Dynamics of the Cold War in Asia: Ideology, Identity, and Culture

Dynamics of the Cold War in Asia

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Dynamics of the Cold War in Asia Ideology, Identity, and Culture

Edited by Tuong Vu and Wasana Wongsurawat

DYNAMICS OF THE COLD WAR IN ASIA

Copyright © Tuong Vu and Wasana Wongsurawat, 2009. All rights reserved. First published in 2009 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the United States - a division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, this is by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN: 9780230621947 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress. A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library. Design by Macmillan Publishing Solutions First edition: December 2009 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

Contents

List of Figures and Table

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List of Contributors

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Acknowledgments 1 2 3

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Cold War Studies and the Cultural Cold War in Asia Tuong Vu The Early South Vietnamese Critique of Communism Tuan Hoang “To Be Patriotic is to Build Socialism”: Communist Ideology in Vietnam’s Civil War Tuong Vu Indonesian Architectural Culture during Guided Democracy (1959–1965): Sukarno and the Works of Friedrich Silaban Setiadi Sopandi Relocating Socialism: Asia, Socialism, Communism, and the PAP Departure from the Socialist International in 1976 Leong Yew Inventing a Proletarian Fiction for China: The Stalin Prize, Cultural Diplomacy, and the Creation of a Pan-Socialist Identity Nicolai Volland Communist Vanguard Contest in East Asia during the 1960s and 1970s Bernd Schaefer The Rhetorical as Political: The Ramon Magsaysay Award and the Making of a Cold War Culture in Asia Rommel A. Curaming

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Expulsion for a Mistranslated Poem: The Diplomatic Aspects of North Korean Cultural Policies Balázs Szalontai From Yaowaraj to Plabplachai: The Thai State and Ethnic Chinese in Thailand during the Cold War Wasana Wongsurawat

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Notes

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Index

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List of Figures and Table

Figures 4.1 Sukarno congratulating F. Silaban during the prize-giving ceremony of the National Monument competition (1955) 4.2 Sekolah Pertanian Menengah Atas Building (1948) 4.3 Bank Indonesia Building model in a photomontage (1955) 4.4 Silaban’s House (1959−1960)

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Table 8.1 Major areas of concern and total number of awardees

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List of Contributors

Rommel A. Curaming is a postdoctoral fellow in the Department of Malay Studies, National University of Singapore, Singapore. He completed his PhD in Southeast Asian studies at the Australian National University in Canberra with a thesis entitled “When Clio Meets the Titans: Rethinking State-Historian Relations in Indonesia and the Philippines.” He was a recipient of the Endeavour Award Fellowship 2008, which allowed him to do postdoctoral research at the Philippines Australia Studies Centre, La Trobe University, Melbourne. He has published articles and reviews in international journals such as Sojourn, Kyoto Review of Southeast Asia, Asia Pacific Forum, Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, and Asia Pacific Social Science Review. Tuan Hoang is a PhD candidate in the Department of History, University of Notre Dame, South Bend, Indiana. His dissertation is concerned with political and cultural ideology among noncommunist South Vietnamese, especially those in Saigon. He has published reviews in the journal Cold War History and the academic website H-Diplo. Bernd Schaefer specializes in international Cold War history and is working on a book about East Asian communism and American-Soviet rivalry in the 1960s and 1970s. He is a Senior Scholar with the Woodrow Wilson International Center’s Cold War International History Project (CWIHP) in Washington, DC, and was a Visiting Professor at the University of North Korean Studies in Seoul, a Fellow at the Nobel Institute in Oslo, and a Research Fellow at the German Historical Institute in Washington, DC. His publications include Ostpolitik, 1969–1974: Global and European Responses; Historical Justice in International Perspective; North Korean “Adventurism” and China’s Long Shadow, 1966–1972; American Détente and German Ostpolitik, 1969–1972; and Staat und katholische Kirche in der GDR, 1945−1989 (State and Catholic Church in the GDR, 1945—1989).

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Setiadi Sopandi is an architect based in Bogor, Indonesia. He studied architecture at Parahyangan Catholic University, Bandung, Indonesia, and received an MA in architecture from the School of Design and Environment, Department of Architecture, National University of Singapore, Singapore, in 2003. He has been actively involved in the modern Asian Architecture Network Indonesia since 2006, undertaking research on modern Indonesian architecture. His academic interest spans from traditional/vernacular to modern architecture, with strong local (Asian / Southeast Asian / Indonesian) content. Currently he teaches architecture history at Tarumanagara University, Jakarta. Balázs Szalontai earned his PhD in 2003 from Central European University in Budapest, Hungary, and is the author of Kim Il Sung in the Khrushchev Era: Soviet-DPRK Relations and the Roots of North Korean Despotism, 1953–1964, as well as the coauthor, with Sergey Radchenko, of the Cold War International History Project Working Paper No. 53, “North Korea’s Efforts to Acquire Nuclear Technology and Nuclear Weapons: Evidence from Russian and Hungarian Archives.” He has published articles about the economic policies of the Vietnamese and Mongolian Communist regimes and the global impact of the Stalinist model of repression. His other research interests include Cambodia, Albania, and North Korea’s relations with Cuba and the Middle East. Currently he teaches East and Southeast Asian economic and political history at Mongolia International University, Ulaanbaatar. Nicolai Volland received his PhD from the University of Heidelberg, Germany, and is currently assistant professor in the Department of Chinese Studies at the National University of Singapore, Singapore. His research interests include modern Chinese literature and culture, Chinese media and Internet studies, and the transnational dimensions of modern Chinese history. He is currently working on a project investigating cultural diplomacy and cultural relations between the People’s Republic of China and the socialist world. His articles have been published in Modern China and Twentieth-Century China, among other journals. Tuong Vu is an assistant professor in the Department of Political Science, University of Oregon, Eugene, Oregon. His research interests include the politics of Vietnam and Indonesia and Southeast Asian comparative politics. In addition to articles in the Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, Ab Imperio, Studies in Comparative International Development, Journal of Vietnamese Studies, Theory and Society, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, and South East Asia Research, he is the author of Paths to Development in Asia: South Korea,

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Vietnam, China, and Indonesia; and coeditor (with Erik Kuhonta and Dan Slater) of Southeast Asia in Political Science: Theory, Region and Qualitative Analysis. He is also guest editor (with Ed Miller) of a recent special issue of the Journal of Vietnamese Studies about new scholarship on the Vietnam War. Wasana Wongsurawat received her PhD from Oxford University, United Kingdom, and is currently a lecturer in modern Chinese history in the Department of History, Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok. During the period 2007–2008, she was a postdoctoral research fellow at the Asia Research Institute, National University of Singapore, Singapore. Wasana’s research interests focus on the history of the overseas Chinese community in Thailand. Her recent publications include “The Foreign Print Capitalism that Founded a Nation: The Role of Overseas Chinese Newspapers in the Emergence of Thai Nationalism” in the Journal of Asiatic Studies and “Contending for a Claim on Civilization: The Sino-Thai Struggle to Control Overseas Chinese Education in Thailand” in the Journal of Chinese Overseas. Leong Yew is an assistant professor in the University Scholars Programme, National University of Singapore, Singapore. His research interests are cultural theory, postcolonialism, and the politics of Asian identity. He is the author of The Disjunctive Empire of International Relations, which fuses cultural studies and critical international relations to analyze the dilemmas faced by Western culture in coming to terms with contemporary forms of imperialism. Currently he is working on his next monograph project, Asianism: The Politics of Regional Consciousness in Singapore.

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Acknowledgments

The editors thank the Asia Research Institute (ARI), National University of Singapore (NUS), Singapore, for sponsoring the Workshop on The Cold War in Asia: The Cultural Dimensions, March 24–25, 2008, in Singapore, on which this book is based. We are deeply indebted to the support offered by ARI Acting Director Prof. Gavin Jones and his efficient and dedicated staff, especially Ms. Valerie Yeo. The book would not have been possible without advice and encouragement from Professor Anthony Reid and Dr. Geoff Wade. We owe them more than we can acknowledge here. We also thank participants at the Workshop, especially Professors Wang Gungwu and Huang Jianli, who contributed valuable comments. Tuong Vu thanks Christopher Goscha for inspiring the project and for his constructive comments on the manuscript. Thanks are also due to the College of Arts and Sciences, University of Oregon, Eugene, Oregon, which provided a small grant to help cover the cost of preparing the manuscript, to Professor Lars Skalnes, chair of the Political Science Department, University of Oregon, who supported the project, and to Ms. Farideh Koohi-Kamali and Ms. Robyn Curtis of Palgrave for their excellent guidance. Finally, we are grateful to Ms. Nguyen Thi Minh Nguyet for creating the index for the book. We dedicate this book to our colleagues at ARI and NUS.

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CHAPTER 1

Cold War Studies and the Cultural Cold War in Asia Tuong Vu, University of Oregon

Introduction1

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ntil recently, historians of the Vietnam War thought Vietnam was pushed into the Soviet camp because the United States failed to respond to Ho Chi Minh’s repeated appeals for support from 1945 to 1950. In this conventional view, the United States missed many opportunities to avoid what would become a costly Vietnam War in the 1960s. Yet this thesis of missed opportunities appears simplistic in light of newly released materials from Vietnamese archives. These new sources have revealed that Vietnamese leaders firmly believed in their communist cause and acted boldly at opportune moments to realize such beliefs. Even if the United States had behaved differently in 1945, there is no guarantee that Vietnamese communists would have been content only with their own independence. Given their deep ideological commitments, it is likely that they would have sought to export their revolution to neighboring countries if circumstances were viewed as favorable.2 No events demonstrated this fact more clearly than Vietnamese communists’ response to the emerging Cold War in Europe in 1948 and their subsequent efforts to apply for membership in the Soviet bloc.3 One of the key events that marked the beginning of the Cold War in Europe was the dramatic confrontation in Berlin between the Soviet Union and Western powers. Observing the event from the jungle in northern Vietnam, Indochinese Communist Party general secretary Truong Chinh described it in an unmistakably enthusiastic tone: The U.S. flaunted atomic bombs to frighten the world and reneged on its promise by issuing new currency notes in West Germany and West Berlin.

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Response from the Soviet Union was decisive: West Berlin was blockaded; no cars were allowed in and out; hot air balloons were flown above; [and] steel fences as high as six kilometers [sic] were erected … Despite many American tricks and threats, the Soviet Union was as firm as a big rock.4

Truong Chinh was not concerned at all about the looming confrontation between the two superpowers that could derail Vietnam’s struggle for independence. On the contrary, he felt elated and emboldened by that conflict. By late 1949, Ho Chi Minh had ordered several Vietnamese units into southern China to help Chinese communists eliminate remnants of Guomindang forces. In early 1950, Ho trekked to Moscow on horseback and by train across mainland China and eastern Russia. Thanks to Mao Zedong and Liu Shaoqi’s personal pleading, Ho won a meeting with Stalin during which he requested (in vain) a Soviet-Vietnamese Mutual Defense Treaty, one similar to the Sino-Soviet Treaty just signed by Stalin and Mao.5 New documents have thus established indisputably that Vietnamese communist leaders volunteered to fight the Cold War on the side of the Soviet camp. This event not only challenges conventional accounts of Vietnamese history but also has broader implications for Cold War scholarship. First, we now know that the Cold War spread to Indochina at the initiative of Vietnamese communists while the superpowers were initially reluctant to get involved. Second, Vietnamese communists joined the Soviet bloc not only because of their need for a protector but also due to their belief in communism. The Vietnamese case thus puts Asian actors at the center of the Cold War in Asia and highlights the imperative for the literature to pay attention to their thoughts and beliefs. Based on fresh sources, this book is aimed at asserting Asian perspectives and their roles in the Cold War. Unlike much existing scholarship, we focus on ideology and identity, asking how Asian actors depicted themselves, their friends and enemies in their imagination; what role ideology and identity played in shaping their policies of alliance or non-alliance; and how cultural resources such as concepts, arts, and media were deployed by Asian elites to assert their identity or ideological beliefs. We also examine the cultural networks constructed by Asian elites to fulfill their ideological commitments. By examining the cultural front of the Cold War in Asia, we seek to show how Asian actors—while possessing limited military and economic capabilities—were neither victims nor puppets of the superpowers as conventionally believed. This introductory chapter is divided into three main sections. The first section identifies two new trends in Cold War studies that inspire our book.

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These trends include, first, a growing interest in the cultural dimensions of the conflict and, second, greater scholarly attention to the roles played by minor powers. In the second section of this chapter, I review key gaps in Cold War historiography and propose an agenda for the study of the cultural Cold War in Asia. This conceptual agenda helps to situate our book within major debates in the field even though we do not claim that our attempt here is anywhere near sufficient. To assess Cold War historiography, I juxtapose three central concepts that lie at the heart of this book, namely, “Asia” as a geographical location, the “Cold War” as a historical event, and “culture” as a sphere of social activity. My conceptual analysis suggests that Cold War historiography needs to be reconceptualized in three ways. First, the geographic pattern of evolution of the Cold War is commonly described as spreading from Europe and engulfing Asia at the initiative of the superpowers. I argue that the pattern should be reconceptualized as an intercontinental synchronization of hostilities in which Asian actors shared equal responsibilities with the superpowers in the spread of conflict. Second, the standard narratives have been preoccupied with the effects of the Cold War on events in Asia. I will propose that the literature direct its attention to how indigenous political processes in Asia (i.e., nation-state building and socioeconomic development) had critical reverse impact on the Cold War. Third, the new emphasis on culture in Cold War studies has not really escaped from the grips of the nation-state, and I will argue that Asian actors’ visions and political loyalties during the Cold War spanned a much wider range—not limited to the nation-state as the ideal political community. In the third and final section of this chapter, I will preview the arguments of the chapters to follow, which are structured around two central themes: the ideologies and identities of Asian actors, and the cultural networks that undergirded Cold War security alliances in Asia. New Trends in Cold War Scholarship Since the end of the Cold War, new archival and other primary sources coming out from both sides of the Iron Curtain have deepened our understanding of this event. Cold War studies have also grown thanks to the emergence of younger scholars from the former Soviet bloc, who are usually the first to exploit the new materials. Finally, the general intellectual and political environment has become much more relaxed in the post–Cold War world, fostering more open international scholarly exchanges. Old questions such as the origins of the Cold War are now being reexamined, while new ones such as the significance of the event in international history emerge.

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Comprehensive reviews of the new Cold War scholarship are available elsewhere;6 here I wish to highlight two most remarkable trends. First, scholars now acknowledge the important roles played by lesser powers in the Cold War. Western Europe, for example, is no longer viewed merely as a passive partner of the United States.7 No one disputes that the United States was able to fundamentally transform Western Europe and Japan according to its own image. Yet the key to that transformation lay not only in U.S. power to impose its ideas on its allies in the early postwar years, but also in the wholehearted acceptance of U.S. leadership by secondgeneration leaders of U.S. allies such as Helmut Kohl, Margaret Thatcher, and Yasuhiro Nakasone.8 Like Western Europe, “Third World” states have been reevaluated by scholars. These states, which were once depicted merely as puppets or victims of the superpowers, now appear as key players in the “global Cold War” alongside the United States and the Soviet Union.9 According to the new scholarship, the superpowers and Third World states manipulated each other, and it is far from clear whether the former could always dictate the terms of their relationships with the latter.10 As Cold War scholars assign a larger role to small powers, they also pay greater attention to cultural as opposed to geopolitical or economic factors. The Cold War now appears as one of opposing ideologies as much as one of opposing states seeking economic or military dominance. In Odd Arne Westad’s apt terms, the Cold War was a war between the “Empire of Liberty” and the “Empire of Justice.”11 A rich body of scholarship has emerged, focusing on the roles of ideologies, discourses, propaganda, literature, and arts during the Cold War.12 Cold Warriors such as Stalin and John Kennedy are shown to be motivated as much by ideological beliefs as by concerns about national security. Cultural weapons took diverse forms and were as widely deployed as nuclear warheads. Moreover, many new works also try to capture the complex interaction between Cold War politics on the one hand, and religious, racial, and gender identities on the other.13 These studies teach us much about how the international ideological struggle transformed social identities in the countries involved (mostly the United States and Western Europe). At the same time, actors’ perceptions and assumptions about themselves, their allies, and their enemies are shown to deeply reflect their religious, racial, and gender attitudes and beliefs. As argued below, the new trends in Cold War studies are encouraging but the literature as a whole remains European or American-centric. Cold War narratives still describe Asian developments as dependent on the superpowers’ rival moves. Works on the Cold War in Asia rarely examine cultural issues, and those that do are limited to ideologies—primarily the communist ideology.14 In the next section, I critically assess Cold War

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literature by juxtaposing three conceptual dimensions: “Asia,” “Cold War,” and “culture.” This triangular focus helps suggest a broader agenda for Cold War scholarship and identify the substantive issues at stake for the book. The Cultural Cold War in Asia “Asia” Among the three concepts, “Asia” is perhaps the easiest term to define. The continent includes four regions: East, South, Central, and Southeast Asia. In the last decade, our knowledge about the Asian theater of the Cold War has improved tremendously with many new studies on Cold War politics in China, Korea, Indochina, and other Southeast Asian countries.15 As we focus on Asia as a site of Cold War battles, the central historiographical problem is the way the geographical evolution of the Cold War is described in the scholarship.16 The standard conception of the Cold War views it as centering on Europe and North America and spreading out from there. As one recent narrative goes, “The term ‘Cold War’ refers to the state of tension, hostility, competition, and conflict which characterized the West’s relations with the Soviet Union, and more particularly, Soviet-American relations for much of the post-war period.”17 The narrator admits that there are serious disputes concerning where and when exactly the Cold War started: most historians think it began in Germany, but some have argued it started elsewhere, such as Greece, Turkey, Iran, China, or Korea.18 She then goes on: As the ambitions and securities of West and East came up against each other in the Middle East, the Far East, the Indian subcontinent, Africa and Latin America, each provided a forum in which the two superpowers waged their struggle for political, economic and ideological hegemony which was conducted by all means short of open armed conflict between them for over forty years.19

This standard narrative portrays the Cold War as spreading out of Europe and America to other continents due to rival moves by the superpowers. A slightly different version of this narrative by a political scientist runs as follows: While both the United States and the USSR had historically been critical of the European balance of power system, they had also attempted to remain aloof from European politics in the 1930s. The destruction of the traditional European system during World War II, including the beginning of its demise

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in the colonies of Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, led to a global power vacuum that set the structural stage for the intersubjective ideological contention over what would replace it.20

