so they could issue their acceptance lists in time. The Polytechnic College was already three days late. The Medical College, seven days. The Teacher’s College, eleven days. The College of Arts and Sciences, six days. The organizational committee of the City Party Committee itself went down to inspect. Pressed from above and below, it was like a hammer and anvil were zeroing in on the committee chief to flatten his skinny body. He had requested some specialists from the city police for assistance, but they were only pouring gasoline on the fire, which was already hot enough to burn up the careers of the entire staff of the admissions committee. With professional eyes, after having perused the background accounts of the student applicants, these specialists had written a really pessimistic report.
On the whole, they divided these background accounts into two categories. The first category included fuzzy background reports that needed to be clarified before accepting the applicant to college. These background reports were neither fake nor heavily corrected. They even carried the red seal and proper signature of the standing committee member or the chief of the ward or commune. But because the responsible authorities did not grasp the political files of the people in their locality, there were questionable spots in the background reports. For example, on a background report written about one applicant in question, the chief of the ward or commune only wrote, “Notarized according to the statements of the applicant in question.” Which applicant in question would be so foolish as to spell out all his negative traits or unfavorable details in black and white? Somewhere it was written, “The applicant in question has residency registration in our Ward 19.” Superfluous! So superfluous as to the point of silliness! Who would dare issue a background report to someone without residency registration? What’s more, the ward committee member, for lack of professional standard, had overlooked some really important details without asking for clarification from the person in question before signing and putting the seal on the form. Some lad stated that his father was a cadre in state institution X, but what kind of cadre? Recently transferred to the south from A (meaning from the north), or returning to the city from R (meaning from the maquis)? Even those recently selected to be state employees, who had been living in the temporarily occupied areas (nobody knew if they had committed war crimes during the American and puppet period), and who had been low-level employees of the atrocious Sài Gòn regime still called themselves cadres. To believe these statements is tantamount to believing in the slanderous flirt Thị Mầu!3 Some girl declared that her mother was working at the Fatherland Front of District Y. The Front? It was like a grocery store specializing in displaying samples of all kinds of sundry goods, from those who specialized in religious work to the recently released puppet officers waiting to escape by boat. Which kind of goods was the mother of the person in question? What kind of official work? Work such as hiding under the umbrella of the Front to avoid attention from the neighborhood ward police or translating a few nonsensical pages of English or French documents to be tossed into a corner? How about full siblings who were all state employees? Ninety-nine percent of city employees were old guards retained for employment by the revolution.4 Such was the utmost favor granted those retainees by the state, what could be left for them to share with their siblings? The dead father of the person in question, no need to declare his profession and address? Why not? Why did he die? Did he die from illness? Or did he die in sacrifice for the fatherland? Or did he meet his comeuppance for his sins? In general, the background reports certified by the people’s committees of the wards and villages were all unclear, and unclear meant open to suspicion.
The second category included the background reports signed and certified by the very same local police. This type would avoid the ambiguities often seen in the first category, but the comments and proposals at the bottom would put the admissions committee in a bind. How about Miss Trần Thị Dung, whose mother was Huyền Tôn Nữ Thu Trang and father was Trần Bá Cảnh, a sergeant in the red-belt indigenous troops during the French colonial period.5 Counting on the fact that her father had died from illness in 1944, Miss Dung left blank the spaces to declare her father’s profession and current address. The chief of police of Ward 17 of District 6 himself had added in a scrawl the words “sergeant in the red-belt indigenous troops” in the space for profession, and “had yet to repay the blood debt to the people” in the space for address. Underneath the background report was the remark: “Child of colonial feudalists, we propose to send her to be reformed in labor camps.” And how about families with children in both the puppet army and the revolution, like most of the families in the south? Forthwith came the comment: “Half lean half lard, this family belonged to the halfway stratum.” A candidate proudly boasted of an elder brother who had participated in the struggle of the urban student movement and had been jailed by the Americans and puppets. But through professional eyes, the chief of the village police had asked on the background declaration form: “In prison did he turn traitor and surrender to the enemies? Needs to be clarified before acceptance.” In summary, in the second category, most of the candidates would become enemies of the people, or they might have already been enemies and traitors.
