Vietnam's lost generation
BY ANDREW LAM
HO CHI MINH CITY -- Not long ago, Tuan Tran, a 22-year-old honda
om (motorcycle taxi) driver in Saigon, told me that to go out late at
night was impossible because of the 10 o'clock curfew. Not long ago,
children had to recite Ho Chi Minh's famous slogans like parrots and
no one dared question authorities aloud without risking arrest as
``anti-revolutionary'' or ``reactionary.'' And not long ago, Vietnam's
narrative of itself was that it managed to do the impossible: It
defeated the super-powerful French and American imperialists,
something all of Uncle Ho's nationalistic nephews and nieces were
supposed to be uniquely proud of.
But Tuan is quick to acknowledge that his ``not long ago'' might as
well belong to the ancient past. For in this post-Cold War era of free
markets, quickly shifting values and porous borders, teenagers recite
American songs they learn from karaoke machines. Curfews are
non-existent, and everyone, young and old, can stay out all night if
they want to.
Most ironic, Ho Chi Minh's most famous slogan ``nothing more
precious than independence and freedom,'' once intended to spur
his followers to sacrifice their lives in a bloody war to liberate
Vietnam from foreign dominance, has been conveniently
reinterpreted by the young as encouragement for individual desire
and ambition.
To show me his new world, Tuan drove us downtown and we
immediately merged with a river of teenagers and 20-somethings on
motorbikes and bicycles. It was Saturday at dusk, and the brightly lit
billboards above us flashed images from dozens of companies that
have recently made their homes here -- Sanyo, Tiger Beers, Toyota,
Heineken, Kodak, National, Honda, Pepsi, British Petroleum,
Coca-Cola, Marlboro, Sam Sung, 555 . . . their iridescent lights cast a
seductive sheen over the young and hopeful faces of Vietnam.
Twenty-three years after the Vietnam War ended, the country has
become the land of the restless young. Sixty percent of Vietnam's 75
million people are under 25 years old. And this new generation is
growing up with no memory of the war. ``The war belongs to history
books,'' declared one teenager matter-of-factly.
They are cynical because many have grown distrustful of the state.
``All the indoctrinating slogans have been taken away so that the
billboards can take their space,'' Tuan remarked, laughing. ``So now
I know that everything `anti-revolutionary' and `bourgeois' and
`decadent' is here to stay.''
But then Tuan added wistfully, his mood quickly shifting: ``We've
been tricked, brother. Before, I knew communism was wrong when I
had to memorize Marxist doctrines in school, but I didn't know why.
Only after Vietnam opened up and I watched on TV and read in the
magazines that I realized how rich other countries were, how
amazing their movies, how beautiful their people. Then I thought of
Vietnam and I felt real sad. Vietnam is a poor country compared to
Thailand, Korea and Malaysia, let alone America. We have nothing to
offer, just a nation of ignorant and malnourished people.''
Indeed, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Vietnam's main backer
during the Cold War, the ideology Ho Chi Minh once elevated to the
level of religion fell quickly into the gutter. In order to save its own
skin, the Communist Party rewrote its constitution to allow ``private
capitalism,'' and reinstalled doi moi (a Vietnamese version of
perestroika) to encourage economic reform. As a result, the party's
grip on society loosened considerably. Gone are the days when
everyone had to report to local authorities for weekly Marxist-Leninist
indoctrination sessions. Gone are domestic travel permit
requirements and the ration tickets, once issued by the state for
citizens to buy rice and sugar from state-owned stores as a way to
control people's movements and stomachs.
Duong Thu Huong is author of the internationally acclaimed
``Paradise of the Blind,'' a novel that examines and criticizes the
errors of Vietnamese communism. He recently observed,
``Vietnamese youths are no longer idealistic. Today they are revolting
as if to avenge the prior generations for their deceptions.''
This new revolution comes with its own vocabulary:
Di quay: To go wild, to get drunk, to stir up trouble.
Song voi: To live fast, to hurry life and spend it away.
Dut lot: To grease the machine, to give money to a corrupt person in
power so as to improve one's lot.
Dua doi: To be competitive, to be greedy, to keep up with the
Joneses.
Van hoa toc do: Speed culture; culture that moves along at high
speed.
For Cuong Tran, 21, a well-groomed and handsome young man who
works as a hair stylist, to song voi was to pay the equivalent of 40
U.S. dollars for a concert ticket when Sting came to town a few years
ago. Cuong makes less than $100 a month, but he borrowed money
for the concert anyway. ``I couldn't afford the ticket, but I figure, how
many times in my lifetime will Sting visit Vietnam? I was in debt for
a year but it was worth it.''
Like Tuan, Cuong had dropped out of high school when he was 15.
His teachers had demanded extra money for lessons not given in
class. ``In Vietnam you have to pay the teachers extra or they would
hold the key lessons from you,'' Cuong said. ``Without the key
lessons, you don't pass the tests. Every one is corrupted, including
the teachers.''
Cuong' s observation is not far from the truth. The practice of holding
key information from daily classes is so common that few families
protest anymore. Those who can afford it simply pay for ``private
tutorials'' in order for their children to make it to college. Those who
can't, and there are many, especially in rural areas, simply let their
children drop out of school and work for a living.
From the last available statistics (1993), only 11 percent of
Vietnamese children age 15-17 were in upper secondary school, and
only 2 percent of young men and women age 18-24 were enrolled in
college level courses. Giang The Nguyen, a Communist Party
member, blames the state of the education system on a party more
obsessed with strengthening its hold on power than with investing in
schools. In an open and biting letter he wrote to the party, which was
subsequently published abroad a few years back, Giang asked:
``How can national education not degrade when the investment is
just a few dollars per student per year, compared to US$100 to
US$200 per student in other countries in Southeast Asia? All we have
in front of us is a terrifying void in science and education.''
That youths are less educated than previous generations, even those
who grew up during the war, is not the main cause for their malaise,
however. I suspect this deep-rooted discontent has something to do
with the new generation's changing self-perception in the face of the
new world order.
One glaring afternoon after Cuong and I searched in vain for Duong
Thu Huong's ``Paradise of the Blind'' and Bao Ninh's ``The Sorrow of
War,'' he said defeatedly, ``Tell you the truth, brother, I think it's
a
waste of time to look for books that no one wants to read. Anything
worthwhile is all translated materials from overseas.'' This remark,
full of self-pity, is echoed by young people in Hanoi and Saigon:
``Vietnam has nothing worthwhile.''
``We are so poor.''
``People from other countries are so rich and beautiful and
sophisticated.''
This chorus of voices conveys a profound inferiority complex.