Asia in these accounts is described in only spatial terms (forum/vacuum), making one wonder what Asians were doing. Yet many have recently pointed out how these standard narratives are problematic.21 While it may be true that the superpowers sought to spread their rivalry to other parts of the globe, the danger is to ignore the part played by Asian actors in the evolution of the conflict. Asia was more affected by the Cold War than any other continent except Europe; yet, even during World War II, when the Japanese Empire ruled over much of East and Southeast Asia, local elites were far from being passive onlookers or submissive victims. Nationalists in Burma, Indonesia, and Malaya actively collaborated with the Japanese in return for limited roles in government and promises of future independence. In China, the Guomindang government and the communists conducted guerrilla warfare while building up their main forces in remote sanctuaries. Thailand took the opportunity of British and French defeats to seize territories in Cambodia and Malaya with Japanese approval. Within days after Japan surrendered, nationalists declared independence while local uprisings erupted in Korea, Vietnam, and Indonesia. Before the Allies’ forces arrived to disarm the Japanese, indigenous elites had set up governments based partly on the apparatus left behind by the Japanese. Within months, wars broke out in Indonesia and Vietnam between these indigenous governments and returning colonial masters. Events in East Asia also moved forward very quickly. Despite American and Soviet attempts to broker peace and power-sharing between Chinese nationalists and communists, war resumed in 1946. The two superpowers were still planning to place Korea under an international trusteeship in 1947 when Rhee Syngman traveled to Washington to lobby for a separate government in South Korea. Communist groups in South Korea staged large-scale protests and violent attacks on local governments, leading to deadly clashes with American occupation forces.22 In an important sense, Koreans were as much responsible for the division of their country as were the superpowers. While the Cold War was brewing in Europe, some Asian groups— especially communists—welcomed the conflict. In part as a response to Moscow’s call to arms and in part out of their own considerations, communists in Malaya, Indonesia, and Burma instigated civil wars.23 Chinese and Vietnamese communists saw the Cold War as an opportunity to exploit for revolutionary benefits.24 I have mentioned above how Ho Chi

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Minh went to Moscow to beg Stalin for membership in the emerging socialist bloc. In contrast, nationalists in Indonesia began to distance themselves from the superpowers;25 it is no wonder that Indonesia soon emerged as a founder of the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM). I recount all these events to challenge the notion of an Asian vacuum waiting for the superpowers to fill in the late 1940s. It is more accurate to say that the Cold War would not have extended into Asia had some Asian actors not desired it and worked hard to get what they wanted. The Cold War did not spread to and engulf Asia as the standard narratives tell it. Asia was already engulfed in conflicts. These local conflicts in Asia intensified and lasted longer due to the Cold War. But the Cold War also intensified and lasted longer because of these local conflicts. The geographical pattern in the standard narratives went from Europe to Asia, but what in fact occurred was an intercontinental synchronization of hostilities on a global scale. This reconceptualization is essential if the origins and dynamics of Cold War conflicts in Asia are to be understood correctly. “Cold War” “Cold War” is a more complex concept than “Asia.” As the term implies, it is a special kind of warfare characterized not by armies of soldiers slaughtering each other, but by tense confrontations and diplomatic hostilities across the borders of the two blocs. Historiographically, it is often assumed that the Cold War was the most important event in Asia in the second half of the twentieth century. The Cold War’s deep impact on decolonization and economic development in Asia has been the main staple of the literature on the period.26 It is true that for long periods of time, many Asian countries experienced the Cold War. Tensions and hostilities marked the relationships between Asian members of the U.S. camp and those of the Soviet camp, similar to the situation between Eastern and Western Europe. But there were many other events that Asian countries experienced besides the Cold War. These events may or may not relate to the conflict between the two superpowers. Events that related may form only small chapters in the histories of the relevant countries. Many Asian countries actively sought to prevent the superpowers’ rivalry from spilling into their backyards. While diplomatic historians invest their energies in studying the superpowers’ intervention in the Third World—which was admittedly substantial—less systematic attention is being paid to the reverse impact of indigenous Asian events on the global Cold War. For this reason I will focus here on a few issues where potentials exist for future research.

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During the second half of the twentieth century, when the Cold War split Europe by halves, two autonomous and interrelated processes transformed Asia, including nation-state building and socioeconomic development. Nation-state building was a process that began with decolonization. Recent research has shown how Asian nationalists manipulated the superpowers in their quest to expel colonial powers and to secure American or Soviet aid for their nation-building programs.27 Decolonization led to numerous disputes between the United States and its European allies over their Asian colonies. These disputes were eventually resolved but may have changed the course of events in significant ways. Nation-state building was also accompanied by numerous civil wars. The Chinese civil war began in 1927 and lasted through 1949. Although its outcome in 1949 was shaped in part by Soviet and American rivalry, the war could have ended in 1937 had the Japanese not invaded China and saved the communists from being annihilated by Chiang Kai-shek after their deadly Long March. Other civil wars in Korea (1950–1953), Vietnam (1959–1975), Laos (1958–1975), Cambodia (1970–1975, 1979–1992), and Afghanistan (1980–1988) interacted closely with the Cold War but followed their own logic. The superpowers unquestionably played big roles in various phases of these wars.28 At one point there were half a million U.S. troops in South Vietnam and 300,000 Chinese and 3,000 Soviet soldiers in North Vietnam. Yet, as the chapters on Vietnam in this book suggest, subsuming these local events under the Cold War rubric may cause one to overlook the active roles of local actors in these conflicts and misinterpret the origins and evolution of hostility. Nation-state building in Asia also involved interstate wars. Most of the Asian interstate wars, such as the Indian-Pakistani wars since independence (1947, 1965, 1971), the Sino-Indian border war (1962), the MalaysianIndonesian war (1963–1965), the Sino-Vietnamese war (1979–1989), and the Vietnamese-Cambodian war (1977–1989), had little to do with the politics between the two superpowers. Yet these wars may have contributed to the evolution of the Cold War although this question has not been systematically researched. The Sino-Indian war certainly contributed to the breakdown of Sino-Soviet relations. The Vietnamese-Cambodian war may have increased Soviet-American tensions in the 1980s. Nation-state building involved not only wars but also the construction of interstate alliances. In response to the Cold War, many Asian states took the initiative to form NAM and founded neutral groups such as the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN). NAM often frustrated the efforts by the two superpowers and their allies to extend the Cold War to the region. ASEAN contributed to the U.S. failure in promoting the

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Southeast Asian Treaty Organization (SEATO), designed to replicate the successful North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) in Southeast Asia. In the 1980s, ASEAN played an important role in bleeding Vietnam white, defeating the Soviet-Vietnam-Democratic Kampuchea alliance, and contributing indirectly to the collapse of the socialist bloc. Socioeconomic development was the second indigenous process in Asia that affected the evolution of the Cold War. The economic success of the “little dragons” by the mid-1980s must have influenced the decisions of Soviet, Chinese, and Vietnamese leaders to embark on market reforms. Economic stagnation in Vietnam and Laos—both being recipients of Soviet aid—no doubt added to the burden of the Soviet empire in the 1980s, generating Soviet interest in imperial retreat and economic reform under Mikhail Gorbachev. Socially, the rise of the middle class in Asian countries such as South Korea, the Philippines, South Vietnam (in the 1960s), Suharto’s Indonesia, and Sarit’s Thailand led to widespread protests against the United States and its bases in Asia. These protests fractured U.S. relations with its Asian allies. Protests in South Korea, South Vietnam, Thailand, and Philippines led to the fall of Rhee Syngman, Ngo Dinh Diem, Thanom Kittikachorn, and Ferdinand Marcos—all staunch American allies in Asia. While there is much to learn about how the Cold War shaped political processes in Asia, we hope that scholars will pay greater attention to how local processes had a reverse impact on the Cold War. The new Cold War scholarship should not assume that power and influence flowed only one way from the big to the small, even in highly asymmetric relationships that characterized many Cold War alliances. Available evidence suggests that developments initiated by Asian actors contributed significantly to the evolution and end of the Cold War between the superpowers. “Culture” “Culture” and its related concepts such as “ideology” and “identity” are difficult to define. Among Cold War scholars who study culture, the most commonly accepted definition is Max Weber’s “web of significance” or Clifford Geertz’s “system of meaning.”29 Proponents of the cultural approach view it as distinctive from power and economic approaches in international relations. As the diplomatic historian Akira Iriye writes, “Power and economy are concepts as elusive as culture, but in the study of diplomatic affairs one may define power as a nation’s ability to defend itself, and economy as its production and exchange of goods and services. Culture, in contrast, is the sharing and transmission of memory, ideology, emotions, lifestyles, scholarly and artistic works, and other symbols.”30

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While scholars share a broad definition of culture, they study different elements of it. We can group these elements under two overlapping categories: cultural practices such as images, perceptions, prejudices, stereotypes, norms, values, and emotions on the one hand, and thoughts, ideas, and ideologies on the other.31 The first category involves subconscious or only partly conscious cultural elements—aptly described by Harold Isaacs as “scratches on our minds.”32 Because these cultural elements exist in the subconscious realm for the most part, they tend to be unsystematic. They can be relatively stable, yet can swing radically at times, as Isaacs’s study of American images of China and India has long demonstrated. In contrast, the second category involves only cultural elements in the conscious realm of human minds. They tend to be systematic—especially in the case of ideologies. Both categories of cultural elements can be subjective (found in an individual’s mind) or intersubjective (found in groups of individuals, large national communities, and even “global society”). It is possible that elements in the two categories are systematically interrelated; an example is the alleged “natural” correspondence between the Leninist ideology and “authoritarian culture.” At the same time, elements of the two categories may reinforce or repulse each other as they interact: adopted modernist ideas may encourage individuals or societies to reject “backward” cultural practices, but preexisting cultural practices may predispose individuals and societies to the acceptance of certain ideas rather than others. The division of culture into subconscious versus conscious elements helps locate Cold War scholarship within the scholarship on culture and international relations in Asia. The literature on the subconscious cultural practices that characterize international relations in Asia is long-standing.33 Some of this literature spans the Cold War period and subsumes Cold War cultural politics under broader themes such as “antiforeignism,”34 “cultural visions of modernity and identity,”35 or “cultural internationalism.”36 There have been few systematic exchanges between this literature and Cold War studies, in particular about the extent to which Cold War ideologies and identities interacted with, influenced, and were influenced by larger cultural patterns or characteristics in the Asian context. At the same time, the recent cultural turn in Cold War historiography has been limited to Western contexts. Furthermore, the standard narratives of the Cold War, until recently, were still confined to relations among nation-states. While they differ in many ways, both diplomatic history and the study of international relations in political science take the nation-state as the basic unit of analysis.37 In the limited historical scholarship that examines culture and international relations in Asia, most focus on interstate

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relations: China Eyes Japan38 and Mutual Images39 are titles of studies that symbolize what the genre is about. While useful, these studies further reinforce the notion that nation-states are the only proper context to examine cultural relations, which may be true but is nonetheless self-limiting.40 Even many recent studies have not quite gotten out of the trap of the nationstate,41 leading to sometimes simplistic interpretations about the complex visions of historical actors.42 It is true that nation-states are important actors in international politics. Yet they are political communities whose boundaries poorly correspond to cultural zones. In fact, the nation-state has had to compete with various other political identities even in countries experiencing massive nationalist movements such as Indonesia and Vietnam.43 Indonesian labor activists in the early 1920s had known Marx before they started calling themselves “Indonesians.” The rising Communist Party in the Dutch Indies dismissed nationalism as an anachronistic ideology of nineteenth-century Europe. They called for world revolution, not national independence. Similarly, many Vietnamese communists from early on envisioned an imagined socialist camp that would be their second fatherland.44 World revolution rather than the nation was what captured their imagination. At the same time, many of them dreamed of an independent Indochinese socialist federation that would extend beyond the Vietnamese nation to include Laotians and Cambodians.45 Other groups were no less imaginative than the communists. Pan-Islamism was popular in the Dutch Indies in the early 1920s, as were Buddhist visions in Vietnam.46 These religious worldviews were not constrained by nation-states’ boundaries. In the Chinese case, a concept of nation did not exist. What Sun Yat-sen and the 1911 revolutionaries meant by “nationalism” was merely “antiManchurism.”47 Nationalism is similarly inadequate to serve as an interpretive framework of the People’s Republic of China’s diplomatic history during the period 1935–1950, as Michael Sheng argues: Since the Chinese communists drew a line not along the national boundaries of territory, language, ethnicity, or common history, but along the social class boundaries of bourgeoisie, petty bourgeoisie or proletariat, certain factions of Chinese society were seen as enemies whose destruction, even by the Japanese, was what the CCP desired. In contrast, the Outer Mongols and the Soviets were taken as “brothers,” whose friendship and assistance were expected and sought by the Party. It is thus clear that Mao and his generation of radical revolutionaries shared no such concept of the Chinese nation as a holistic “people,” let alone their devotion to the “nation” which did not exist in their conceptual world.48

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The imagination of Asian actors thus spanned a wider range than mere traditional patriotism or modern nationalism. The study of culture can help rescue Cold War scholarship from the grips of the nation-state. Asian actors hold many alternative frames of cultural reference; some of these coexist within the boundaries of the nation-state while others span many nation-states or even the whole globe. An important cultural sphere in the Asian context is occupied by ethnic Chinese who have lived in Southeast Asia for generations and whose political loyalties do not fit easily into any neat frame of the nation-state. Another significant cultural sphere in Southeast Asia is inhabited by Muslims. The global Islamic revival movement since the 1970s posed a great challenge to many Southeast Asian states during the later stage of the Cold War.49 This religious movement generated profound changes in many Southeast Asian countries and certainly interacted with the Cold War to some unknown extent. The Afghan war of the 1980s was part of this movement, which became intertwined with the Cold War. Despite being marginalized in many Asian contexts, Christianity is another significant cultural sphere, and Christian evangelism is a related phenomenon which has not been examined within the broad framework of Cold War cultural politics. Finally, the rise of Asian regionalism—the belief that Asian countries should bond together—within the Cold War context is yet another neglected topic. To sum up, fresh sources and recent scholarship in Asian studies have exposed many problems in the standard narratives of the Cold War. The central problem, as I have argued, is European and American biases. My view is not to overlook the interaction between local and international histories, nor to deny the influence of the superpowers during the second half of the twentieth century in Asia. But it is simplistic to lump all conflicts in Asia during the Cold War as Cold War proxies. To use an analogy of theater, the plays on Asian stages embedded both Cold War and local plots, both global and local actors, who interplayed in various ways depending on particular contexts. The job of Cold War analysts is to disentangle these plots. Until recently the tendency was to ignore local plots and the degree to which they could operate independently. The question is how to achieve a balanced perspective. I suggest that we reconceptualize the geographical spread of the Cold War not as a Eurocentric pattern but as the intercontinental synchronization of hostilities. Scholars should do a better job at analyzing how indigenous political processes in Asia may have had a reverse impact on relations between the superpowers. To assign greater agency to Asian actors also requires analysts to move beyond the nation-state to examine alternative frames of cultural reference or political loyalties. The underlying assumption is that the histories of

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countries outside Europe and North America during the Cold War period followed their own autonomous logic and should not be subsumed under some Eurocentric trends. Plan of the Book Aiming at the broad agenda laid out above, our book focuses on ideology, identity, and the cultural networks that undergirded Cold War blocs in Asia. The Vietnamese case, again, is a test case on the important role of ideology in Asia’s Cold War. The Vietnam War has been portrayed in conventional narratives as a war in which invading Americans clashed with Vietnamese nationalists represented by the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North Vietnam). This view also considers the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam) a mere construction of the United States.50 In Chapter 2, Tuan Hoang challenges this common view by analyzing the thoughts of South Vietnamese anticommunists. To these men, communism posed a serious threat to Vietnamese national and traditional values, and the communist regime in North Vietnam was as oppressive and cruel as the former colonial regime. Hoang shows that this sharp and coherent critique of communism was shaped both by South Vietnamese intellectuals’ ideological beliefs and by their personal experiences of communist rule between 1945 and 1954. Anticommunism was alive and active in South Vietnam long before American involvement in the war, and possessed a coherent and sophisticated intellectual content developed mostly out of the local context. Tuong Vu, in Chapter 3, dispels another popular myth that Vietnamese communists were nationalist first and communist second by highlighting the importance of the communist ideology in North Vietnam’s military campaign to unify Vietnam. Among Vu’s sources is, for the first time, a collection of Ho Chi Minh’s radical anti-imperialist tracts published under various pseudonyms at the height of the Cold War. By analyzing ideological debates among the North Vietnamese leadership, Vu argues that not just national unification but dreams of building socialism were what motivated North Vietnamese leaders. Both Hoang and Vu thus place the Vietnamese and their ideological conflict at the center of Vietnam’s civil war. Paying similar attention to the ideologies and identities of Asian actors in Chapter 4, Setiadi Sopandi studies Sukarno’s attempts—through architecture—to assert a new Indonesian national identity that was not only separate from the colonial past but also independent from the Cold War camps. As Sopandi argues, the emergence of Jakarta through the construction of national landmarks under Sukarno demonstrated, first, his status

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and agency as the independent leader of a nonaligned nation in the Cold War era, and second, the Indonesian ability to build their own nation without becoming entangled in either Cold War camp. Leong Yew’s analysis in Chapter 5 turns to Singaporean leaders who espoused a distinct socialist vision and who devoted significant efforts to asserting their identity during the Cold War. Unlike their Vietnamese and Indonesian counterparts, Singaporean leaders saw themselves as socialist democrats and joined Socialist International, a Eurocentric organization that claimed to represent the ideals of democratic socialism. In the Cold War context of economic difficulties and political turmoil caused by raging communist insurgencies, Yew demonstrates that Singapore leaders made serious attempts to adapt “Asian values” and “Oriental lifestyles” to their understanding of democratic socialism. Eventually, these attempts led them to conflict with Socialist International, from which they were expelled in 1976. Together, the cases of the two Vietnams, Indonesia, and Singapore showcase the importance of ideology and identity to Asian actors. Their beliefs, which they were not shy in expressing, shaped the ways they viewed themselves, their enemies, and their allies. Their thoughts reveal that they were neither puppets nor victims of the superpowers. Together the four cases advance the two theses of this volume that Asian actors played a central role in the Cold War drama in Asia, and that not only security interests but ideological ties undergirded Cold War alliances in Asia. While security needs were expressed in military alliances, ideological loyalties led Asian leaders to build robust cultural networks in each Cold War camp. The second half of this book is devoted to these important networks that have been neglected in Cold War scholarship. We argue that these cultural networks shaped the perceptions and beliefs of people in both camps, creating a common identity shared by people from all countries in a camp. States and social groups invested significant resources in cultural diplomacy, not only for the collective benefits of the camp, but also to demonstrate their ideological commitments. In Chapter 6, Nicolai Volland focuses on China’s efforts to promote proletarian fiction for the winning of a Stalin Prize, which was a major form of cultural exchange within the Soviet camp in the early decades. Volland shows how, as a latecomer in the socialist camp, China had to play a catchup game to demonstrate its ideological maturity. Yet, while China could boast a substantial amount of fiction on rural topics, until 1949 it lacked a proletarian-industrial fiction. To make up for this problematic “gap,” Chinese cultural bureaucrats handpicked the little-known writer Cao Ming and her novel The Moving Force, and catapulted her practically overnight