There were only a few students—children of cadres from the north or the maquis—with clear and pure backgrounds. But they were too small in number, not enough for the admission quotas for the various universities. What is to be done? The deeper you dig into the piles of backgrounds, the slower and more troublesome the work. But it was impossible not to dig deeper. The comrade chief racked his brain and sought advice from everywhere without yet finding a way out.
Yesterday morning, having been harassed too much by phone, he intended to risk it. To mark all of them as good. Then to propose that during their attendance, the school principals gradually verify their backgrounds and cast out those liars and falsifiers. He had yet to act on this careless thought when yesterday afternoon the City Party Committee summoned him to remind him of the situation of college students leaving school to flee across the border or, having graduated, leaving their offices to sell goods in the open-air markets. Comrade Party Secretary harshly stated, “Comrades, your work in admissions means you are in charge of selecting the seeds. That’s the most important part. The future of the country, the prospect of the nation, all lie neatly within your hands. What kind of job are you doing to have brought about such worrisome results? You must reexamine from the top. From the top, do you hear me? Do you understand what I mean by ‘from the top’? No, it is not ‘from the start’! But ‘from your tops,’ from your heads! Have you wavered in your stance? You must check it carefully again. If your revolutionary stance is firm, your eyes will be clear. No children of the enemies will get past you into the university.”
It was indeed a bad weather forecast for his office: “Visibility not more than one kilometer,” and therefore the boat he was steering would surely meet with “winds of force 7 or force 8.” Would cold rain and big storms bury his career?
That night, on TV they were replaying the opera Dowager Queen Dương Vân Nga.6 Dowager Queen diva Thanh Nga had been shot down by blackmailing bandits in her family car on Ngô Tùng Châu Street, therefore Dowager Queen diva Bạch Tuyết had to substitute for her.7 Beautiful diva, expensive magnificent scenery, expert vocalism! But, as he was filled with worries, the comrade chief was only watching distractedly. He admired the talents of the southern opera artists even though deep in his heart he still harbored antipathy for the diva Bạch Tuyết. A retained employee of his had reported to him that Bạch Tuyết had once worn a GI helmet of the invaders to have her photograph taken for publication in the magazine Stars and Stripes. Why did she have her photo taken alongside the imperialists—and furthermore why did she wear their headgear to publicize them? Surely they must have written this in the caption below the photo: “The most excellent operatic diva of Vietnam welcomes the GI lads.” Why would a state-run opera troupe like the Trần Hữu Trang Troupe retain Bạch Tuyết for employment? Why would the City Department of Culture and Information allow Bạch Tuyết to appear on TV? Had they wavered in their stance? Such questions were ruining his experience of viewing the opera. In the end, the only person he admired was the librettist Trúc Đường. How talented! To turn a lecherous woman who had been fortunate to be spared accusation of the crime of adultery by feudalist historians into a patriotic woman abreast of the time! How talented were the writers! How pliable and skillful! Such a difficult task was not beyond them. And him? He was reminded of the four lines of verses by Uncle Hồ:
His task was not too difficult? Uncle Hồ has whispered to him the reminder: Only because his heart was not steadfast and not determined was he filled with worries! Anyway, the revolution is a common endeavor. Why hadn’t he consulted with other peer offices, such as the Institute of Planning, the organizational department of the City Party Committee? Of course. He had a close friend who was serving as the director of the Institute of Planning. How muddle-headed of him. Why hadn’t he consulted him? Having found a good solution, the comrade chief went to sleep with peace of mind. For the first time in eight months, since his arrival as chief of the admissions committee, he could get a good night’s sleep.