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onto the international socialist stage by organizing the translation of her book into more than a dozen Soviet bloc and Asian languages. Bernd Schaefer examines a different cultural dynamic within the Soviet bloc in Chapter 7, i.e., the intense competition among China, North Korea, North Vietnam, and Pol Pot’s Kampuchea to become the ideological vanguard of East Asia. Using archival materials from the former German Democratic Republic, Schaefer shows how the ideological vanguard contest among Asian communist states influenced not only their domestic and foreign policies but also the actions of the superpowers and their policies toward the region and, in the long term, toward the Cold War as a whole. Turning to the other side of the Iron Curtain, Rommel Curaming, in Chapter 8, investigates the subtle propaganda propagated through the institution of the Ramon Magsaysay Award, a major cultural network among anticommunist and noncommunist countries in Asia. Curaming argues that, despite claiming to be apolitical, the citations that accompany the awards often carry subliminal messages that support the cause of liberal capitalism. Like the Stalin Prize discussed by Volland in Chapter 6, the Magsaysay Award served a crucial function in promoting a common identity for the bloc and fostered bloc solidarity among U.S. allies in Asia. Placed next to each other, the Stalin Prize, the Magsaysay Award, and the ideological contest among Asian communist states reveal rich cultural networks spanning Cold War’s Asia. These cases suggest the significant ideological commitments of Asian elites. While these elites worked hard to construct military alliances, they did not neglect the cultural exchanges built alongside such alliances. In the case of North Korea in Chapter 9, Balázs Szalontai shows that domestic cultural policy was in fact made to complement foreign policy in complex ways. North Korean leaders used cultural policies extensively to express enmity or amity toward other countries. Friendly cultural campaigns were launched to win over South Korean hearts and minds, while hostile cultural campaigns were employed to express Kim Il Sung’s disapproval of Khrushchev’s denunciation of Stalin. Domestic cultural policies were an integral part of Kim’s foreign policy arsenals. A narrow focus on foreign policy alone would miss this rich cultural side of the Cold War in Asia. Attention to cultural policy and politics can yield valuable insight, as evidenced further in the case of Thailand. In Chapter 10, Wasana Wongsurawat shows the complicated cultural and political position of the Thai state through a comparison of two race riots during the Cold War period in Bangkok Chinatown—the Yaowaraj Incident of 1945 and the Plabplachai Incident of 1974. Using government records and popular media in the Thai, Chinese, and English languages, Wongsurawat shows how the Thai government sought to manipulate public opinion about these

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complicated events to avoid ramifications for its foreign relations and domestic legitimacy. By poking at the ethnic issue, Wongsurawat adds considerable nuances to our understanding of Thailand’s alliance with the United States. In conclusion, the cultural dimensions of the Cold War in Asia make up a vast area that awaits future research. Without understanding the thoughts of Asian actors and their cultural networks, we risk underestimating Asia’s role in the Cold War. One must recall that Asia was the only continent where both superpowers met humiliating defeats (the United States in Vietnam and the Soviet Union in Afghanistan). It is obvious that these Asian opponents of the superpowers triumphed not by firepower but by other resources, of which cultural resilience is key. If these grand defeats teach us any lesson, it is the need to take Asian actors and their rich cultural milieus seriously, which is just what we attempt to do in this volume.

CHAPTER 2

The Early South Vietnamese Critique of Communism Tuan Hoang, University of Notre Dame

I

n both historiographies of the Vietnam War and the Cold War, the topic of South Vietnamese anticommunism has been typically assumed than studied, labeled than examined and elaborated. That is, if it is labeled at all. In the first two and a half decades after the war, Englishlanguage scholarship either set aside the subject of anticommunism altogether or referred to anticommunism to mean the American variety rather than that in the former Republic of Vietnam (RVN).1 Recent histories are more sensitive to the subject, if still largely lacking in information. The first book-length study of the South Vietnamese army (ARVN), for instance, makes the supportable claim that many “ARVN soldiers enlisted … because of their commitment to anticommunism and the rhetoric contained in [nationalistic] documents and speeches.”2 But it does not elaborate on what anticommunism might have meant to those soldiers, or how they came to commit themselves to the anticommunist cause. Another example, a synthesis-minded general history of the war, recognizes that “no amount of American money and military support could have sustained a struggle until 1975 had there not existed … a huge opposition to communist rule,” adding that the “opposition was united only by its hatred of the communists.” It further acknowledges the commitment of the Vietnamese anticommunists that enabled them to survive as long as they did even as the Saigon governments were weak while facing an aggressive regime in Hanoi, the latter being the “most strongly armed communist client state in the history of the Cold War.” In acknowledging ideological agency among South Vietnamese anticommunists, the book illustrates a shift from previous general histories. But it also leaves the topic hanging without

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saying what that opposition might have meant, or why the unified “hatred of the communists” came to be in the first place.3 This chapter takes the view that there was indeed intense antagonism against communism among many South Vietnamese. Moreover, this antagonism was not simply a collection of heightened emotions found in any major armed conflict, but possessed a coherent intellectual content. In part, the content derived from differences among Vietnamese regarding modernity and modernization: differences that germinated before the arrival of the Cold War in Indochina, and differences about how to gain national independence and how to build a postcolonial Vietnam.4 The bulk of this content, however, came from personal and local experiences of communist rule and domination between the August Revolution in 1945 and the Geneva Conference nine years later. This chapter focuses on the anticommunist critique developed by a number of South Vietnamese political and cultural writers between the mid-1950s and the early 1960s, a period corresponding roughly to the rule of Ngo Dinh Diem. For the first two decades after the war, scholarship usually set aside this period and focused instead on the later periods of 1963–1968 and 1969–1973. Since the end of the Cold War, however, historians have paid greater attention to the early period and have opened new lines of inquiry, especially on the diplomatic and military relationship between Washington and Saigon. In addition, post–Cold War scholarship has revisited and reemphasized the subject of ideology, arguing that it matters at least as much as geopolitical and economic concerns.5 This renewed emphasis on ideology has had an impact on research about the South Vietnamese side, with the most fruitful scholarship on, again, ideological, political, and cultural differences between the United States and the Diem government.6 Less clear, however, are the behavior, activities, and beliefs among South Vietnamese anticommunists in general during this period. This chapter aims to shed light on them by looking at a number of publications that came out around and after the Geneva Conference. Its main goal is to clarify what Vietnamese anticommunists believed about their opponents as well as their bases for those beliefs. This chapter does not claim that anticommunists were getting along with one another. Nor does it argue that they necessarily identified themselves with the Diem regime. Many anticommunists worked for his government, and some supported him throughout his regime. But others did not see eye to eye with Diem, and more than a few were censored or imprisoned by his regime.7 Nonetheless, they shared with Diem an ideological opposition to the theory and practice of Vietnamese communism. It was this opposition that, in turn, informed and drove their actions and contributed to the intensity of conflict throughout the Second Indochina War.

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Northern Émigrés and the Urgency of an Anticommunist Critique Because of the proximity to war and revolution—plus the twists and turns of events since 1945—it was not surprising that many South Vietnamese writers, in the words of the critic and fiction writer Vo Phien, “inaugurated the period after Geneva with works that were heavily political and with strong emphasis on the issue of [communism versus anticommunism].”8 Accordingly, the early years of South Vietnam saw an outpour of anticommunist books, tracts, pamphlets, and columns, essays, poems, and short stories in magazines and newspapers. The materials came from both government and private sectors, and reflected the freshness of experiences between the August Revolution and the end of the First Indochina War. For anticommunist writers, those experiences provided opportunities to evaluate Vietnam’s immediate past in order to draw lessons for its present. A significant feature in this construction of an anticommunist critique is the presence of a large number of educated northern émigrés that came south during the 1950s, particularly during the migration of 1954–1955. In English-language historiography, the outstanding feature of this migration has been Catholicism, in that the majority of émigrés were Catholics. Obscured by this Catholic-centric emphasis, however, is the fact that most leading political and cultural voices among the émigrés were decidedly not Catholic.9 This was true also of anticommunist writers. A few of the writers identified themselves as Catholic, and some as Buddhists. For most, however, there were no indications of their religious background or whether it played a significant role in their stand. What bound anticommunist writers together were similar experiences of the Viet Minh, and not religious commonalities except for an opposition to communist suppression of religious practices and organizations. An examination of South Vietnamese anticommunist publications shows that the authors held fierce opposition to Marxist-Leninism. It is possible that the writers pushed their opposition vehemently because they felt inadequate in articulating a clear and convincing postcolonial ideology to the Vietnamese at large. As suggested by Nghiem Xuan Hong, a young Buddhist and émigré attorney (and later an official in the government of General Nguyen Khanh), South Vietnamese anticommunists were painfully aware of their lack of a strong and appealing political program.10 It is possible too that they manipulated anticommunism to generate fears and rally the popular support that they needed. A number of writings, for instance, pounded over and again on the theme of the large-scale and systematic communist network of lies, deceptions, and brutalities. Nonetheless, the possible exaggerations

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revealed the core of their concern, which was a grave fear of communist rule over the postcolonial nation. Although the tone of some anticommunist publications verges on propaganda at times, the overall content reflects genuine fears of the writers. In their view, the experiences of Viet Minh domination and violence during the August Revolution and the First Indochina War sufficiently warranted causes for their fears, and post-Geneva communist control of northern Vietnam drove those fears a few notches higher. Anticommunist print materials came in different kinds. Some stories and arguments amounted to little more than crude caricatures while some others were tightly drawn and elongated into hundreds of pages. Some publications, such as a short fictionalized tale about a young northerner living in Viet Minh−controlled zones that won a government-sponsored national contest, were little better than propaganda in both content and form. But others, such as two long essays by Thai Lang Nghiem, later a senator in the Second Republic, showed great nuances and sophisticated arguments about differences between communism and nationalism.11 Whatever the degree of sophistication, these materials were characterized by an urgency in alerting Vietnamese to—and educating them on—the dangers of communism. The urgency came from the belief that the communists were able to dupe many Vietnamese who were ignorant or not sufficiently educated about Marxism. “Until August 1945,” opened one tract, “the Vietnamese people did not possess a point of view about communism, not having read much about communism, not having been explained about the meaning of communism.” Another considered the 1940s to be a “period where the political consciousness of our people barely stepped out of colonialism” and, therefore, “was still low.” In a third tract, Nguyen Manh Con, a leading cultural presence throughout the RVN, said that some “free Vietnamese in the Republic of Vietnam have committed the mistake of not comprehending the strategy of the enemy while having underestimated its action and tactics.” The preface to Con’s tract, written by the director of the Saigon government’s “Condemn Communist” campaign, opined that “our side has a regrettable problem … which is a lack of adequate knowledge of Communist doctrines among people who had witnessed communist activities … and [conversely] a lack of witnessing of Communist activities on the part of intellectuals.” This last point revealed the fear that noncommunist Vietnamese might have been given too much credit for the success of the Communist Party.12 Combined with the recognition that the communists had held the upper hand in the quest for independence, the fear that Vietnamese could still be duped by communist policies and propaganda compelled anticommunists to wage a battle to win the hearts and minds of other Vietnamese—a battle that started well before the phrase became popular in American discourse about South Vietnam.

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The Emergence of “Escape” and “Imprisonment” as Anticommunist Themes In light of the large-scale migration in the mid-1950s from the north to the south, it is not surprising that an outstanding theme of the early South Vietnamese critique was fleeing or escaping communism. Three subtexts underscore this theme of escape. First, anticommunist writers consistently pointed to political, economic, and cultural repression as the main cause for fleeing Viet Minh rule. Second, they illustrated that although the majority of Vietnamese fled through legal channels, a large minority did so secretly, especially during the First Indochina War. Third, they showed that after the Geneva Conference, many northerners wrestled painfully with the decision to go south, only making the decision because they feared that staying would amount to imprisonment and possible death. The third subtext was illustrated by a tract subtitled “Why I Migrated” and published at the end of 1954. At the start, the author recalled his hope that the French would keep their promise to protect Hanoi and Haiphong, only to learn with bitterness later that France had signed the Geneva Peace Accords and given control of the cities to the Viet Minh. He next described the difficulties that he and other northerners faced between “the end of July and the end of September” as they weighed their options. On the one hand, they saw banners that urged Hanoi residents to move south, heard about “enslaving policies” imposed in Viet Minh−controlled areas by the communists, and noted “insulting” attitudes against them from some working-class people on the streets. On the other hand, they felt uncertainty and fear about moving to an unfamiliar land. In the end, the author decided on the latter. He explains that the decision came from testimonies from both people that had spent some time in Viet Minh areas and those who were still there but could not leave. Ultimately, he thought the decision had to do with communist antagonism toward middle-class Vietnamese like himself. “The majority of Vietnamese in inner Hanoi were bourgeois and petit bourgeois,” he wrote, “and the warfare waged at them has become more apparent and, in fact, was approaching its climax at the time.”13 In a similar vein, Hoang Van Chi, later the author of an influential book on the North Vietnamese land reform, sympathized with the dilemma that many noncommunists had to face at the time. A chemist by training and a socialist by inclination, Chi joined the Viet Minh in 1942 and served as a military surgeon and director of the national mint, among other jobs. Nonetheless, he was classified as a “landlord” and put under arrest in 1954.14 After release, Chi struggled with the decision to stay or to leave. “If I move south,” he wrote in a periodical published by an émigré scholar,

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“How would I learn anything about my brother that has been imprisoned for the past two years? Or how I could help my sister-in-law and her three young children?” Familial obligations played a major role during Chi’s processing of his options and decision. However, he made up his mind after watching an “East German movie about Hitler’s extermination of the Jews,” because he “made a comparison and saw that Communism was crueler than Fascism.” In his rationale, Hitler tried to kill Jews quickly, but “Ho Chi Minh, having betrayed anti-colonial Vietnamese nationalists, categorized them as reactionaries and landlords and isolated them so they would die gradually of hunger.” There were no other alternatives but to migrate south, even if tugged by strong familial attachment and concern.15 To contemporary ears, Chi’s comparison of communist practices with Hitler’s anti-Semitic policies might have sounded overreaching, simplistic, or inappropriate. Nonetheless, it demonstrates the many fears among northerners regarding Viet Minh rule, especially the fear of being branded a member of the bourgeoisie. In a tract called Tales of Escapees, the author justified these fears by enumerating and elaborating on a number of economic and political policies in cities and the countryside. In scenes that foreshadowed postwar imposition of similar policies on the southern population, it described the rapidity of economic and political control by the new government. As the communists took over the management of governmental and military buildings, they assured the urban population that the Party would be “generous” to former collaborators of the French or the state of Vietnam. Quickly enough, though, the new rulers imposed a number of new taxes on private businesses, forced industrialists and merchants to attend a series of political meetings, and intimidated them into abandoning or signing over their businesses and property. Intimidation and control extended to other areas, including household registration and limited travel, accusations and trials of landlords in the countryside, and arrests and imprisonment of “complainers” and “reactionaries” in urban areas.16 The author of Tales of Escapees indicated that he wrote it at the Center for Welcoming Escapees, signifying urgency and immediacy about the postGeneva migration. The rationale for the migration was further reinforced by a number of narratives about escaping Viet Minh rule during the First Indochina War. In a tract matter-of-factly entitled Prisons and Escapes, the narrator recounted his experiences of living in Viet Minh zones in central and northern Vietnam during the second half of the 1940s. Initially “invited” by the police to leave his village for the provincial town for his “own security,” he and others were later accused of being “individual reactionaries” and held in one prison camp or another. Each of the camps held between 200 to 2,000 inmates; in turn, inmates were placed in barracks divided according

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to gender and categories of political or “economic” prisoners. Even after release—and only to tightly Viet Minh−controlled areas—former inmates were required to report regularly to cadres. For these and other reasons, inmates turned their mind to devising one way or another to escape the camps for French-controlled or Catholic autonomous zones.17 In Tales of Escapees and similar narratives, communist prisons became a central image—and communist imprisonment a central theme—within the early South Vietnamese anticommunist critique. In one such tract, the author described at length his experience as a political prisoner during the First Indochina War and cited it as the main reason for his migration to the south. Another narrative, an eerie preview of postwar reeducation camps, described daily life in a Viet Minh labor camp as a mixture of political indoctrination (“auto-criticism, denunciation, and especially the compulsory accusation followed by torture”); manual labor in the field, complete with “producing competitions” to generate production among prisoners; and conditions that barely kept prisoners alive. At times, the critique drew parallels between colonial and communist imprisonment. Through describing different categories of Viet Minh imprisonment, Prisons and Escapes observed that the communist penitentiaries were similar to those previously run by the French in Con Dao and Lao Bao. The same was true of provincial prisons. “Communist imprisonment of nationalists at a high hill in Chu Le,” the narrator wrote, “was not different from colonial imprisonment of Vietnamese patriots at Dac To and Dac Suat.” He added that “colonialists and communists gave me the same designation”: homme dangeroux and nguoi nguy hiem (dangerous person), respectively.18 In some ways, then, it was through the lens of colonialism that anticommunist writers sought to interpret the harrowing experiences of Viet Minh arrest, interrogations, imprisonment, and hard labor. Through this lens, they might have overstretched the parallels between the colonial and communist regimes while ignoring important differences in their goals and methods. However, by drawing similarities between communism and something familiar to the Vietnamese at large, they brought forth vivid images about life under communist rule, for which actual prisons and labor camps were only one part of the larger imprisonment.19 The Critique of Revolutionary Violence and Political Repression The twin themes of imprisonment and escape drew attention to the Vietnamese experience of living under communist control. More importantly, they pointed to three larger categories in the anticommunist critique: revolutionary violence

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and repression, class struggle, and thought control. Describing Viet Minh rule and escapes from it, anticommunist writers also addressed questions such as “Why such control?” and “From what have we escaped?” Their answers to these questions constituted the heart of the critique and helped provide an ideological rationale for the legitimacy of state-building in the RVN. Because of the domination of the Viet Minh since 1945, an outstanding concern among anticommunist writers had to do with revolutionary violence against noncommunists during the August Revolution and the early part of the First Indochina War. Not unlike postwar overseas Vietnamese that spent an inordinate amount of ink on the unexpectedly rapid fall of the RVN in 1975 and pre-Renovation years, post-Geneva anticommunists wrote a great deal about the August Revolution, which caught them by surprise, and the following sixteen months, which led the Viet Minh to clear advantages over noncommunist nationalists. As one writer put it, the “communists gradually monopolized the resistance” while the noncommunist nationalist movement was “divided and broken up by their repression.” For anticommunist authors, the Revolution and its immediate aftermath were significant for the extent of repression that the Viet Minh committed against its real and potential enemies.20 Accordingly, an alternate interpretation of the August Revolution began to float in anticommunist circles even before the First Indochina War and came to fruition at the beginning of South Vietnam. According to this interpretation, the Viet Minh took advantage of political uncertainty to seize power and the result was an illegal coup (the commonly used phrase was cuop chinh quyen, literally meaning “robbing the governing power”). But how did the Viet Minh manage to rob the governing power? A common attribution was their skillful manipulation of popular anticolonial sentiments and readiness for independence: “Such was the MILIEU,” writes Nguyen Manh Con, “allowing the commencement of struggle [against colonialism].” When combined with the effective organization of the Indochinese Communist Party (ICP), popular support for the Viet Minh grew so quick that “in many areas . . . people eagerly awaited and actively looked for a ‘young man cadre’ to enlist, or help with money and weapons.” Conceding the same point was Nghiem Ke To, author of the best-known history of the period 1945–1954 that was published under the Diem regime. Although the Viet Minh were lacking in number, they could dominate because of their “wise leadership” and because “time and attitudes among Vietnamese contributed directly” to the momentum that they seized.21 In the alternative interpretation, then, the collective Vietnamese desire for independence was intoxicating and, therefore, open for communist manipulation. An example of communist tactical effectiveness is the ICP’s

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decision in 1941 to emphasize the appeal for independence by naming its front organization the Vietnamese Independence League. But when Ho Chi Minh returned to southern Vietnam, the organization also took on an additional, shorter name, Viet Minh (Allied Vietnam), previously used by the better-known noncommunist Vietnamese Revolutionary League. The noncommunist League was driven by the colonial authorities into China; by the time it returned to Vietnam, it found its shorthand usurped and had to make do with the new shorthand Viet Cach (Revolutionary Vietnam). The tract considered the ICP’s appropriation of the better-known shorthand skillful but also duplicitous.22 If anticommunists agreed on the skillfulness of the ICP in garnering popular support for independence, they were most critical of communist intention behind the aim of independence. Why oppose communism, Nguyen Manh Con asked, when communists declare independence and prosperity for the people? Because “according to Marx, [Vietnamese communists] do not believe in ‘independence’ as solution in itself.” Another writer, the pamphleteer To Van, was more explicit in criticizing the ICP’s drive for independence as the first phase in the Maoist doctrine of “three phases”: national liberation, bourgeois populism, and “pure socialism”. Paramount in the first two phases was winning support by creating political alliances across social classes and giving economic incentives such as tax reductions. But the goal was to gain enough power to move to the next phase, when the Communist Party would monopolize political power and shift from populism to socialism. Like many other writers, Van considered the dissolution of the ICP, the creation of a communist-led coalition government, and the creation of the second front (the Lien Viet) to be stepping stones in the path of these phases.23 If anticommunist writers thought political manipulation of the drive for independence was the right hand of communist strategy, they considered armed repression to be its left. South Vietnamese anticommunist literature stressed the ICP’s liquidation of noncommunist leaders and followers as signs and symptoms of antinationalism, since only “foreigners” killed Vietnamese. In a tract written in the epistolary form, for example, Nguyen Manh Con reminded readers that the Viet Minh started to eliminate their opponents as early as the evening of August 19, 1945, barely a day into the Revolution. Over 200 members of the nationalist Restoration Militia in Bao Lac were invited to a Viet Minh banquet only to be arrested and killed. Other narratives, such as Nghiem Ke To’s history, revealed the atmosphere of revolutionary intimidation. “The vast majority of cadres and lower-level local officials,” To wrote, “were violent, inexperienced, and disrespectful young men; or ignorant, uneducated, and full of vengeful and selfish thinking.” They stood ready to accuse anyone that did not show support or did not

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show up for meetings of being “Vietnamese traitor” and “reactionary”; their vigor led to many “arrests” and “imprisonment.” To concluded with a rhetorical question, “Who said that the ‘successful’ revolution was free of bloodshed?”24 It was this bloodshed that formed the first component of the tripartite anticommunist critique. The Critique of Class Struggle Because the overthrow of capitalism and the establishment of proletariat socialism were at the core of Marxism, a critique of class struggle was central to South Vietnamese anticommunist writers. Having considered revolutionary and armed repression as the first phase of communist consolidation of power, they focused on class struggle as the next step that was logical for the Viet Minh. They also considered it the major difference between communism and nationalism. Stressing, for instance, that the communists simultaneously fought the French and eliminated noncommunists, Thai Lang Nghiem concluded that the Communist Party did not “struggle for a nation, a people, a bourgeois society, but instead for a proletariat class” whose leadership, ironically, consisted of members from the bourgeoisie itself. Likewise, Nghiem Xuan Hong, who considered noncommunist bourgeoisie and intelligentsia to be in the best position to lead the construction of postcolonial Vietnam, reserved his strongest criticism for communist repression of these two groups.25 The South Vietnamese critique focused on a series of Hanoi’s policies. As enumerated by To Van, there was a new income tax targeted at merchants and industrialists and a policy of monetary control (including gold) targeted at the general population, particularly at “bourgeois” families. A third policy was “housing control,” aimed at confiscating houses and land that belonged to foreign nationals and Vietnamese families that had left for the south. A fourth was “state labor” policy that forced the poor and unemployed to perform state projects, while a fifth (and the most important) was land reform targeted at landlords as well as urbanites with land in the countryside.26 In short, these policies targeted two groups of noncommunist Vietnamese: landlords and the bourgeoisie. The first group was visible in the land reform that began in Viet Minh−controlled areas before the Geneva Conference and continued throughout the rest of North Vietnam until 1956. The second group was targeted after the communists took over urban areas after the Geneva Conference and concentrated in urban areas.27 In their critique of class struggle, anticommunist writers shifted from the August Revolution to the First Indochina War, especially its second half. Some accounts dated the shift at the end of 1950, after the anniversary of

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the October Revolution in the Soviet Union. One tract, for example, stated that it “was then that [new] policies about agricultural taxes were elevated to their crucial place, so to create appropriate conditions for the [new] war on class struggle.” Nguyen Manh Con, too, considered the same year crucial, particularly because it coincided with the reemergence of the Communist Party under the new name Vietnamese Workers Party (VWP). Other writers dated it later, and Nghiem Xuan Hong marked 1951–1952 as the dividing line of the two stages.28 All the same, anticommunist writers concurred that the early 1950s marked the complete break of the already tenuous communist-nationalist coalition.29 The critique of communist antagonism to the bourgeoisie appealed to tradition and argued that the VWP was imposing an alien doctrine on postcolonial Vietnam. “Our society has never had class divisions so extreme,” one tract declared, “that led to the conflicts of interests, as in Western societies.” It added that Vietnamese society has been “incapable of producing capitalists that took all resources in their hands, or laborers that lost all opportunities and resources for independence.” The implication is that the Vietnamese tradition was more egalitarian than was portrayed by the VWP. At the same time, some parts of the critique related to the affinity that many anticommunists had for the ideals of the French Revolution. However anticolonial anticommunists were, they were as sympathetic to the French Revolution as they were opposed to the Russian Revolution. One tract, for example, declared that the “French Revolution of 1870 was a most daring and progressive revolution in modern history” and “yet it respected private property and guaranteed individual liberty” (original emphasis).30 France was not the only Western noncommunist country that received positive references in the critique of class struggle. Great Britain and the United States were also mentioned at times, usually as counterweights to Marxist convictions about inherent linkages between class warfare and economic development. Some writers, such as the future provincial chief Nguyen Tran, defended Western capitalism and stated that Marxist analysis in 1850 “has no more merit . . . because American capitalism in 1950 was not the same as one hundred years before” and that “American workers now have a higher standard of living than [Western] European workers, and European workers have a higher standard of living than workers in our country.” Instances such as these reveal the influence exerted by the global Cold War on the early South Vietnamese anticommunist discourse. Moreover, because the discourse considered Vietnamese communists a part of the worldwide communist movement, there were expectedly many more references to Soviet Union and China. Hence, the discourse interpreted the fact that the Viet Minh started land reform before the end of the First

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Indochina War by placing it in the international context: namely, the timing of the campaign owed itself to the Chinese communist victory in 1949 as well as to Soviet criticism of the Viet Minh for slowness in building socialism.31 In this respect, the discourse aligned itself firmly with American and European anticommunist ideas and rhetoric. Nonetheless, it was not Western but nationalist ideas and local experiences that dominated narration and shaped the basic contours of the early South Vietnamese anticommunist discourse. Many publications, for example, are stories, tales, anecdotes, and other narratives illustrating serious problems faced by property owners. As exemplified by Tales of Escapees, anticommunist writers zoomed in on the rapid pace of economic control imposed on residents of Hai Phong and other urban areas. In July 1955, for instance, the cadres immediately made demands on businesses and citizens to pay a new “improvement tax” on urban industries and buildings. The following month saw the new monetary policies that required families and businesses to itemize their gold and silver while putting gold and silver trading under state control. September saw new policies that gave the state increasing control on housing.32 Similar to postwar antibourgeois policies in the second half of the 1970s, speedy legal and economic measures were employed to establish the Party’s hegemony over economic activities. The anticommunist critique paid even more attention to class struggle in the countryside. According to one tract, the VWP depended on a classbased formula to achieve its initial aims in land reform: the Party should “depend on landless peasants, unite with owners of little land, neutralize middle-class farmers, and demolish wealthy landowners.”33 Subsequent rounds of reform would strip property from middle-class owners, hence providing state-controlled land to the lowest rungs of farmers for production goals as well as creating moral debts toward the Party. Another theme is the ways that cadres ritualized tax policies and tax collections to homogenize an environment of loyalty to the Party. One tract details a “tax-collecting parade” in which the cadres organized a nine-hour parade, complete with a revolutionary percussion youth band, in a village that concluded with taxpayers publicly and ritually make “tax donations” as well as “vows” of upholding their tax-paying duties in the future.34 The critique of communist policies and practices about taxes and property was linked to the preference of anticommunists for a probourgeois society in postcolonial Vietnam. Here is not the place to discuss the preference, but it suffices to note that they interpreted class struggle as the crucial cause of political and cultural disorder in the country. As summarized by one writer, communist policies led to the elimination of four related arenas of Vietnamese life: private ownership, families, nationalism, and religious

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worship. In the end, communist policies “have harmed the country, made the people miserable, and created havoc to the order of our families and society.”35 The critique of class struggle, then, was not merely about an economic critique. Certainly, it was concerned with private property, but it was also a critique of communist beliefs about the nation, the family, and the role of religious beliefs and practices in both of those entities. It was a critique of communist instigation of hatred among the Vietnamese people, a hatred that played against postcolonial aspirations for political independence and economic propensity. Ultimately, the anticommunist critique of class warfare was concerned about the direction of developing a postcolonial Vietnam that would be appropriate to “Vietnamese values” and tradition. The critique considered Marxist class warfare as a wrong-headed tool for analysis of Vietnamese history and culture, and contended that Marxism simplified Vietnamese history to a history of production, ignoring cultural values that emphasize the role of the family, the village, and other “humane” institutions. In its singlemindedness, the critique of class struggle strayed off at times. In the main, however, it linked itself to the critique of revolutionary violence as evidence of communism as an inherently antinationalist project. The Critique of Thought Control The last piece of the tripartite critique was aimed at communist efforts at brainwashing and thought control. The writers considered the three parts to be interdependent: that is, revolutionary violence and repression eliminated the most important political opponents; class struggle mobilized peasants to denounce and eliminate real and potential economic opponents of the Communist Party; and control of cultural productions placed Vietnamese of all stripes at the mercy of the Party over what to express and what not to express. There were also accompanying stages: just as revolutionary violence cleared the field for ridding Vietnamese society of the bourgeoisie, class struggle formed the basis for communist promotion and patronage of socialist realism over anything else. But as stated by the émigré Nguyen Dang Thuc, a prominent professor at the University of Saigon, “Vietnamese arts today carry ideals of nationalism, not ideals of class struggle.”36 Anticommunist writers believed that as the basis for the building of postcolonial Vietnam, class struggle was a deeply wrong basis for cultural productions as it was for economic development. The early South Vietnamese critique of thought control was centered on what is commonly known as the Nhan Van Giai Pham Affair. The name of the Affair refers to the two periodicals—Nhan Van (Humanity) and Giai

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Pham (Beautiful Works)—that were published in Hanoi between 1955 and 1957 by two groups of dissident intellectuals and artists. The VWP initially allowed the publication of the journals due in part to post-Stalin revisionism in the Soviet Union. However, it quickly found the journals too critical of its control of the arts, especially the advocacy of socialist realism at the exclusion of other strands of thought and ideas. Unlike a number of renowned writers and artists who had previously denounced their Romanticism-influenced works in favor of revolutionary literature, the dissident intellectuals derided the state through a number of essays, poems, and cartoons. In addition, dissident criticism included some against the botched land reform whose inadequacies, the VWP, with characteristic euphemisms, admitted in mid-1956. By the end of the year, the Party launched an “anti-revisionist” attack against the journals. Articles, essays, and “letters from readers” appeared in governmentapproved magazines and newspapers, and the Hanoi government put a number of dissidents on trial or forced them to recant their writings.37 Expectedly, the Affair was a cause célèbre among South Vietnamese anticommunists. Many of them considered themselves members of the intelligentsia and, therefore, perfect targets of the Party had they lived in the north. Widely published were details about the writers and their trials and reprinting of selected writings from the two journals. Anticommunist writers praised the dissidents while denouncing the suppression of the VWP. They also leveled strong criticism at writers who were established and independent, but who later followed the official line and openly criticized the dissidents for not supporting the Revolution.38 More importantly, the Affair provided South Vietnamese anticommunist writers a strong and clear case against thought control. In their view, the VWP moved from cultural hegemony to total control, doing to culture what it had done to politics and economics. They interpreted the Affair to be the last steps in the process of consolidation toward a totalitarian state, with features borrowed from Stalinism and Maoism in addition to MarxistLeninism. Indeed, while the critique of thought control zoomed in on the Affair, it made notes that there had been already a process of thought control at work. Some writers dated the beginning of the process to 1950, when the Viet Minh was explicit about what writers, musicians, and artists could and could not produce. One related case was that of Nguyen Son, a Viet Minh military officer and district commander during the First Indochina War, but also a “Tito among Vietnamese Communists” because he allegedly cared only for national liberation but not for expansion of the Party’s power and influence. Before 1950, Son was something of a protector and patron of noncommunist writers that joined the Viet Minh, using his influence to allow them to

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create nationalistic works. After the Chinese communists’ victory, however, Son was sent to China, leaving noncommunist writers and artists bereft of protection and, consequentially, productions. The fact that the Humanity published an obituary after Son’s death in 1956 suggested to South Vietnamese writers that the previous connection between him and dissident writers was another reason for the outright suppression of any thinking that deviated from the Party’s official line.39 Anticommunist writers also interpreted the arrests of dissident writers as symptoms of the larger antirevisionist character of the VWP. Not only noncommunists but even members of the Party could be easily put away for signs of deviation. One tract, for example, discussed Yugoslav revisionism of Marxist orthodoxy and reactions to it from several communist countries. It quoted and summarized antirevisionist criticisms by leading communists, including members of the Vietnamese Politburo Le Duan. Next, it published a number of “self-corrections” by several prominent North Vietnamese writers and scholars, written out of pressure by the VWP to renounce any possible revisionist thinking about the Party or the country.40 The implication was clear: even if party members desired changes, they were at the mercy of the leadership at the top, which concentrated power in the hand of a minority and which would not have permitted any changes in ideology or structure. Similar to the critique of class struggle, the critique of thought control extended its arguments against communist policing of ideas and cultural productions as also against the nation. Anticommunists appealed to tradition and family as a basis against thought control; for many of them, dread of communist brainwashing came from the Marxist project of creating the “new person” in a “new society,” which was antinationalistic for anticommunists. Since the new society was to be “pure socialist,” the creation of the “new person” would involve two stages. In the first stage, the Communist Party would disconnect Vietnamese from their “ancestral customs” and influences from “family, religion, and morals.” In the next, they would introduce new customs and principles, and remake each Vietnamese to be a “child of the Revolution” instead of a mother and father.41 For anticommunist writers, thought control was the logical extension of this introduction of the “new” and elimination of the “old,” in effect, the elimination of long-standing cultural tradition and heritage. Conclusion This chapter illustrates only one aspect of South Vietnamese anticommunism, namely, an ideological and intellectual critique of the Vietnamese Communist Party developed for the most part by northern émigrés during the first years

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of the divisional period. Of course, South Vietnamese anticommunism encompassed a lot more, as exemplified by political or cultural organizations such as the Boys Scouts and Diem-sponsored Republican Youths, or by local links to international and regional anticommunist organizations such as the Asian Peoples’ Anti-Communist League. Moreover, there was not a monolithic kind of anticommunism but an array of forms that took shape on the basis of religion, social class, regionalism, and other variables. Adherents of the Cao Dai sect in the south and members of the Dai Viet political party in the north were all anticommunist, but their experiences with the Viet Minh during the First Indochina War were not necessarily the same. This in turn could have shaped their views somewhat differently from one another. A full study of the topic would necessarily include examples like these organizations and activities. Nonetheless, as shown by this chapter, there was a considerable ideological rationale behind the activities of South Vietnamese anticommunist organizations and individuals. Aided by a sizable infusion of cultural and political writers of northern origin, this critique developed in full swing after the Geneva Conference. While the critique contained elements of Cold War rhetoric and ideas, it was largely a native product rooted in various readings of Vietnam’s recent past. In places, the critique was simplified and exaggerated. As a whole, however, it was tight and coherent and helped to shape a political language for the remainder of the existence of South Vietnam. Unlike the RVN that collapsed and disappeared in the spring of 1975, the South Vietnamese critique of communism continued after the war. Its thematic emphases on escape and imprisonment found confirmation in developments in the decade following reunification: antibourgeois economic policies, imprisonment of former RVN officials and ARVN officers in reeducation camps, and waves of “boat people” fleeing the country. Anticommunist writers that remained behind were arrested and sent to prison; a few, most notably Nguyen Manh Con, paid with their lives there. It took until the second half of the 1980s, after the failures of collectivization became apparent, for the postwar leadership to begin shifting gears in the form of Renovation (doi moi). The imprisonments and deaths of Nguyen Manh Con and others were a direct testimony to their previous efforts to alert their fellow countrymen and women to the hazards of applying, in their view, an alien ideology to the construction of a postcolonial Vietnamese nation.