***
Exactly a week later, also on a Saturday evening, the comrade director of the Central Institute of Planning was pacing restlessly in and out of his twenty-square-meter room on Lý Nam Đế Street. The air was hot and stuffy. Outside, dark clouds weighed down threateningly over hazy lights. When it started to rain and gust, he had to tightly shut the big window panes and sit at the small table by the side of his wife’s bed. On the other side of the flowery curtain with stains from rain leaks, his three children were sound asleep. His wife intended to watch classical operas usually shown on TV every Saturday, but upon the announcement of the last-minute change of programming due to “technical difficulties,” she casually leafed through the magazine Vietnamese Women before going to sleep as well. Only the comrade director was staying up late. His friends were spreading the word that the play Herostastus, the Temple Arsonist performed by the Central Spoken Drama Troupe was excellent and profound, so he tried to stay up to see how it was.9 It was not that he was restlessly eager to watch the play. He did not love the arts to such an extent. He only wanted to find some way to temporarily forget the messy difficulties at the institute.
When he turned on the TV, he stumbled onto the weather forecast: “Few clouds. Some rain in the morning, good sunshine in the afternoon. Forecast for boats along the coastline: In the Tonkin Gulf, visibility about ten kilometers. Light to stormy sea. Winds at force 2, force 3, and force 4 in some places…”
The comrade director was somewhat amused and nodded to himself. “Those meteorologists have made progress, haven’t they. Unlike before when they always kept threatening rain and storm.”
He felt heartened, and having completely forgotten about the Soviet play The Temple Arsonist, he returned to his work desk. The ten-inch neon light seemed brighter tonight than before. He was rubbing the ballpoint pen tip on the lip of the blotting paper in preparation for writing down his proposals when the electricity went out. Out or not, never mind. His heart was cheerful, his will was steadfast, be it with a kerosene lamp or a neon light, he could still work. He was whistling as he lit up the storm lantern made by the Chinese brand Bright Quintessence.
The lamp was just bright enough to clarify the numerous intractable problems spread out in front of him. What is to be done? Not that he had utterly forgotten that there was a magical key capable of opening all the closed doors: “Holding fast dictatorship of the proletariat, promoting collective mastery of the working people, undertaking at the same time the three revolutions: relations of production, science and technology, and culture and thought, pivotal among which is the revolution of science and technology.”10 He looked around, worriedly toward his wife, then muttered, “I know, what a pain, shut up already!”11 Knowing that for years, why were countless burdensome and thorny problems continuously being dumped on his institute? Why had productivity not increased but instead decreased to a worrying degree? Why had members and even the local party committees at agricultural cooperatives who colluded with each other on “product contracts” that ran counter to state policies been better at meeting rice quotas than those that observed such policies? Why had hydroelectric projects in southern provinces gone bankrupt? Why were many of the first- and second-echelon canals, which had taken countless resources to dig up, filled back in again? Why had orders to abolish toll stations spreading like fungi along the main national highway, as he observed in the last visit to the south, failed to stop the disparate toll regulations in each province, leading to great disparities in prices at various locales? Why had fallow land been left to weeds, and yet the urban population still clung to the open-air markets? How can the plague of work slow-down spreading all over state agencies and state-run enterprises be stopped? How can the dangerous brain drain from pervasive flight across the border be put to an end? How can epidemic corruption be rooted out? How can the soaring number of jails and prisoners be lowered? Why? Why? What is there to do? What is there to do? Why? What is there to do? Such nonstop and frightful questions came out of his startled mouth like that of a death row inmate fearfully awaiting the guillotine. The lamp slowly went out before his eyes. The kerosene was running out! He added kerosene and had to wait quite a while for the light to get strong enough for him to keep on reading the proposals forwarded from local institutes of planning and specialized agencies. There was such a thick pile of official documents that he anticipated not being able to read through them all. He had to find a simpler and more specific solution to stand a chance of solving them. How would he do it? Where would he find it? By habit, whenever feeling discouraged, he would look up to read the four verses by Uncle Hồ that he had written in his own hand to hang in front of his desk:
High above, Uncle Hồ was smiling at him in encouragement. Feeling reassured, he racked his brain again to find the magic key. While he was lost in vague thoughts, his eyes happened to glance across the letter from his old friend Tân, who was currently the head of the admissions committee in the city bearing the name of Uncle Hồ. He had read that letter in the morning and felt uncomfortable afterward because his friend was seeking his help in answering the questions that he himself could not answer. “But why? What is there to do? At the central level you have mastered the policies and party line (especially at such an office of strategic vision), please help me. Or more correctly, please help us, help the 4th, 4.5th, or 5th generations so that our descendants can continue to preserve the achievements of the revolution for which the first vanguard generation of Uncle Hồ, the second generation of anti-colonial resistance, the third generation of anti-American national salvation, have spilled so much blood to achieve.” How troublesome! How annoying! Such a cunning friend! Using big words and lofty mottos to bind his brothers, how sly of him!