CHAPTER 3

“To Be Patriotic is to Build Socialism”: Communist Ideology in Vietnam’s Civil War Tuong Vu, University of Oregon

Introduction

T

he Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV) was the instigator and victor in the Vietnamese civil war (1959–1975). It was led by a communist party (the Vietnamese Workers’ Party, or VWP) that had displayed a particularly sharp binary worldview since at least the 1940s.1 To communist leaders, the world was divided into two opposing camps. The socialist camp was imagined as a paradise in which peace, happiness, and goodwill ruled. In contrast, the capitalist or imperialist camp symbolized everything that was bad, including war, suffering, and exploitation. The interests of the two camps were fundamentally opposed and a war of mutual destruction between them was inevitable. Yet, because history was viewed as following a linear progressive path and the socialist camp represented progress, this camp was expected to triumph in such a war. This binary worldview of Vietnamese communists was remarkably consistent throughout the 1940s. As reality did not conform to what was imagined, it was modified but never abandoned. Regardless of what happened, communist leaders enthusiastically identified themselves with the revolutionary camp. In the darkest moments, when no support from this camp was forthcoming, they did not cease associating themselves mentally with the Soviet Union, imagining about it, and displaying their admiration for it. Their loyalty explains why, when the Cold War arrived in Asia in the late 1940s, DRV leaders volunteered to fight it on the front line for the socialist

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camp, disregarding the looming threat of American intervention. Their earnest appeals and Mao’s personal pleading helped persuade an uninterested Soviet Union to recognize the DRV in early 1950, extending the battle line of the Cold War into Indochina. The question is, what happened to this ideological loyalty during the subsequent civil war between North and South Vietnam? The war was framed from the communist side as “the resistance against America to save the country” (khang chien chong My cuu nuoc), making it sound as if it were simply a war for national liberation and unification between the independent-minded Vietnamese and American invaders. The standard version in the literature depicts a fierce Vietnamese desire for national unification and independence that ran opposed to American determination to stop communism from expanding into Southeast Asia.2 Vietnamese communists are viewed as being driven by deep patriotic sentiments as descendants of a people who had repeatedly fought off foreign invasions in history. The alliance with the Soviet camp is seen as existing only for political expediency. Even when VWP leaders’ strong adherence to communism is acknowledged, it is often argued that they placed national liberation and unification above ideological goals.3 Alternatively, when ideology is discussed, this is often done in the context of factional conflict.4 Ideological conflicts in this line of analysis merely reflected power struggle. Based on newly available documents and other primary sources, this chapter comes to the opposite conclusion that Vietnamese communists never wavered in their ideological loyalty during the period when key decisions about the civil war were made (1953–1960). They accepted Soviet and Chinese advice to sign the Geneva Agreements but continued to perpetuate their propaganda war against the United States. Under various pennames, Ho Chi Minh published sharp commentaries in Vietnamese newspapers, viciously attacking American policy and its capitalist culture and society. Although North Vietnamese leaders expected elections to be held in 1956, they pressed on with rural class struggle and their goal to build a “people’s democracy.” They did not shy away from defending communism when the Saigon regime attacked the doctrine and they never abandoned their binary worldview despite serious disputes within the Soviet bloc in the late 1950s. The VWP was not of one mind on the question of how to cope with discord within the bloc, but its leadership worked hard to preserve bloc unity. As it launched an armed struggle in South Vietnam, the Party did not downplay socialism but in fact boldly promoted it with the new formulation “To be patriotic is to build socialism.” Party leaders sometimes spoke openly about wanting to build socialism in South Vietnam once the North won the civil war. The evidence suggests that a modernizing socialist ideology rather than

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a mere desire for national unification was driving the Vietnamese civil war from the north. “Class Struggle under the Appearance of a Nationalist Struggle” Existing literature rarely discusses the DRV’s negotiations at Geneva in tandem with its domestic policy. Most accounts also begin in 1954, when the negotiations started.5 In this section, I start in 1953 when the ground was laid for the decision to negotiate in 1954. A brief examination of the decision to launch the land reform campaign made at the same time also illuminates the mindset of DRV leaders in this obscure period. Stalin published his short book titled Economic Problems of Socialism in 1952 at about the same time with the Nineteenth Congress of the Soviet Communist Party. The year also marked the third year of the Korean War in which a stalemate was reached between the Allies’ and communist forces. In China, the communist government had just completed its land reform campaign in 1951 and was poised to take the rural revolution to the next step, that is, collectivization.6 These events revived the optimism of the DRV government after an unsuccessful military campaign in 1951. In his speech to open the Fourth Plenum of the VWP’s Central Committee in January 1953, Ho Chi Minh recounted these developments with pride and joy. After summarizing the contents of Stalin’s book, Ho said that the book taught Vietnamese communists “how to assess the future of the world correctly”; now they could be “assured of the ultimate victory waiting them.”7 Ho then turned to China and enthusiastically presented an array of statistics about the success of socialist building there. For example, land reform in China was said to have redistributed 700 million acres of land to farmers, raising production by 40 percent in 1952. The percentage of poor farmers fell from 70 percent to around 10 to 20 percent. Between 60 and 80 percent of the Chinese farmers were already organized either in mutual aid teams or in collectives. Forty-nine million children of farmers were now enrolled in schools. If real, these statistics were impressive. In contrast to the great progress made by “the democratic camp” (phe dan chu), Ho described the United States, which led the imperialist camp (phe de quoc), as being “on its last leg” when it used biological weapons in Korea.8 This act led to “great outbursts” of world opinion against the United States. Because the United States had to concentrate all its forces to prepare for war, the American economy was in a shambles and Americans had become more impoverished. Ho called for continued vigilance against

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imperialists: “We have to keep in mind that colonizing backward countries and exploiting their people are one of the basic characteristics of monopoly capital. French and American imperialists crave for our rich reserves of raw materials such as rice, rubber, coal and tin. They also want to conquer and use our country as a military base to invade China.” Ho’s perceptions of Vietnam’s chief enemy were derived largely from Lenin’s theory of monopoly capital with the logic going backwards: imperialism originated from the need of monopoly capital for markets and raw materials; America was an imperialist; America must desire Vietnam because Vietnam could be made into a market for American goods and a supplier of raw materials for American companies. Strategically, the goal of the United States was assumed to be invasion, not containment, of China. An offensive imperialist goal clearly fitted better with Ho’s two-camp worldview than a defensive one. The VWP secretary general Truong Chinh, who gave the main report at the same Plenum, quoted Stalin at length about the “vast chasm” (mot troi mot vuc) between the basic principles of modern capitalism and those of socialism. Whereas the former was characterized by “exploitation,” “impoverishment,” “enslavement,” “profiteering,” and “war-making,” the latter was said to be based on “the effort to satisfy to the greatest extent the material and spiritual needs of the whole society by continuously improving production based on advanced technology.”9 Stalin offered just another exegesis of the two-camp doctrine that Chinh espoused. But Truong Chinh was most impressed with Stalin’s “invention” (phat minh) of the dialectic logic of the predicted economic crisis in the capitalist camp. According to Stalin, the imperialist countries’ economic blockade against the Soviet Union and other “people’s democracies” led to the latter forming a market among themselves in which they “collaborated closely and equally and helped each other sincerely.”10 The unified world market that had existed up to then was broken into two opposing economic blocs. The development of the socialist camp had been so rapid that soon socialist countries would not need goods thus far supplied by the capitalist camp. This, Stalin predicted, would shrink the markets in capitalist countries and throw their economies into deep crises. These crises in turn would further weaken world capitalism; capitalist countries would have to cling to their colonies at any cost; the conflict among imperialists would deepen; and war would break out among them.11 Because of this coming war within the imperialist camp, war might not occur between the two camps for the time being. As Truong Chinh paraphrased Stalin, World War II had shown the imperialists that attacking the Soviet Union was a risky business. While fighting among imperialists would only affect their relative status within the capitalist camp, war with the Soviet Union would endanger capitalism itself.

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While being vigilant against “imperialists’ plots,” Truong Chinh cited three reasons for Vietnamese communists to support the Soviet policy of protecting peace. First, protecting peace for the time being was necessary for the Soviet Union and the people’s democracies to develop their forces while imperialist forces declined. Second, one should not encourage wars among imperialists because these wars by themselves would not destroy imperialism. Imperialism would be destroyed only when the people in imperialist countries overthrew their rulers, or when socialist armies liberated them (as the Soviet Union did in World War II). Finally, the people in imperialist countries would not need imperialist wars to make revolution. Many revolutions in history had occurred in the absence of such wars. While believing Stalin that peace was possible, Truong Chinh also quoted the Soviet leader’s point that peace was only temporary and war was inevitable in the long run because imperialism still existed. The significance of this Plenum cannot be exaggerated. First, the analysis of the world situation formed a critical background to the most important decision made at the Plenum—the resolution to launch a Chinese-style land reform in 1953. The VWP had been vigorously debating this policy for many years and the achievements of the socialist camp, especially in China and Korea, clearly inspired them to take this long-awaited radical step. The new situation, Truong Chinh argued, made irrelevant the experience of the Chinese Communist Party during the period 1937–1945 when it had pursued rent reduction but not land redistribution: We do not want to apply [that] Chinese experience mechanically. At that time, the Chinese Communist Party was collaborating with Chiang Kai-shek to fight the Japanese. Chiang was the representative of feudal landowning and comprador capitalist classes. He did not want land redistribution and he had a government and an army. Now we are not collaborating with such a powerful partner. So we can make a [bolder] step forward. Also, at that time China was under siege by feudal and imperialist forces. Today our country has formed one single bloc with [lien mot khoi] the socialist and democratic camp and is connected to a big people’s democracy which is China.12

Truong Chinh’s reasoning led him to a concise theoretical formulation that effectively resolved a longstanding debate among Vietnamese communists. As he said, “Nationalist democratic revolutions are [essentially] peasant revolutions. Wars of national liberation are essentially peasant wars … Leading peasants to fight feudalism and imperialism is class struggle and nationalist struggle at the same time. It is class struggle within a nationalist struggle and under the appearance of a nationalist struggle.”13 The debate up to then had pitted radicals like Truong Chinh against those who feared

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that land reform would break up the national coalition in the struggle for independence.14 Given the favorable international and domestic conditions, Chinh had now succeeded in persuading his comrades to go along. Land reform from then on was viewed as complementing, not contradicting, nationalist goals. Land redistribution assumed an importance equal to national liberation. As we will see later, Le Duan and others would make a similar move in the late 1950s to infuse class struggle objectives into the fight for South Vietnam. Second, with the help of Stalin’s book, the Plenum also accepted the theoretical justifications for another key decision to be made later in the year, which was to negotiate with the French at Geneva. Several factors have been put forward to explain the DRV’s acceptance of the Geneva Agreements, including the priority given to reconstructing the North, the belief in the legality and practicality of the accords, war fatigue, and the pressure from the Soviet Union and China.15 While all these factors played some role, Party documents published in 1953 reviewed here suggest that ideology was also a factor. In particular, their loyalty to the socialist cause and desire to coordinate policy with the Soviet camp led Vietnamese communists at the time to accept uncritically Stalin’s policy of preserving peace. There was no doubt raised at the Plenum about Stalin’s policy. VWP leaders even made an effort to justify the policy in doctrinal terms although they simply paraphrased Stalin on some points. While there was internal dissent about Geneva, top VWP leaders felt proud that they were acting on behalf of the camp in the interests of not just their revolution but also world peace.16 The Undeclared Propaganda War: “Civilized” Soviets vs. “Stinking” Americans Ever since the DRV officially joined the socialist camp in 1950, its propaganda machine had been busy spreading the two-camp view among Vietnamese people. Propaganda took many forms: publications of pamphlets17 and newspaper articles; the organization of “Friendship Month” (Thang huu nghi)18; and visits for government officials and intellectuals to China, North Korea, and the Soviet Union. On their return, travelers toured the country to talk about their positive experiences.19 In this propaganda war to inculcate loyalty to socialism and incite hatred against America and American imperialism, Ho Chi Minh played an active role as a satirist and commentator. From 1951 to 1956, he authored nearly a hundred short articles under a few pen names (Tran Luc, T.L., C.B., D. X., and Chien Si), which were published in the VWP’s newspapers Nhan Dan (The People) and Cuu Quoc (National Salvation). Most of the articles

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were about 500-word long and were published during the period 1953–1955, or about one every other week. They were written in a simple style for the ordinary readers but the language was sharp, concise, and idiomatic. The topics ranged from the story of an ordinary farmer in the Soviet Union to the evolution of the Soviet Communist Party over the years. In these articles Ho often cited sources from foreign newspapers, presenting himself as a well-read and objective observer who wanted to educate his people about those foreign lands through hard facts (statistics) and interesting vignettes. The stories about the Soviet Union conveyed the happy life, advanced technology, economic success, and progressive society there. In a typical piece, the author wrote the following about a 147-year-old farmer named Aivazov: “Communist Youth” is the name of a collective farm in Azerbaijan (the Soviet Union). This farm was organized by Mr. Aivazov decades ago, when he was more than 120 years old. He named the farm “Communist Youth” because he considered himself a young man. Indeed, although he is now 147, he is still healthy and likes to do such things as keeping sheep, raising chicken, planting, carpenter and blacksmith work …20

Although Vietnamese leaders fully supported Stalin’s policy of preserving peace as mentioned above, they never underestimated the American threat. They concluded the Geneva Agreements on the advice of their Soviet and Chinese comrades, but they were in many ways preparing for war. During the Geneva talks, they intensified their propaganda to counter the tendencies of “fearing and admiring America” among the Vietnamese. About two-thirds of the articles (sixty-seven) written by Ho were about the United States (the rest were about the Soviet Union). Most of the pieces about the United States were in satirical form; the author usually adopted a mocking tone to criticize various features of American society—from its decadent culture to racist practices, from its crime-infested society to its oppressive government. The author wanted to prevent the Vietnamese from admiring, trusting, or fearing the United States because it was morally, socially, and politically corrupt. A typical piece discussed the hypocrisy of American policy as follows: America brings money and medicine to help people in other countries. At the same time, how do Americans live? On July 5, the American president said, there are 32 million Americans without doctors. Last year more than 1 million Americans died of intestinal diseases. More than 600,000 Americans had mental disorder (insanity), more than 25 million had this or that disease. The great majority of Americans have no money to see doctors or to buy medicine … So you see, the American people live such miserable lives but

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American reactionaries are throwing money to help French colonizers, [Vietnamese] puppets, Chiang Kai-shek, [and] Rhee Syngman to help spread American “civilization” to the Asian people! How crazy. Even crazier are those who admire America, trust America, fear America.21

Ho’s biting criticism was not limited to American policy or American government, but was as often directed against American leaders as against American (capitalist) culture and society. He viewed the struggle not only in political terms but also in cultural terms. Here is a translation for readers of material taken from American newspapers in mid-August 1954: Phoenix has 25,000 residents. Casinos, cocaine shops and brothels open freely. Gangsters can be hired to kill people: the cost to kill a person is 12,000 francs [sic].22 A merchant wanted to organize a self-defense group; his house was bombed to the ground the next day. A local paper reported this case; the paper was raided and two correspondents were critically beaten. A judge wanted to investigate the case; his house was also bombed. Another judge declared he would wage war on crimes; he was assassinated a few days later. Criminal gangs control the city. The government and the police are their puppets … Phoenix is a small city; what about big ones? New York …23

Ho then asked his readers: “Is [America] a civilized country? Or is it a disgusting and stinking place [hoi tanh ron nguoi]?” Ho’s technique was to pick an isolated story and present it as typical of America: Capitalist magazine Newsweek (January 30, 1956) reported, “Frist (?), 22, was executed in Oklahoma for killing a policeman. When Frist was 18 months old, his uncle was executed for murder. A year later, his mother (who had left his father for another man) shot to death her new husband. She was absolved from this case because she was “defending” herself from her husband who threatened to kill her. Later she killed her third husband and spent 5 years in jail for this crime. Frist’s brother is serving 10 years for theft. His uncle received a life sentence for repeated crimes. Frist’s girlfriend is serving time in Virginia for stealing a car. Frist’s father is in a Texas prison because of theft … What a model family of America!24

It is impossible to know for sure whether these articles represented Ho’s true worldview or whether he was merely producing propaganda. It is likely that Ho believed in what he wrote for three reasons. First, his view of American society of the 1950s was consistent with the one he had in the 1920s when he was a young man, and it fitted with his broader two-camp worldview that was shared by his comrades at the time.25 Second, he was not writing these columns to make a career or a living. He had a full-time

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job as president of the DRV and of his party and he was at the top of his career. In other words, he was writing out of mere enthusiasm and his awareness of the need to educate his people about the dark side of America. Third, what Ho wrote was not fabricated but contained only half-truths. We may think of his articles as mere propaganda but he would probably disagree. He would have dismissed as imperialist lies anything positive about U.S. society in Western media. His extremely negative images of the United States, which conformed to Marxist-Leninist teaching, may have been accepted as the whole truth. While his true belief is hard to ascertain, there is no question Ho was a talented satirist who liked to play with words and to make short verses. In Vietnamese, “America” is called “My” (from Chinese “Mei guo”). “My” also means “beauty.” Ho pointed this out, warning Vietnamese that the name of the country suggested beauty and goodness but its actions were just the opposite.26 Another example is Ho’s transliteration of General Douglas McArthur’s name into Vietnamese as Mat-Acte (“Cruel Face” in Vietnamese).27 As a cultural entrepreneur, Ho was subtly and skillfully revising the popular image of the United States in Vietnam. Due to the lack of information, we can only speculate about the impact of his writings. The intensity of the contents and the frequency of their appearance suggest the possible impact they had on their readers. At least the articles made the idea of fighting the most powerful but also the most corrupt superpower not that daunting and certainly justifiable. Defending Communism and Building an “Essentially People’s Democracy” at Home Vietnamese leaders fully agreed with Stalin’s call to preserve peace. They followed Soviet and Chinese “socialist brother-countries” in signing the Geneva Agreements in July 1954 despite some dissent within their ranks. But, as we have seen, they watched every U.S. move closely. Even before signing the agreements, they had noted American efforts to create a new Southeast Asian military alliance and warned that [s]ince the beginning of the resistance, our forces have become stronger and the enemies weaker … Yet we should not look down on our enemies. Our victory [at Dien Bien Phu] has wakened American imperialists. They are adjusting their plots and plans to prolong the war, internationalize it, wreck the Agreements, kick the French out to take over Indochina, turn Indochinese people into their slaves, and create more tension in the world.28

The DRV’s strategy at the time was to exploit the conflict between the United States and France in the imperialist camp. By late 1954, after a series