The comrade director shoved aside the pile of official documents to carefully read Mr. Tân’s letter once again. Halfway through, he exclaimed, “Aha! Here is the key! How dim-witted of me!” Uncle Hồ himself taught us: “To build socialism, first of all, you must have socialist persons.” If you didn’t care about training new persons, how could you build a new paradise on this very earth? The suggestion from the Admissions Committee in the city that bore the name of Uncle Hồ was really worth the attention. We must place this issue as top priority.
Overjoyed, he ran to his wife to wake her up. She had just returned from an official trip to the breeding cattle farm in Ba Vì. Feeling exhausted she was curled up in deep sleep, her saliva drooling past her lips. The director found his wife’s sleeping position adorable; the trace of saliva became a sign of impartial insouciance. His wife was grumbling something, and then she sat up while rubbing her eyes. The comrade director shook his wife and said, “My dear. Wake up, I have something really interesting to tell you.”
With a long yawn, his wife asked, “What’s that? Somebody’s house is on fire?”
“No! I have just found the key to fully solving the numerous difficulties all over the country. Just think. To take a small case in point: How can cooperative members be made to sustain production rather than trade in the open-air market?”
With another really long yawn, his wife said, “So easy. And you woke me up just for that?”
“Easy! What is your solution?”
Feeling annoyed, his wife sat upright and asked her husband with a severe expression, “Alright. But first you have to answer a few short questions of mine. Do you like to eat well?”
“Yes. Who wouldn’t?”
“Do you like to dress well?”
“Yes, of course, but…”
“There is no need to add ‘but,’ ‘because,’ or ‘even though.’ Do you like to sleep on a warm and comfy bed?”
“Yes, if…”
“There is no need for ‘if.’ Do you like to live in a villa, with your own car?”
“Let’s say yes, even though…”
“That’s enough. Let nature take its course. Uncle Hồ was like a saint, but there are many people in life who are not saints. The trouble comes from forcing everybody to be a saint.”
“Where have you left your stance…”
“I have my own stance based on the experience of observation at the Research Institute of Animal Husbandry. Cattle have no thoughts, but they still have a ‘policy’ to guide their way of life, don’t they?”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
“Alright, let me make it brief. What key have you found?”
Beside himself with joy, the comrade director read aloud the famous saying of Uncle Hồ, considering it the key to opening wide the difficult door of his friend at the Admissions Committee.
Pursing her lips his wife asked, “But what if you want to have all new persons to build socialism?”
Feeling stuck, the director mumbled repeatedly, “If you want new persons…if you want socialist persons…if you want pure communist persons…we must…we must…”
His wife burst out laughing, “Just imitate what I have been doing for a long time!”
“How so?”
“Use frozen semen pellets to breed animals. Indian Mura buffaloes, Russian milk cows, Cuban pigs—we had asked for just a few sample animals, and yet now there are countless numbers of them at all the animal farms.”
Feeling dubious, the director asked hesitatingly, “Doing it like that with cattle is alright, but humans…”
“What about humans? They are still living creatures like oxen and cows. I heard that long ago when the Nazis wanted their wives back home to continue giving birth to little Nazis to follow in the footsteps of their fathers and elder brothers, they also sent vials of semen from the battle front. Now, with progress in science, it is more convenient to use frozen semen pellets.”