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of U.S. successes in consolidating the anticommunist bloc, they sensed that this strategy would fail.29 This new development created a besieged mentality. At the Eighth Central Committee Plenum in March 1955, party leaders reviewed the balance of forces between Soviet and U.S. camps and were concerned that Vietnam was the weaker outpost of the socialist camp compared to the other three (East Germany, North Korea, and China).30 They were worried about possible U.S. attacks on the Soviet Union, China, and other Southeast Asian countries.31 They predicted that the United States and the Saigon government were likely to delay or refuse to carry out elections as proposed in the Geneva Agreements.32 On this occasion, Ho Chi Minh and Truong Chinh appeared to differ in their assessment of the world situation. First, Ho viewed the United States and the Soviet Union as more or less equal in force capabilities, but the latter was ultimately stronger because it represented a just cause.33 Speaking after Ho, Chinh noted that the Soviet Union was helping some “people’s democracies” to build nuclear-fueled electricity plants. He argued that, compared to the United States, which was still trying to test nuclear weapons, the Soviet Union was clearly superior in nuclear technology and science.34 Second, Chinh chided the Party propaganda department for praising India and Burma too much, “causing the people to be confused about the political stand and goals of those [capitalist] countries.”35 In contrast, Ho counted India and Indonesia as forces for peace, suggesting that those countries could be allies of the socialist camp.36 These differences confirmed the well-known fact that Truong Chinh was among the most radical leaders of the VWP. These differences aside, all VWP leaders largely ignored the bustling diplomacy by governments of the emerging nonaligned bloc. The Asian conference to be held in India and the Asia-Africa Conference to be held later in Bandung, Indonesia, were mentioned only once in one sentence.37 These activities clearly did not fit Vietnamese leaders’ two-camp worldview. In response to the rising intensity of the Cold War, Vietnamese communists still considered the need to preserve peace as being more urgent than Vietnam’s unification even though they paid greater attention to the latter now.38 Diplomatically, the VWP wanted to further consolidate Vietnam’s “solidarity” with the Soviet Union, China, and other people’s democracies. Ideologically, the Party wanted to educate the masses more about proletarian internationalism.39 This call for mass indoctrination indicates a consistent pattern of behavior that will be seen again and again. This pattern was that, whenever life became more difficult, the Party would resort to ever more rigorous indoctrination of the masses.40 The reason was that Party leaders never blamed their doctrine for what went wrong. Marx

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and Lenin were always right but cadres (including the top leaders themselves) did not understand these masters correctly, which was why more ideological study and training were required. By late 1955, it became clear to VWP leaders that things were not right. Ngo Dinh Diem declared that he would not honor the Geneva Agreements because his government did not sign them, and because free elections as stipulated in the agreements would not be possible in North Vietnam under the communist dictatorship. Ngo also organized a poll to oust Emperor Bao Dai and to make himself the president of a new Republic of Vietnam. He named communism as one of the three enemies of his regime, together with feudalism and colonialism.41 In the wake of Ngo’s attack on communism, Party leaders decided that not to defend the doctrine was a serious rightleaning mistake.42 They launched a propaganda campaign designed to show Vietnamese more clearly the superiority of the socialist camp over its imperialist enemy. Party members were mobilized to fight against the “enemy camp’s slanders and lies about our regime and the regimes in our socialist brother-countries.”43 The goal was to make “the people, especially the working people, to enthusiastically support communism and actively defend communists.” This unfavorable international situation generated internal debate among VWP leaders about the ongoing violent land reform campaign.44 Some argued that the rural class struggle in the North could alienate the upper classes in South Vietnam, making it more difficult to unify the country. Hoang Quoc Viet, a Politburo member in charge of united front work, asserted that any successful united front must be based on the alliance of workers and peasants and must meet their “basic demands.” This essentially meant class struggle should go on. In his report at the Eighth Central Committee Plenum in August 1955, Truong Chinh pushed for sustaining land reform but nevertheless argued that calling for rapid socialist industrialization in the current environment was a “left-leaning mistake.”45 He mentioned the word “socialism” only twice in his fifty-nine-page report. The Plenum resolution reflected some uncertainty, but the radical view adopted since 1953 still held sway. On the one hand, the Party decided that the North was to take “gradual but firm steps toward socialism,” and that the political regime in the North must essentially be a “people’s democracy.” On the other hand, the regime in appearance was allowed to retain certain characteristics of “old-style democracy,” and it would be acceptable if the speed of the movement toward socialism in North Vietnam would be slower than that in other people’s democracies.46 This confusing formulation essentially meant that class struggle would continue but must be conducted in a way that would not appear harsh from outside. There were thus different

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views among Party leadership about the speed of the socialist revolution but not about socialism itself. No Party leaders expressed any reservations about the need to publicly and proudly defend communism. “No Other Way Out But Revolution” Khrushchev’s denunciations of Stalin and his policy of peaceful coexistence in early 1956 shook the VWP. Given the VWP’s worship of Stalin and the failure of the Geneva Agreements, Khrushchev’s policy touched on sensitive nerves in Hanoi. In response, Vietnamese leaders accepted Khrushchev’s overall argument but denied its full utility in their case. First, they argued that the VWP had been practicing collective leadership and that personality cults were not a big problem in their party.47 The VWP Politburo pledged to strengthen collective leadership, but also warned about committing rightleaning mistakes such as “extreme democracy” (dan chu cuc doan) and the wholesale refutation of the role of individual leaders in revolution.48 It was stressed that Ho Chi Minh’s role must still be elevated. Second, the VWP Politburo took exceptions to Khrushchev’s new calls for peaceful coexistence on two grounds. Clearly with South Vietnam in mind, VWP leaders asserted that, although it was possible to prevent war, imperialism by its economic nature was war-oriented.49 Until the day when imperialism was totally destroyed, the threat of war remained and “people of the world” (nhan dan the gioi) must always be on guard. Also, while it was possible for some countries to advance to socialism by peaceful means, as Khrushchev argued, in cases where the capitalist class still controlled the coercive apparatus and was determined to suppress revolution with force, the proletarian class must be prepared to take up arms if they were to win. Although the VWP pledged to continue its peaceful unification policy toward the South, they publicly distanced themselves from Khrushchev’s stand. VWP leaders formulated a clearer assessment of their southern policy by the end of 1956 as they convened the Tenth Central Committee Plenum. They noted that the international environment had become more favorable to the socialist camp.50 The Soviet Union was at the forefront of the world movement to curb the arms race. Soviet-Yugoslavian talks improved unity in the socialist camp, while the U.S.-led military alliances in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East encountered internal friction. Domestically, the VWP finally concluded that the land reform and “organizational rectification” campaigns in the North had committed serious errors. This conclusion would lead to the resignation of Secretary General Truong Chinh at the end of the Plenum.

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In South Vietnam, Ngo Dinh Diem had categorically rejected the Geneva Agreements. July, the month that national elections were supposed to take place to unify the country, passed without such events. This confronted VWP leaders with the problem of explaining this failure to their followers. In this sense Le Duan’s forty-two-page analysis from the South came as a timely blessing (although conventional scholarship views this only as a criticism of central leadership). In this document, Duan, as the third-ranking party leader in charge of the Party office in the South, called for a new policy of revolutionary struggle to defeat the Ngo Dinh Diem regime.51 Duan presented the harshest and most doctrinal analysis of the Saigon regime to date, calling it “a neo-colonialist regime under the control of an aggressive imperialist—the US,” and “a cruel and clever fascist dictatorship.”52 He eloquently asserted that revolution was the only way out in the South, pushing central policy toward, if not a more radical, then a sharply clarified position.53 Either out of respect for the general policy of the socialist camp or out of strategic analysis of the military balance in the South, Le Duan accepted that the revolution could proceed for the time being as a “political struggle” but not yet as an “armed struggle.” At the same time, he stressed that political struggle should be based on mass forces in opposition to the Saigon government, not on mere legal or constitutional demands. Here Duan implicitly dismissed as misguided the central policy to demand the implementation of the Geneva Agreements. To Duan, the goal of the struggle from then on must be “revolutionary,” that is, to eventually overthrow the Saigon government and to implement communism.54 Duan offered a lengthy analysis of the history of the Vietnamese revolution to conclude that the revolution would have to give equal priority to both class struggle and national struggle to ensure its success.55 We have seen that this was exactly what Truong Chinh had argued since 1953. As before, the Tenth Plenum did not blame land reform mistakes on the doctrine. Instead, the leaders humbly blamed themselves for failing to apply Marxist-Leninist theories correctly.56 At the same time, Party leaders were concerned about many new, post-land-reform problems in the countryside, including “right-leaning” errors and the revival of capitalism among uppermiddle peasants.57 In response to the new situation, Party leaders called for more rigorous study of the doctrine (for the leaders) and for more systematic indoctrination (for the rank and file).58 The Party and the people had to study harder so that they could combine patriotism and proletarian internationalism harmoniously in their belief system. The idea that Vietnam could be a neutral country between the two camps had to be denounced. People would have to believe in the socialist camp led by the Soviet Union

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and China, and work hard to strengthen Vietnam’s solidarity with the socialist brother-countries, friendship with neighboring nations, and support for the peace and democratic movement.59 Party leaders vowed that “regardless of circumstances,” North Vietnam had to be strengthened to take “gradual steps toward socialism.” Existing analyses discuss socialist construction in the North and unification of the country as conflicting goals in the thinking of VWP leaders. If this had indeed been the case, it was no longer true by 1956 in the minds of these men. Both regions were assigned tasks that together would take Vietnam on the path to socialism. This formulation created ideological consistency, but it also required clarifying that the upcoming war in the South was not just a war for national liberation but also a step on the long road to socialism. Le Duan’s analysis of the southern situation in clear doctrinal terms as a neocolony under imperialist rule was a crucial step to prepare for new conceptualizations of the war to be developed over the next two years. Defending the “Universal Truths” of Marxism-Leninism Abroad Internal conflict within the socialist bloc during the period 1957–1960 tested Vietnamese communists’ commitment to their two-camp doctrine. Khrushchev’s active pursuit of peaceful coexistence was a wedge in Sino-Soviet relations. But China and the Soviet Union had numerous other disputes, including the Soviet invasion of Hungary, Soviet aid to China, Soviet normalization with Yugoslavia, China’s border war with India, and the Albanian challenge to the Soviet Union. What did VWP leaders think about the new developments? At the Thirteenth Plenum of the VWP in December 1957, First Secretary-designated Le Duan lambasted “modern revisionism” although he did not mention Tito and Khrushchev. Duan charged that this doctrine promoted national communism, criticized Stalin, denied the “universal truths” (chan ly pho bien) offered by Marxism-Leninism, slighted the value of Soviet revolutionary experience, questioned the necessity of proletarian dictatorship, failed to see the enemy’s plots, doubted the motives of Soviet aid, rejected Soviet leadership, and advocated incorrect views about peaceful coexistence.60 The two-camp worldview of Vietnamese leaders assumed two unified camps with fundamentally opposed class interests seeking to destroy each other. The existence of two camps was believed to be an “objective truth and the result of a historical process.”61 The nature of the two camps was fundamentally different like paradise versus hell. The socialist camp came into being with the birth of the Soviet Union in 1917 and expanded with

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the emergence of many “people’s democracies” after World War II. The formation of many “nationalist countries” such as India and Indonesia after World War II did not change the two-camp reality because these countries were essentially capitalist. Within the socialist camp, the national interests in each “brother-country” were identical to those of the entire camp because all of them were based on the interests of workers and the working people. There should not be conflict within the socialist camp. Soviet leadership of the camp was also the result of a historical process: the Soviet Union was the first socialist country whose experience was relevant to all others; Soviet military forces were the most powerful and provided the security for the whole bloc; and the Soviet Union had proven to be a great leader since its birth. But why did conflict break out among socialist countries? Vietnamese leaders chose to blame “imperialist forces” and remnants of the capitalist class in the new people’s democracies for stirring up the troubles.62 They imagined a dialectic process as follows. As the socialist camp grew, comprador capitalists and imperialist powers became increasingly desperate and sought every means to destroy socialist regimes and to reinstate their rule. These enemy forces organized uprisings and tried to divide the socialist camp. They exploited ancient national sentiments generated in past conflicts caused by exploiting classes. They slandered the “generous and sincere assistance of the Soviet Union and distort[ed] Soviet relationships with the people’s democracies.”63 The DRV’s diplomatic maneuvers in response to the Sino-Soviet disputes have been well covered in other accounts.64 Here I wish to focus on the ideological dimension only. From this perspective, several questions emerge about the VWP’s behavior in this difficult period. First, why were they so obsessed with the unity of the camp and willing to act as mediators despite the risks of being entangled in the disputes between their bigger brothers?65 In the Soviet-Albanian dispute, why did they defend Albania that could not offer them aid, and defy the Soviet Union that could? Smyser66 speculates that the VWP’s obsession with the unity of the camp stemmed from their traditional mentality, which considered the ideal sociopolitical order to be a harmonious organized community. But we have seen how zealous many top Vietnamese communist leaders were about class struggle; their alleged preference for harmony simply contradicts the evidence here. Ideological loyalty to world socialism offers a much better explanation. Unity would give the greatest strength to the bloc and to the world revolutionary movement in order to defeat the ever clever and cruel imperialists. Second, VWP leaders were known to be very concerned about preserving their independence from foreign countries but they supported Soviet military intervention in Hungary in 1956.67 Echoing the Kadar government’s line,68

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Le Duan criticized those who did not see imperialist plots and who believed in the theory that the uprising in Hungary was caused by resentment toward socialism and by its leaders’ mistakes: “Even if we didn’t make any mistakes, they would keep plotting against us,” for that was imperialist nature. The Hungarian leadership may have committed some mistakes, but this would at most have caused some disorder but not an uprising. While Le Duan was not paranoid,69 he could not have failed to see that the principle of national independence was at stake here. Ironically, the VWP welcomed the Soviet invasion of Hungary, first, for the camp’s unity, and second, because they considered that the Hungarian communist party had committed heresy and thus forfeited their right to independence.70 Ideological loyalty was again the dominant factor in this decision. Third, why did VWP leaders defend Stalin, who was dead, and challenge Khrushchev, who was the incumbent leader and who could offer them aid for their struggle in the South?71 Because Ho’s personal relationship with Stalin was poor, there could only be two other possible reasons. First, Vietnamese leaders might have been afraid of the ramifications of Khrushchev’s criticisms of Stalin for the unity of their own party. We still know little about the internal politics of the VWP Politburo, but they appeared to cope with the issue of personality cults very well in their Ninth Plenum in March 1956. The report to the Plenum was written by the entire Politburo, indicating broad unanimity. The Politburo even saw Khrushchev’s report as giving an opportunity for them to correct their mistakes, if any.72 Second, VWP leaders claimed they believed that “Stalin was a loyal follower of great Marxism and Leninism; his entire revolutionary career was great; his achievements were fundamental while his mistakes were marginal; his written work will remain in the treasures of Marxism-Leninism.”73 We do not have to trust VWP leaders’ claim; yet this is a clear case where their actions contradicted their practical interests and could be explained only in terms of ideological loyalty. “To Be Patriotic Is to Build Socialism” We have seen that Vietnamese communists found innovative discursive formulations to justify class struggle even at the height of the nationalist struggle. They translated Marxist-Leninist arguments into concise Vietnamese formulations such as “class struggle within a nationalist struggle.” As they launched an armed struggle in the South, they did not relax but in fact intensified their socialist goals. By 1958 they no longer talked simply about “strengthening the North” but planned for “socialist industrialization.” In this section, I trace the process in which new definitions of “patriotism”

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were invented to justify the radicalization of the struggle in both North and South. Prior to 1957, VWP leaders talked of “patriotism” (chu nghia yeu nuoc) and proletarian internationalism (tinh than quoc te vo san) as two separate things.74 Patriotism was defined as loving the fatherland. Proletarian internationalism meant support for the socialist camp and for the international working class movement. VWP leaders frequently stressed the need to educate their cadres and the masses about these two isms. By 1957, as they debated the approaches to economic development in the North and national unification, a new formulation that tied these two concepts together gradually emerged. In an article in the Party’s theoretical journal Hoc Tap, Hoang Xuan Nhi, a professor of the Party school, attempted to elaborate on the standard Marxist-Leninist proposition that “the national problem” was reducible to class struggle.75 He argued that patriotism was a historical phenomenon that had different class contents in different historical periods. In feudal times, patriotism was understood as loyalty to the king. In the struggle against feudal classes, capitalists claimed to represent nations, but their nationalism was ultimately made to serve their class interests, not those of the working people. Nhi claimed that among all classes, workers loved their country the most. Through their [manual] labor, generations of workers produced material goods and created cultures, languages, writing systems, and other national traditions. While they loved their country, their patriotic senses were spontaneous and easily manipulated. As Nhi argued, only when led by a vanguard party armed with Marxism-Leninism could they develop “genuine patriotism” (chu nghia yeu nuoc chan chinh). Genuine patriotism combined passionate love for one’s country with one’s clear political consciousness (nhan thuc chinh tri) about the goals of class struggle. Because the VWP represented the interests of the working class in North Vietnam, patriotism also meant support for the Party and its rule in all aspects of society. While Nhi’s theoretical discussion was blatantly directed to serve the Party’s need to mobilize popular support for its socialist agenda, he showed an early effort of Party theorists to find new ideological expressions for the old concept of patriotism. Throughout 1957, all Party members were required to study MarxismLeninism.76 This was the first systematic organization of mass study sessions, which aimed to strengthen members’ theoretical understanding, loyalty to the causes of the proletariat, and belief in the Party and the socialist camp. In the previous year, a series of international and domestic events seriously eroded popular support for the VWP.77 As Party theorists sought to quell heretical ideas within their ranks, they had to clarify their concepts and

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sharpen their arguments. According to a report of the campaign, among the topics studied was the approach to unification.78 A major target of criticism was the notion that Vietnam could be unified faster if it took the neutral path like many Asian and African countries. This notion obviously contradicted the two-camp worldview and was thus criticized as “completely mistaken.” First, it was argued that revolutionary victory could only result from a long and difficult class struggle but would never be granted by imperialists. Second, “independence and unification were not abstract and empty concepts but embodied class contents. Independence and unification meant the liberation of the working people, and for this reason, could only be brought by the Party of the proletariat.” Third, neutral countries were formed thanks to the growth of the socialist camp and the mass movements in those countries, but not due to a random process. Again, here was another clarification of what patriotism should mean in the new era—“the era when socialism was winning on the global scale.” It was Pham Van Dong, the Premier and a Politburo member, who produced a succinct formulation that would acquire the status of a new doctrine of patriotism. The formulation was “to be patriotic is to build socialism.”79 Dong came to this formulation after a lengthy but eloquent recounting of the world revolutionary movement from its success in Russia in 1917 to its current status in Vietnam in 1958.80 He boldly stated that “our era is the era when patriotism meets socialism.” He imagined Russia’s October Revolution to be “the result of two great struggles: one by Russian workers and peasants led by the Bolshevik party, and the other by the nations under Czarist rule.” The encounter of patriotism and socialism was a key factor determining the success of that revolution. He described this passionately: The Soviet Union, the product of the October Revolution, is the first model image of a state comprising many nations who live together in an equal and friendly relationship and who together build socialism. [In this society] all nations enjoy the conditions required to develop their capacity to build their happy lives while contributing to the prosperity of the entire Soviet Union. “The prison of all nations” has been replaced by “the Fatherland of 100 brother-nations.”81