“But brother Tân is tormented by something else: the matter of background screening to select excellent and steadfast students for college.”
His wife replied right away, “My solution can solve that too. If we use the seminal essence of the true communists who have been tested, then the fathers’ backgrounds are sure to be excellent. What remains is to select the mothers of the ‘three responsibilities’ type,12 the ‘strong and steadfast female soldiers.’13
So novel and bold was his wife’s suggestion, it left the director stunned. He sat numbly for a long while. He was at a loss thinking about it. Such a suggestion was not only rational, it also didn’t violate the uncompromisable principles of such policy guidelines as the dictatorship of the proletariat or promoting the collective mastery of the working people. It was also suitable to the pivotal revolution, namely the scientific and technological revolution. Pondering it for a long time, he resigned himself to nodding along, “What you say makes sense. Go to sleep then. Let me try to present such a plan to my superiors tomorrow and see how it goes.”
***
By chance, the kind of chance that Marx had discussed thoroughly in historical materialism, the Politburo held an urgent meeting on Saturday evening. While waiting for the late-coming comrades, the early arrivers turned on the TV to watch the weekend special programs. By historical chance everyone stumbled right upon the weather forecast. The announcer was reading slowly in her sweet and gentle voice: “Weather forecast for tonight and tomorrow: The area around Hà Nội is clear, with light drizzle in the morning, and splendid sunshine in the afternoon. Meteorological news for boats along the coastline: In the Tonkin Gulf, visibility beyond ten kilometers, the sea is completely calm, with light wind at force 1 and force 2 in some places…”
Laughing out loud, comrade General Secretary gave a compliment, “After several rounds of criticism, haven’t they gotten better indeed!”
The conversation afterward crackled like popcorn. Unlike how the masses imagined high-level meetings to be similar to proceedings at a feudal court, here the atmosphere was entirely comfortable and friendly. The simple way of living and working of Uncle Hồ had become the model to the disciples who succeeded him. The meeting room was thus the cozy living room of comrade General Secretary. Anybody could take his seat at will wherever he liked. Secret documents were placed on the coffee table, under the ash tray made from the shell of a B-52 plane, strewn upon a pile of the People’s Daily newspaper, tucked inside the Communist Review, or laying on the shiny blood-red wooden piano stool. Except for the two clerks of the secretariat in formal dress and with respectful demeanors, everybody was casually dressed, their short-sleeved shirts untucked, their feet in sandals. All the comrade leaders were in good health, so even though it was stormy outside in the chillingly cold climate, each of them was lightly wrapped in a thin woolen scarf. Their intimate appellations in numerical order sounded just like those of a southern rural farmer’s family. For example, nobody would reverently say, “Dear comrade General Secretary.” They would say very simply, “Dear Elder Brother Three.”14 That’s all! The higher-ups would address others as younger brothers. The lower-downs would call themselves younger brothers and address their superiors as elder brothers.
The secretariat and specialized committees began to report on the general situation. The external relations committee talked about normalization with America and plans for comprehensive cooperation with the brotherly Soviet Union. The General Labor Union sought to explain the phenomenon of the so-called “Solidarity Union” in Poland and predict its corollaries. The internal affairs committee discussed the problem of finding funds to expand jails and compensate for the extraneous expenditures on the increased number of prisoners. The agricultural committee proposed the approval of the project of “rice contracts” down to the household level to rescue the shortage in grains. The industrial committee also sought approval of “product contracts” and salaries based on actual products. Having been debated many times, these seemingly thorny issues were adopted amid laughter and hearty sounds of sipping delicious tea and munching on peanut brittle. It had gotten rather late, and nobody had seen the reason Elder Brother Three had summoned this urgent meeting of the full Politburo. Everybody was waiting, waiting, waiting…Only when Elder Brother Three tactfully asked the two clerks to go home to sleep for the sake of their health did everyone know that the serious moment in national history had arrived.