After reviewing the history of the Vietnamese revolution, he made a similar claim that it was also “the history of the marvelous, inevitable and productive encounter between patriotism and socialism.” It was the meeting of patriotic forces with the leadership of a working class’s Party. But to Dong this meeting had only reached its “highest level” in North Vietnam

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since 1954. In this current context, Dong asserted that the encounter was the agreement between patriotism and socialism over the goal of the revolution: “[T]o be patriotic is to build socialism; to build socialism is to be patriotic.”82 In South Vietnam, the “people’s struggle … must be accompanied by their enthusiastic and determined support for the socialist North … The patriotic movement in the South and the construction of socialism in the North [joined to form] an image of that encounter between patriotism and socialism in the revolutionary process.” This encounter, Dong concluded, would “lead to unification and to the favorable development of socialism in all of Vietnam. In our contemporary world, this path was inevitable; nothing could prevent it from taking place” (italics added). The significance of this formulation is that for the first time Vietnamese communists raised “socialism” in the public discourse to the level of “patriotism.”83 “Patriotism” was a much older and more popular concept than “socialism.” No Vietnamese had ever questioned patriotism but socialism had always been controversial.84 As communist leaders contemplated the revolutionary paths in the North and the South, they found a formulation that placed the two apparently separate paths in each region in one single phrase that expressed the dialectic relationship between them: to struggle in the South meant to build socialism in the North and vice versa. The war in the South was no longer viewed as being limited to unification; it was tied to socialist construction in the North and in all of Vietnam eventually. To win the war the Party had to aggressively and publicly promote socialism rather than restrain or hide it under a nationalist appearance as in 1953. The new formulation paved the way for the subsequent revision of the Party Constitution in which the class base of the Party was changed from “the working class and the working people” to “the working class” only. This change was followed by a newly inserted phrase pledging “to organize the teaching of Marxist-Leninist principles to Party members and to the people in a broad and systematic way …”85 The new formulation of patriotism and socialism would later be included in the new national Constitution approved in 1960.86 Conclusion This chapter examines how Vietnamese communists’ ideological beliefs evolved during the period 1953–1960 as they struggled with international and domestic challenges. I hoped to show that they never wavered in their communist ideology. While they accepted Stalin’s call to preserve peace, they rejected Khrushchev’s policy of peaceful coexistence with the imperialist camp. An examination of their propaganda indicated that war continued

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in this sphere, and a war of words with the “stinking” Americans for the hearts and minds of Vietnamese began long before the United States made serious commitments to the Saigon regime. VWP leaders never allowed their enemies to freely attack communism as a doctrine. They never blamed Marxist-Leninist theory for problems that occurred during policy implementation. The consistent pattern of their responses was to blame themselves and to organize ever more rigorous and systematic study and indoctrination of Marxism-Leninism. When the Soviet bloc split, Vietnamese communists worked hard to preserve unity despite the risks of being entangled on one side of the dispute. Their international behavior often did not correspond with their narrow interests in “liberating” South Vietnam; rather, it was motivated by larger ideological principles that continued to underlie their two-camp worldview. They defended communist orthodoxy when it was criticized in its very homeland, for no obvious practical benefits. They defended a dead communist dictator when he was abandoned by his very successors, at the risk of antagonizing the incumbents. They sided with a small power against the leader of the bloc in the interests of bloc unity. At the same time, they supported a superpower’s invasion of its small ally when this ally committed heresy. Their ideological loyalty paid off handsomely as far as their strategic goals were concerned; if the Soviet Union and China discouraged them in 1954 from continuing to fight imperialists, by late 1964 they were competing to supply North Vietnam with men and weapons! The VWP leadership was not a monolithic group of one mind on all ideological matters. Their worldview and strategic understanding of the environment were not fixed and were still being debated and clarified during the period examined here. Yet they generally achieved consensus; at the crucial points of 1953 and 1957,87 the radicals among them won the internal debates, which suggested that the majority of VWP leaders leaned to the far left when it came to doctrinal questions. During this period, class struggle was never downplayed vis-à-vis nationalist goals although occasional efforts were made to create a moderate appearance to outsiders. Party leaders tirelessly sought doctrinal justifications for every policy move and worked hard to construct innovative ideological formulations when confronted with political challenges. Socialism was promoted, not delayed or denied, after 1956, precisely at the time when a new struggle for national unification was decided. By 1959, the Party was no longer reticent about its ultimate goal of building socialism in the whole country, even though they did not expect victory in the South in the near future. In the theoretical formulations that these men finally achieved, patriotism was made to serve socialism, not vice versa.

CHAPTER 4

Indonesian Architectural Culture during Guided Democracy (1959–1965): Sukarno and the Works of Friedrich Silaban Setiadi Sopandi, Tarumanagara University, Jakarta

A

great urban and architectural experimentation was under way during the period 1959–1965 in Indonesia, specifically in Jakarta, initiated by Indonesia’s first president, Sukarno. As a key figure in international postwar politics, Sukarno utilized architecture and urban design as a form of international and national political communication. Urban architectural projects transformed a formerly colonial city into a modern metropolis marked with “symbols” of modernity and patriotic messages. For architects and architecture historians, the period of Guided Democracy was one in which everyday life and professional practices were incorporated into the grand scheme suggested by Sukarno. The first generation of Indonesian architects, trained in Dutch building science, had to deal with the political shift of the 1940s in order to appropriate their works to the new world order. The modern architectural tradition practiced by Dutch architects in the Dutch East Indies during the 1920s and 1930s was no longer adequate to convey the new nationalist spirit and the will to find a new postwar Indonesian identity. The emerging postwar superpowers were also taken as new references of progress and modernity. The Guided Democracy period shaped an important stage of Indonesian architectural history by its built examples and theories. The most prominent figure of the period (besides Sukarno) was probably architect F. Silaban (1912–1984). Silaban won some of his most important commissions in

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1955 through a national competition in which he had to interpret and work on the brief set by Sukarno. Foreign Policy and Monumental Projects During the first decade of the Republic of Indonesia, Sukarno’s government was heavily engaged in the territorial campaign against the Netherlands as well as against internal challenges such as separatism. Then, after a long parliamentary political crisis between 1950 and 1957, Sukarno initiated a form of dictatorship called Guided Democracy (proclaimed in February 1957). A presidential decree issued on July 5, 1959, ended the Liberal Democracy era and allowed Sukarno to take control of all state apparatuses. Sukarno based his governance upon a political manifesto that verified the 1945 Constitution, Indonesian socialism, Guided Democracy, guided economy, and Indonesian nationalism. These allowed him to aggressively launch his foreign political and monumental campaigns. Affirmed as part of a bigger plan of “Nation Building,” the campaigns were intended to put Indonesia on the world’s political chart1 as well as to support Sukarno’s political position in the country. During the growing tension of the Cold War, Sukarno, who hosted the Bandung Conference in 1955, was centrally engaged in the making of the Non-Aligned Movement (an Afro-Asian movement).2 Indonesia’s territorial struggle against the Netherlands also remained a sensitive national issue until Indonesia acquired West Papua in 1963. To support the struggle, Sukarno proclaimed an alliance of newly independent countries called New Emerging Forces (Nefos) against former colonialist European countries (Oldefos—Old Established Forces).3 Sukarno was also involved in a confrontation with neighboring Malaysia in 1963 over Borneo. Among the monumental foreign policies, some were represented or communicated in the form of buildings and building complexes, especially under the Nusantara Project scheme (1960−1965).4 Focusing on Jakarta as “an exemplary center,”5 as the performance stage, Sukarno intended the projects to convey to the public a patriotic message as “symbol[s] of national unity” of a “new emerging world political power.” They had to overcome Indonesia’s cultural diversity and political fractions. Above all, they were intended to awe and to inspire as well as to shock.6 Leclerc observes that there was an underlying brief on every project. Firstly, Jakarta was intended as the capital of Indonesia, the locus of the state center—the seat of the Presidency. At the same time, Jakarta was also the “Kota Proklamasi,” the birthplace of Indonesian independence, and the city of diplomacy.7 Those roles were confronted by the fact that Jakarta was

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also known formerly as Batavia, the colonial capital. Considering the backgrounds, Sukarno was deliberately conscious about putting symbols of unity and of centrality in this very symbolic city.8 Sukarno’s plan was to massively transform Jakarta by ordering the northsouth Thamrin-Sudirman corridor to be mounted with modern skyscrapers and monuments. He also initiated large-scale urban development in Ancol, Slipi, Kemayoran, Senayan, and Kebayoran Baru. To uphold the gigantic development, Sukarno played an interesting diplomatic role with the contesting Cold War superpowers. He managed to continue his projects with financial support from both sides even though the politics of Guided Democracy was actually closer to the Communist Bloc.9 The Asian Games, infrastructure, and heavy industries10 were funded mostly by loans from the Soviet Union and some Eastern European countries. The Western Bloc was also involved. France provided credit and technical assistance for the Ancol Project.11 The United States provided a loan and expertise to support the Djakarta By-Pass Project. Japan supported Indonesia through a more complicated agreement called the War Reparation Project. However, interestingly, the most critical and significant national projects, the National Monument and the National Mosque, were funded by taxes and charity collected by a national committee.12 Among the monuments and buildings associated with Sukarno were the National Monument (Tugu Nasional in Merdeka Park, designed by Soedarsono), the Selamat Datang Monument (the Welcome Monument sculpture by Henk Ngantung), the West Papua Liberation Monument (sculpture by Henk Ngantung, base by Silaban), the Dirgantara Monument, the unbuilt Bung Karno Tower (designed by Hans Lintl, an Austrian architect, and Silaban), Hotel Indonesia (designed by Abel Sorensen, an American architect, and built by Kinoshita and Taisei Corporations), Sarinah Department Store (designed and built by Kinoshita and Taisei Corporations), the Pola Building (designed by Silaban), the Wisma Nusantara Building (designed and built by Kinoshita, Kajima, and Taisei Corporations), Banteng Hotel (originally designed by Silaban), the Conefo Building (designed by Sujudi), the Gelora/Asian Games Stadium complex, Istiqlal Mosque (the National Mosque, designed by Silaban), Bank Indonesia Headquarters (designed by Silaban), and many realist monumental sculptures and utilitarian structures. References and Preferences During the 1920s and 1930s, modernist architecture and urban design trends in Europe were deeply inspired by the idea of a socialist utopia as

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the aim of revolutionary struggle. One of the monumental events of prewar modernism was the building of an estate of working-class housing called the Weissenhofsiedlung for the Deutscher Werkbund exhibition in 1927 in Stuttgart. The project was designed by sixteen prominent European architects experimenting with their socialist aspirations. In Russia, architectural and political revolutions were even more inextricably linked after the overthrow of the Tsar and bourgeois culture in October 1917. The social and aesthetic ideals, known as the International Style, were intended by the designers to be applicable globally in any cultural and historical circumstances. However, it was believed in the postwar era that modernist architecture and urban design were no longer transhistorical, transcultural, or transpatial.13 They carried different meanings wherever they were located.14 Modernist architecture was no longer dominated by formal and interpretation uniformity as it was once suggested.15 In the United States, contrary to the prewar socialist agenda, the International Style had become a perfect symbol and house for international capitalist corporations. During the 1950s, the Case Study House program even promoted luxurious modern living. In most postcolonial nations, as happened in Indonesia, modern architecture has served as a medium of expression of locality and national identity.16 Sukarno once spoke of his admiration for the world capitals he visited, which, he said, were references for building Jakarta. He talked about New York, Moscow, Tokyo, Belgrade, Rome, Cairo, Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City, and La Paz.17 He spoke of his admiration for the modernity and greatness of those cities. On one occasion, Sukarno specifically mentioned his admiration for Brasilia, the capital of Brazil, which had been intentionally built in a remote area in a relatively short time: I spoke of Brasilia, the capital of Brazil. In the middle of a forest. Brazil is a vast country, with more than 60 million people. Rio de Janeiro was the capital, but then it was considered necessary to move the capital to the very center of the country. Even though the very center was only an empty wooded land, a grand city called Brasilia designed by a famous architect Niemeyer was built there. Paris [was built] by Hausmann, Brasilia by Niemeyer.18

Sukarno believed that the modern urban planning and architecture of Brasilia was an appropriate spectacle and a suitable model for Jakarta as both Brazil and Indonesia shared a fate as postcolonial nations. But by mentioning Niemeyer, did Sukarno refer to his preference for modernist

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architectural language? Did Sukarno really prefer pure geometric and curvilinear whitewashed concrete with expansive use of glass built upon infinite modernist urban spaces? Or did Sukarno want a famous genius like Niemeyer to realize his dreams? Did Sukarno actually want to simply imply that “a great country needs a great capital”? Or was he actually saying something about his preference for the architecture of Indonesia’s capital? Did Sukarno also refer to the actors and the political ideals behind the planning of Brasilia? Was he aware of how modern architecture and urban planning might incite different ideals for different people? Did Sukarno really subscribe to the modern movement’s ideals such as functionalism?19 In the case of Brasilia, Holston has demonstrated the various ways in which the sign of the “modern” was appropriated by the subjects it was supposed to transform.20 The design of Brasilia was an opportunity for the architects and planners to uphold socialist revolutionary ideals.21 The rightwing military commissioner who did not share the designers’ political beliefs appreciated the design as the most powerful symbol of the nation’s modernization, demonstrating progress, industrialization, independence, and national identity.22 The inhabitants of the city understood it as a “white” canvas awaiting the inscription of social values that the government had sought to eliminate. The architectural image of modernist architecture may be constant in name, but its denoted meanings are subject to changes according to the context, use, and intention. In order to create modernist spaces, Niemeyer’s works were always associated with the plastic play of concrete without any references to historical or vernacular Brazilian architecture. He was solely inspired by the free association of living figures upon a piece of blank white paper.23 Niemeyer’s buildings represented nothing of the past but offered quite an imaginative future. Buildings like Niemeyer’s thus supposedly demanded the latest engineering advancement, which would make them revolutionary and avant-garde. Recent interpretations firmly believe that Sukarno was aware of this abstract feature of the postwar modern architecture.24 Sukarno might also require “tabula rasa,” an empty plain site, as a starting point of his projects. As argued by Widyarta, Sukarno wanted “a clean terrain” to begin, which was an ideal condition to forget about an unwanted unfortunate past, a colonial past. Juscelino Kubitschek’s decision to build Brasilia out of nowhere was seen as being in line with this view. In fact, Sukarno had planned Palangkaraya (in central Kalimantan) as the capital of Indonesia right in the geographic center of the archipelago.25 However, the plan was abandoned in 1959 for economic and technical reasons.26 Rather than building a new capital like Brasilia, Sukarno finally decided to develop Jakarta. The problem with Jakarta was that it was a former

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colonial capital, as Rio de Janeiro was. Therefore, it was necessary for Sukarno to order that certain colonial structures and infrastructure in Jakarta be sustained, imposed, or completely replaced by new ones to “liberate” Indonesia from the past and to achieve a state of “becoming.”27 He ordered planners and designers to clear up colonial spectacles by demolishing and replacing them, to make way for new ones. The fact that Jakarta was developed successively in several colonial periods can be “read” by the fragments of its north-south historical axis. The fifteenkilometer axis summarizes the four centuries of urban development.28 The north point, the Jakarta Kota area (formerly christened Batavia), was inherited from the Dutch East India Company (VOC). Successively, the Gajah Mada−Hayam Wuruk (formerly called Molenveit) segment was a mark of the golden era of the colonial economy. During this period, Jakarta expanded its territory to the south. The Dutch equipped the Nieuw Batavia with modern infrastructure and developed the Meester, Weltevreden, and Tanah Abang areas. During the 1920s, the Nieuw Gondangdia and Menteng areas were planned and developed according to modern Garden City principles by private developers. This Nieuw Batavia had Koningsplein as its new modern colonial town center. Sukarno made his mark on Jakarta with the intention of changing the image of Jakarta from a colonial city to the capital of a newly independent Indonesia. He dedicated the very center of Koningsplein, christened Independence Square / Merdeka Park after 1945, for building Tugu Nasional, a national monument. He went further south and added the Thamrin-Sudirman segment, built the Semanggi (clover-shaped) flyover dedicated for high-speed automobile traffic, and developed modern town planning for Kebajoran Baru. Designed by M. Soesilo in 1949, Kebajoran Baru was considered to be the first example of Indonesian “indigenous” urban planning. Along the north-south spine, Sukarno deliberately put important and monumental structures, mostly in International Style, framing the streets dedicated for massive and rapid movement. Widyarta observes that modernism for Sukarno was a neutral entity as a medium. Sukarno could very well have been aware that modernist architecture did not mean participating in any political polarity. He could believe that modernist architecture was best understood as a manifestation of modern ideals and a vehicle of equality.29 Kusno believes that, in adopting modernist architecture in Jakarta, Sukarno’s primary concern was not so much whether the concept was from “East” or “West” (nor “Right” or “Left,” I assume) but rather how he could best put Jakarta on the map of world cities.30 Despite his leaning toward socialism and the foreign aid he received for the projects, Sukarno was personally at ease dictating the briefs

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according to his artistic ideals. He directly suggested and expressed his criticism to his artists, engineers, and architects in the projects to make sure that his messages would be transmitted clearly and effectively, especially on the highly symbolic monumental projects. But Sukarno was also a man of ambivalent passion. His image of a modern political personality was also surrounded by the myths and nostalgia of a “nation” that had originated from the glorious Hindu-Javanese Majapahit tradition.31 According to Anderson, due to his personal background, Sukarno was “a legatee of the old, indigenous syncretism” as well as a modern politician.32 Ardhiati observes that Sukarno, in the period 1945−1959, developed a personal aesthetic passion for Buddhist padma (lotus) and Indic linggam-yoni (in Sanskrit, linggam is understood as “sign” as yoni is often referred as “source or origin of life,” and linggam is manifested as the male sexual organ or phallus, while yoni denotes the female sexual organ) symbolism.33 The symbols had been incorporated into art, crafts, and archaeological artifacts produced during the Hindu-Buddhist periods, particularly in temples and other religious edifices. Padma and linggam-yoni symbolism appeared in some artistic or architectural projects that Sukarno commissioned. The symbols, appearing in the form of building ornaments, decorations, and memorials, were not entirely reproduced, but they were refashioned or mixed with modern aesthetic elements.34 The National Monument The National Monument was probably the largest and the most obvious of Sukarno’s embodiments of ambivalence, as well as his strongest monumental statement on liberating Jakarta from its colonial image. The plan for the monument was a subject of a nationwide competition held in 1955−1956. As many as 222 architects, artists, and engineers received a direct briefing from Sukarno.35 The brief was to have a tugu in the very center of the Koningsplein. The use of the term tugu indicated a specific typology, a form of obelisk, desired by Sukarno. A tugu is not supposed to serve utilitarian means, as it was specifically intended by Sukarno in the competition brief as “a symbol of a virile grandeur and bravery . . . an emblem of the people’s will to soar on high . . . of rising up to the firmament.”36 The placement of the monument was to reflect Sukarno’s imagination of postcolonial Jakarta and the idea of centralized power.37 According to Leclerc, the need for a Tugu Nasional was related to the presence of Tugu Proklamasi and the events surrounding the inauguration of Tugu Proklamasi (Proclamation Monument), a short memorial obelisk erected at the very place where independence was proclaimed, that is, in the front yard of