After waiting for the two clerks to leave, comrade General Secretary, in a friendly gesture, invited everyone to pull their chairs closer, and said, “This matter is both important and amusing according to each way of looking. I do not consider it lightly at all, hence this meeting. I have to discuss it secretly with you brothers first, before opening it up to a wider meeting later. Though a common matter, it is also a private matter because it involves the health, will, and feelings of each of us; though a private matter, it is also a common matter because it affects many generations. Not only the 4th, 4.5th generations as you brothers have joked about, but it might extend to the 10th or 20th generation. So that you brothers can leave and rest early, let me read aloud right away the project of the Institute of Planning.”
After Elder Brother Three had finished reading it aloud, a great many people felt bewildered and unsure about what to think and say. After a long while, some of them whispered, “They really made such a proposal?”
Some said, “Are they serious?”
Some tried to have it both ways, “It actually does not run too counter to our policy!”
Comrade General Secretary said, “I have perused the classics and in fact realized that the project does not run counter to Marxist-Leninism. Through the eyes of dialectical materialism, it is even well-suited to the demands of history on the other hand. The main issue is whether we brothers dare to realize it. I believe that when comrade Lenin had finished reading comrade Karl Marx’s Das Kapital, he harbored similar feelings to ours tonight. To dare or not to dare, that is the question.”
Elder Brother Three finished talking and looked around at everybody. Whether from sleepiness, the cold temperature, or bewilderment before the bold project, everybody was huddled up, their shoulders shrunken inside their thin shirts, with the wilting posture of over-the-hill elderly men. Elder Brother Three suddenly remembered that everyone was already of advanced age, the youngest among them was over 60, some had passed beyond the rare worldly age of 70. Amid a dry cough, one of them sputtered the question, “How did they propose the pilot program?”
Elder Brother Three flipped through many pages until the last one before answering, “Right here. They put it in the appendix. Of course, the ideal fathers have to be veteran revolutionaries who have gone through many trials and who have bountiful health.”
The one who asked forgot his tact and said innocently, “I’m afraid that our health, the health of us brothers…”
Elder Brother Three glowered and retorted, “What about our health? At over 70 years of age, Chairman Mao could still swim across the Yangzi River. Not only could he swim, but he swam even faster than the strongest youths. We ought to have done something similar. This is also a trial of revolutionary will, please remember it, comrade!”
Once Elder Brother Three had addressed his brothers with the word “comrade,” the atmosphere in the room got visibly more solemn and serious. The project was quickly passed. The sitting posture and manner of speaking of each man became more youthful, stable, and eloquent. The remaining problem was to find the ideal fathers for the generation after the current fourth generation. The first man proposed to leave it to the comrade provincial party committee members. This idea was rejected because the experiment would be expanded on the scale of the whole country. Would the opinion of the not-yet-progressive public, the machinery of psychological warfare of the reactionaries, the narrow and conservative mindset of the priesthood, and international opinion leave us in peace? In communist China’s Zhongnanhai headquarters and the world capitals Washington, Rangoon, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Jakarta, Manila, Rome, and perhaps even Moscow, what would they think? The second opinion came from a recently promoted central committee member. It was still too much, there would surely be small-minded gossip. Of course, groundbreakers would face loneliness and sneers. But our currently disadvantageous diplomatic relations would not allow us to be too daring. The third opinion proposed narrowing it to the secretariat. After discussing it back and forth, in the end there was only one way out: “we ourselves have to bear full responsibility.” Having strong enough willpower to triumph over trials against numerous mighty imperialists of all stripes and colors, from Japan, China, France, and America to the current Chinese expansionists from Zhongnanhai, we must have more than enough willpower to triumph over this tiny little trial.
So simple was the revolutionary truth. Everyone was in part irritated, in part anxious, in part wanting to laugh, but outwardly each and everyone’s face showed an air of upbeat self-confidence. Comrade General Secretary looked up at the picture of Uncle Hồ, saying in a wistful tone, “What a pity, if only Uncle Hồ were still alive with us brothers…”
The rest of them, who had similar thoughts but no authority to utter such a seeming sacrilege, jumped on the bandwagon, “Indeed! If only Uncle Hồ were still alive!”
“How true. If only we had Uncle Hồ around…”
Then, thinking of their weakness and hesitancy before the trial, they all without prompt turned to the black lacquer plaque with mother-of-pearl inlay of the four precious verses:
They left when it was already so late. Each man’s car was equipped with a heater, but everyone was shivering, partly because the climate of Hà Nội was not exactly like the weather forecast on TV, partly because they were filled with vague anxiety.
***
The experimental project was carried out exactly as proposed by the Institute of Planning. The Department of Frozen Semen Pellets of the Central Institute of Animal Husbandry Research was secretly given a new task. The Central Women’s Union urgently held a secret meeting to debate and elect fourteen ideal mothers. Here, the Women’s Union met with many objective difficulties. Biological laws dared to operate outside of the dialectical method and would not allow female warriors past their prime who had gone through many trials to conceive, so it was imperative to select females under the age of 40. They belonged to the third generation, the generation of anti-American national salvation. A sizable number of them had lived for many years in the jungle to build the Hồ Chí Minh Trail, not only on the western side of the Long Cordillera mountain range but also on its eastern side, so they had caught chronic malaria, hence falling short of the health qualifications.15 Some were beautiful and healthy but suffered from the stigma of unsteadfast political stance and had not dared to volunteer to go to the southern front. Some were emaciated from having been tortured in the prisons of the Americans and puppets. Some were too obese from long years of working in state-run trade stores or restaurants. Some were too young to have earned achievements worthy of a good background. Some were too old to have enough milk to feed a baby.
After interminable quarrels and heated arguments, in the end, the Women’s Union had to resort to a computer. It was so hard to select fourteen mothers. Having the selection from the computer, they were faced with a new obstacle: seven of the fourteen lucky women had signed up for selection without consulting with their husbands. Their family would be on the rocks had the seven union secretariats not hastened to meet with the seven old-fashioned husbands to explain, threaten, and assuage at the same time. Human effort combined with machine power had finally completed their mission.
The Ministry of Health in coordination with the Union for the Protection of Women and Children had fully prepared all the means necessary to check and protect the fetuses, to deliver and care for the newborn infants. The Ministry of Education prepared to open special classes for the superlative children. A special committee would be formed to coordinate the tasks, to monitor and speed up the responsibilities of the various departments in the most harmonious and efficient manner. In summary, everything was ready to be the utmost best.
The Institute of Animal Husbandry Research appointed fourteen of its best specialists in the Department of Frozen Semen Pellets to Hà Nội to undertake a special mission. Beforehand, they had attended a twenty-one-day course on political education, with a bonus stipend of fifty đồng per day.16 They would stay and eat at a hotel reserved for international guests. They would be transported by small cars of the Ministry of the Interior. They would have to take an oath of secrecy before accepting their mission.
The preliminary plan of the Institute of Planning only took two double-spaced 8.5 x 11 pages. But after fully developing the original plan, the stack of documents came to two hundred full pages in small script.
However, this detailed plan did not account for a pivotal point: the determination of the leaders in the Politburo. After the urgent meeting that Saturday night, only after they had gotten home, would those dignitaries realize that they had just accepted a bizarre trial—including comrade General Secretary. But who among them would be the first to admit that he no longer had enough vitality to continue the sacrifice for the revolution? Who? Even Chairman Mao could still brave the Yangzi River in broad daylight before millions of people. As for us? Just a little effort in an area that nobody could see, the propaganda effect of it would be no less than the spectacular act of Chairman Mao, why shouldn’t we dare try it?
We must do it, though it still seems bizarre—that was the problem.
Therefore, some of those dignitaries resorted to the help of their chauffeurs who drove their private cars. Some resorted to the help of the orderlies. Not knowing anything, the orderlies found it odd, and they then resorted to the help of those who had traded favors with them, such as the head of the special food store, the head of the trade chamber, the one in charge of commodities, the guard of the gasoline depot, the economic police…which meant the middle-level officials held in their hands a lot of money, and in their brains a lot of schemes to collude with the authorities to enrich themselves.
What was the result of the experiment?
Very accurate. And you readers shouldn’t be surprised that by the 4.5th, 5th, and 6th generations…those inheritors of real power to lead the country were the chauffeurs of trade cadres, gasoline materials cadres, the economic police…
From father to son along their bloodline indeed.
Notes
English translation of Nguyễn Mộng Giác, “Về nguồn,” copyright 2025, United States Institute of Peace. This translation is based on Nguyễn Mộng Giác, “Về nguồn” [Back to the Source], in Ngựa nản chân bon [Even Swift-Legged Horses Grow Weary] (Westminster, CA: Văn Nghệ, 1988), 167–180.
Cải lương [reformed opera] is a form of traditional musical theater popularized in southern Vietnam from the beginning of the twentieth century.
In the northern chèo opera Quan Âm Thị Kính [Avalokitesvara Thị Kính], the incorrigible flirt Thị Mầu falsely accuses the female Thị Kính (disguised as a novice monk) to be the father of her out-of-wedlock baby. The name Thị Mầu thus became synonymous with liars.
That is, a majority of city employees had been civil servants under the Republic of Vietnam and were retained by the postwar government.
Red-belt indigenous troops [lính khố đỏ; French, milicien à ceinture rouge, or tirailleur indochinois] denotes the indigenous troops that served the French colonial state during the colonial period. They were distinguished by the color of their belt, in contrast to the lính khố xanh [blue-belted soldiers; French, milicien à ceinture bleue, or garde provincial] who were provincial guards or police.
The southern cải lương opera Thái hậu Dương Vân Nga [Dowager Queen Dương Vân Nga] was adapted from the libretto by Trúc Đường for a northern chèo opera of the same name. It tells the story of a dowager queen regent who patriotically offers the throne of her young son to an able general in the face of Chinese invasion. The opera had particular resonance in Vietnam in the run-up to the border war with China in early 1979.
Thanh Nga (1942–1978), dubbed the “queen of southern opera,” was assassinated by anti-communist terrorists during her celebrated run as Dowager Queen Dương Vân Nga. The role was subsequently assumed by her junior colleague Bạch Tuyết (b. 1945), another diva of southern opera, who turned it into one of her signature roles.
This poem was reputedly composed by Hồ Chí Minh in 1950 upon the creation of the Youth Shock Brigades [Thanh Niên Xung Phong] during the war of resistance against the French. It exemplifies the dogged spirit of voluntarism inculcated in generations of Vietnamese soldiers and paramilitary volunteers during wartime.
The play Forget Herostratus! (1972) is by the Soviet playwright Grigory Gorin (1940–2000).
These slogans are a mash-up of Marxist-Leninist doctrine and theoretical elaborations by the VCP’s long-ruling General Secretary Lê Duẩn (1907–1986).
This line was made famous by a character in the satirical novel Số đỏ [Dumb Luck] by Vũ Trọng Phụng (1912–1939).
North Vietnam launched the “three responsibilities” [ba đảm đang] emulation campaign during the Vietnam War, in which Vietnamese women assumed responsibility for the household, production, and fighting in their menfolk’s place.
“Strong and steadfast” [kiên cường] was a slogan to describe revolutionary and communist fighters of both sexes.
“Elder Brother Three” [Anh Ba] was the code name of General Secretary Lê Duẩn.
Trường Sơn [Long Cordillera] is the Vietnamese name for the Annamite Cordillera, the long mountain chain that runs north-south through central Vietnam.
The đồng is the currency unit of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. For comparison, in 1980 the starting salary of a high school teacher was forty-five đồng per month, so the stipend of fifty đồng per day was extraordinarily generous.