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Sukarno’s former office, Pegangsaan Timur Street. The inauguration of the monument was held along with the first anniversary of Indonesian independence in 1946 by Sjahrir, the prime minister and the minister of foreign affairs. Jakarta at that moment was still under British military control and Sukarno’s government was forced to leave Jakarta soon for Yogyakarta. In a very dangerous situation, the British were preventing people from attending the inauguration ceremony. It was also the year that the Linggarjati Agreement was signed between Indonesia and Dutch representatives under British pressure. Indonesia would commemorate this event as capitulation. Leclerc supposes that the most obvious offense related to the event was that the Tugu Proklamasi was inaugurated by Sjahrir, and not by Sukarno; yet it did not meet Sukarno’s concept of grandeur. Sukarno clearly associated the Tugu Proklamasi with the 1946 event by stating that “the tugu at Pegangsaan Timur Street is not a Tugu Nasional but Tugu Linggajati and it has to be demolished.”38 Therefore it is understandable if, ten years later, Sukarno finally ordered the razing of the Tugu Proklamasi along with the Proclamation Memorial House to the ground, and ordered a replacement in the form of a new monumental building. On the other hand, he went on with the National Monument plan. The site of the National Monument was actually a site dedicated for the Batavia Municipality. The original 1937 Koningsplein plan was carried out by Thomas Karsten39 according to his socialist ideals by fragmenting the huge 900,000-square-meter site into several functional zones or municipal facilities.40 It was intended as a kind of crossroads and central venue to place city facilities and governing bodies. It was already surrounded by functionally important but architecturally low-profile buildings: the Palace of the Governor-General, several offices of the Town Hall, local administration offices, foreign consulates, a new railway station, and a broadcasting station.41 Sukarno obviously intended something in reverse for the Koningsplein. He dedicated the site to serve a national rite (as opposed to a colonial subject) with something that was “Indonesia” (or “traditional”) and, at the same time, “modern.”42 It commemorated no specific events or achievement, but was rather in the nature of a summary of or commentary on the “Indonesian” past.43 Due to its “national duty,” the new structure also had to be outscaled by the surroundings and be seen from the main corridors planned for Jakarta. Then, by putting “an obelisk” in the middle of a large square, architecturally speaking, Sukarno had made a claim on the center of his territory. The fifty-one competition entries were submitted to the special committee in 1955.44 A jury presided over by Sukarno picked three designers— Silaban, Nur Alamsjah, and Kwee Hin Goan (with a team of five fellow architecture students)—to submit new entries.45 Curiously, by the end,

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Figure 4.1. Sukarno congratulating F. Silaban in the prize-giving ceremony of the National Monument competition (1955). Photo Credit: F. Silaban Archive; Courtesy of mAAN Indonesia, 2008.

nobody won the first prize in that competition. Silaban won the second prize, while Nur Alamsjah and Kwee’s team shared the third prize.46 Apparently Sukarno was not satisfied with the results. A second competition with 136 entries in 1960 also failed to generate a winning design.47 In 1961, Sukarno personally asked Silaban and the “palace architect,” Soedarsono, to sketch a new design.48 However, Silaban strictly refused the idea. In an unpublished hand-written manuscript,49 Silaban uttered his objections toward Sukarno’s invitation because he did not believe in the idea of a joint project. For Silaban, “an architectural design is like a child to an architect; thus it cannot be a child of several architects at the same time.” It might be Silaban’s expression of his disappointment at Sukarno’s refusal of his proposal. Sukarno, then, commissioned Soedarsono to design the monument directly according to his ideals in 1961. The final decision was to have a phallic monument inspired from the Indic form of linggam-yoni formed in a modern fashion with whitewashed reinforced concrete. The meaning and structure of the linggam-yoni scheme was explained by Sukarno as “ancient symbols which denote eternal life,” a marriage between “positive-day-good-male” and “negative-night-evil-female,” and also represented “everyday kitchen utensils owned by every Indonesian family particularly in the countryside.”50 Anderson

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further interprets that Sukarno’s utilization of linggam-yoni symbolism was to communicate “continuity” and to represent the power of (Hindu) Javanese culture.51 Interestingly, Silaban’s original winning scheme of the monument had a quite different conceptual perspective. The second-prize design by Silaban strikingly reminds me of particular works by European masters. Its symmetrical silhouette and the use of heroic human figures appeared similar to Hugh Ferriss’ fictitious ziggurat skyscrapers of Manhattan (1929), or the Stalinist (socialist-realist) monuments such as the Palace of the Soviets by Iofan, Shcuko, and Gelfriedch (1931−1934). However, we need to consider Silaban’s artistic exposure to the modern Dutch architectural tradition during his education. We might need to attribute the symmetrical minarets and composition of Silaban’s National Monument to H. P. Berlage’s Gemeentemuseum Den Haag and St. Hubertusslot.52 Architecturally speaking, we can recognize substantial portions of Wright53 and Dudok54 influences in the competition entry scheme. As both Sukarno and Silaban were trained in bouwkunst (the art of buildings) by Dutch professors, we can assume that they must have been familiar with those famous structures by the modern masters. Inclined to different aesthetic preferences and sentiments toward architectural representation, they might have their own personal opinions. Silaban might have manifested his ideals for the original scheme by utilizing his references according to modernist European monumentality. Punctually utilizing vertical lines combined with carefully placed ornamentations in a symmetrical composition, one might end up producing a structure similar to those by European masters. That might be exactly why Sukarno dismissed this winning scheme in the first place and went on with his own “modernized” version of the linggam-yoni symbolism. Apart from the second-prize scheme, Silaban produced another interesting design, most probably as a result of the second competition. It came in the form of a thin pyramidal obelisk on the top of a very wide base. This second design was conceptually closer to the built linggam-yoni design but did not have conventional proportions. It was most probably produced under a specific brief given during or after the second competition, but the result was quite different from what had probably been requested. The tugu was shaped more like a needle or a square pole pointing endlessly to the sky. It could also be perceived as a ray of spotlight projected vertically from the horizontal plane. The architectural proportion of the tugu was similar to one of Silaban’s tower designs for an agricultural school Sekolah Pertanian Menengah Atas (SPMA) in Bogor in 1948. The base was formed by a slab of square whitewashed concrete that looked as though it was barely suspended

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by the repetitive columns at the bottom. It was clearly not a pestle-andmortar described by Sukarno. A pestle is not a needle and a mortar is not a pure geometric plane. That was probably the reason Sukarno dismissed this scheme. Silaban’s second design was probably the result of his unwillingness to literally follow Sukarno’s Hindu-Javanese symbolism. For Silaban, as a Batak55 and as a modernist architect, it might have been against the spirit of nationalism to utilize such “provincial” iconography so deliberately in his own designs. Or the idea might have been an offense to Silaban’s idealism even though the project seemed to be well accepted by the Indonesian public. Particularly in this case, he might have insisted on carefully designing something “neutral” to represent the spirit of Indonesian nationalism. But Sukarno most probably did not specify exactly how the ambivalence of “modernism” and “traditional-nationalism” would become evident, particularly in utilitarian monuments designed by the engineers and architects. He might have left the designers some space so they could work freely to reinterpret his terms and briefs. The neutrality of modernist architecture, indeed, created new opportunities for architectural imaginations and regionalism. This was a freedom shared by architects in the 1950s and 1960s. The Search for Modern Indonesian Architecture Over the fifty years of his career, the architect Silaban was consistently involved in the search for a modern Indonesian architectural identity. Due to his early training in the bouwkunde (building science) technical high school tradition,56 Silaban was very attentive to practical needs and qualities in designing modern buildings in the tropical context. Trained during the Dutch colonial occupation, Silaban was familiar with the prewar colonial building typologies and the modern movement. The discourse on modern tropical/local architecture was initially started during 1920 by a number of Dutch architects and planners working in the Netherlands East-Indies; this was followed by the establishment of the first “architecture” school in Bandung, the Technische Hoogeschool.57 The visit of the prominent Dutch architect H. P. Berlage in 1923 and the arrival of new Dutch architects in the former Dutch colony had a tremendous impact on the discourse of tropicality and the search for a true “Indies” identity.58 However, of course, the attempts to find a modern identity were still made in an imperialistic context to engineer a “colonial nationality” in the diverse cultural setting of the colony.

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During the late colonial period, there were interpretive attempts by Dutch architects to merge a “modern spirit” with the “local culture” within their building designs. The architects were challenged by specific requirements related to local conditions. They had to deal with the strong sun, high precipitation, and high humidity, as well as earthquakes. They also had to consider local craftsmanship and customs. The challenge had grown into a discourse during the 1920s between planners, engineers, architects, city councils, and colonial government officials. The most important figures of the discourse were Thomas Karsten, Henri Maclaine Pont, Charles P. Wolff Schoemaker, and V. R. van Romondt. The results were a unique architectural tradition.59 One of the earliest attempts to interpret “tropical architecture” without quoting local vernacular forms was the design of Gedung Sate (1920) by J. Gerber in Bandung. Contrary to Gerber’s Orientalist approach, Maclaine Pont designed vernacular forms supported by modern construction techniques in the Technische Hoogeschool building (Bandung, 1918) and the Puhsarang Catholic church (Kediri, 1936). Thomas Karsten preferred local building techniques and forms in some of his projects, such as the Sobokarti Folk Theater (Semarang, 1931) and the Sono Budoyo (Yogyakarta, 1926). Wolff Schoemaker deliberately applied a functionalist approach. Frank Lloyd Wright had a considerable influence on Schoemaker’s designs, as seen in Villa Isola (Bandung, 1932) and Preanger Hotel (Bandung, 1929). Under such circumstances, Silaban studied bouwkunde, or building science, in the Royal Willhelmina School in Jakarta and obtained his diploma in 1931. During the period 1931−1935, Silaban worked for J. Antonisse, a Dutch architect responsible for designing temporary buildings for Pasar Gambir, an annual colonial night market on the Koningsplein, the site of the National Monument. Silaban was in charge of developing Antonisse’s architectural details. Pasar Gambir architecture was very similar to international colonial expositions that represented Europeans’ colonies through architectural exhibition pavilions. The architecture of such exhibitions was typically an eclectic orientalist representation of the cultural diversity of a colony. Architectural elements from particular traditional houses were taken away from the actual context and combined with other elements without sticking to a particular manner. During his early career (before 1950), Silaban’s designs referred heavily to modern colonial building types by utilizing simple high and steep roof-forms, deep overhangs / spacious verandahs, and high-ceiling rooms and by extensively using exposed natural stone. His first large-scale design project, the SPMA was based strongly on this modern Dutch colonial architectural tradition.

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Figure 4.2.

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SPMA Building (1948).

Photo Credit: F. Silaban Archive; Courtesy of mAAN Indonesia, 2008.

At the peak of his career, during the period 1955−1965, Silaban developed a distinguished architectural language that materialized in his high-commissioned projects. The decade gave Silaban the chance to materialize his imagination of modern Indonesian (tropical) architecture that went beyond local (or provincial) traditional and modern colonial building forms. He was no longer using the colonial typological approach; instead he utilized modern architectural elements that emphasized the role of the roof. In an article written two years before his death, he stated clearly that “[there is] no need to copy Toraja, Minangkabau, Bali, Batak, etc., to address Indonesian architecture. We should not take the form, therefore we should take the soul which addresses the tropicality characteristics” (italics by Silaban).60 By rejecting the idea of reusing a particular traditional form to address a national identity, he went in the opposite direction from the

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one in which he had gone with his mentor in the Pasar Gambir project. His projects were free of decorative elements. Every detail was designed in a clean-cut, geometric fashion with clear functional intentions. Avoiding all symbolism and culture-specific elements in his designs, Silaban placed the national projects in a “neutral” position. For the Indonesian public, the modernist projects appeared and functioned comparably equal to Bahasa Indonesia as the unifying language.61 The modernist architectural language was also not easily tied to any kind of political associations, so the foreign sponsors (Japan, the United States, and the Soviet Union) did not have to worry much about how the look of the projects would affect their political agendas. At the same time, it also satisfied Sukarno’s imagining of a modern culture shock for his people. In short, the modern architectural language liberated the projects from “counterproductive” associations, including provinciality, colonialism, Cold War polarization, and cultural “backwardness.” However, it does not do justice to Silaban’s achievement if we address his approach simply as “modern style.” His achievement can simply be interpreted as an attempt to adopt modern architectural language in the Indonesian context. On the other hand, we can comprehend his works as modern abstractions of vernacular and traditional cultural elements.62 Silaban went further by linking the national architectural identity issue with regionalism and functionalism. In an article written in 1982, he stated that a “truly” Indonesian house should be a tropical house, which was essentially defined by the roof.63 He explained that the roof was the outmost important element of a tropical building since it was used to block harsh sun rays and to protect people from heavy rainfall. The form of a roof, in line with his works and statements, was meant solely to serve the roof ’s functions and not any symbolic purposes. Hence, the use of walls in the tropics was not seen as being as essential as it was in the subtropics. Silaban suggested that the use of massive walls should be restricted only to functions demanding high privacy. According to Silaban, a roof performed both sheltering and space-creating functions. Deep roof overhangs, as witnessed in his early 1960s designs, created intermediary spaces between the indoors and outdoors that Silaban called “truly tropical spaces.” This was the point where Silaban linked the issue of national architectural identity with functional and technical issues.64 Conformity in Modern Monumentality The year 1954−1955 was probably the turning point of Silaban’s career. He won two prestigious design competitions at almost the same time: the

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Figure 4.3.

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Bank Indonesia Building model in a photomontage (1955).

Photo Credit: F. Silaban Archive; Courtesy of mAAN Indonesia, 2008.

Istiqlal National Mosque competition and the one for the Bank Indonesia Headquarters (not to mention the National Monument scheme). Both competitions were prestigious because they were intended by Sukarno as national icons—the key projects of the grand scheme of Jakarta and Indonesia. The winning designs elevated Silaban’s practice to a national reputation. Interestingly, Silaban came out with varying conceptual approaches for each project. The mosque and the bank were not designed in the same manner as Silaban’s original proposal for the National Monument. For the Bank Indonesia competition, Silaban came up with a four-story modern office building topped with a steep-hipped roof. The presence of the roof was indeed carefully planned as it was what would make the design “communicate” its institutional and national significance. Apart from the roof, the façade was composed extensively of sun-shading devices combined with strong vertical elements upon a spreading concrete overhang just like many other signature multi-story designs by Silaban. The National Mosque competition was situated in a more critical position. One of the most difficult political threats during the Sukarno era was posed by diverse separatist movements, such as the Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia (PRRI, the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia, which was supported by the United States) and the Darul Islam in Aceh, West Java, and South Sulawesi. Sukarno realized that the diversity of religious and political ideals would have to be framed to maintain national unity. Hence, to build the National Mosque was a critical challenge as well an opportunity not to be missed. The competition brief given by

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Sukarno was simple but profound. It had to be something that would represent Indonesia as a nation with the largest Muslim community in the world, but it was not to be confused with Indonesia as a secular nation. It had to mediate and balance powers, as well as represent modernity and nationalism, and at the very same time, erase the memory of colonialism. In representing the Muslims, he specifically did not want the mosque to be associated with any form of vernacular or traditional mosque: What! Would we build a Friday Mosque like the Masjid Demak, or Masjid Banten. I am sorry! . . . When it was built it was already great. But if erected today how would it rank, technical colleagues? . . . Let us build a Friday Mosque, which doesn’t use roof tiles, but one which is built from reinforced concrete . . . which is finished with marble, and paved with marble, whose doors are from bronze. And not only must the materials be concrete, bronze and fine stones but of grand dimensions . . . Let us build a Friday Mosque which is the largest in this world, the largest in the world.65

Interestingly, the construction funds for the National Mosque came from various groups, Islamic political parties, and the Army.66 Silaban himself was a devout Christian who was convinced that his appointment for the project was a patriotic engagement as an Indonesian citizen. The mosque was to replace Prince Frederick Castle and Wilhelmina Park,67 within the precinct of the former colonial Koningsplein / the National Monument. The result was a modern form dominated by vertical elements supporting thin concrete roof slabs. The dome and minaret were simple geometric forms made possible by the latest engineering technology.68 The overall design strongly suggested modernist architectural language, despising references to traditional and orientalist mosque architecture elements, exactly as Sukarno’s imagination. In addition, Silaban employed massive verandahs throughout the mosque complex between the expansive tall columns and the interior. Social Ideals, Monumentality, and Tropicality Most of Silaban’s best-known works were most probably inspired by principles he got from his early technical training. The tradition assumed that particular building forms and orientations prescribe particular social meanings, imaginings, and activities. It suggested that particular architectural orders enabled social ideals. Citing a chapter from the bouwkunde textbook, Silaban asserted that particular roof forms should be restricted only to monumental buildings and not be planned for functional purposes (e.g., in common residential or

Sukarno and the Works of Friedrich Silaban

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Silaban’s House (1959−1960).

Photo Credit: F. Silaban Archive; Courtesy of mAAN Indonesia, 2008.

commercial buildings). He also suggested the use of street-parallel building orientation and hipped roofs for common residential buildings to encourage a “sociable” living neighborhood. The premise most probably underlined Silaban’s preference between gabled and hipped roofs in his later projects. The most elaborate use of the principles can be found in Silaban’s own house, located in Bogor, about fifty kilometers south of Jakarta. The house was designed and built in the year 1959−1960. The building lay parallel to the street, creating a wide and deep front yard accessible to both family members and passersby. The building plan, a simple rectangle, orientated upon the west-east axis with wide openings to the south and the north. The orientation was obviously designed to avoid direct solar radiation from reaching the interiors. The orientation, at the same time, allowed a gesture to a “humble” building, as suggested by bouwkunde training, a wide open front yard, and a wide front verandah accessible to passersby. Silaban obviously did not want his house (or any common houses) to stand out in the neighborhood. Accordingly, a house had to be designed in accordance with its neighborhood and not to be conspicuous as a monument or civic building. In designing multistory buildings, however, most of the conventional “tropical” strategies were not easily applicable. Tall structures naturally came with weather-exposed facades since the protection of the roof was

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not sufficient. The inclined roof surface was also difficult to maintain. Therefore, for most of his projects during the period 1955−1965, Silaban utilized sunshading elements and wide concrete overhangs extensively. Especially for utilitarian projects (office buildings), concrete sunshading elements were dominantly employed on the façade. The elements were employed mostly in the form of vertical and horizontal concrete planes. Silaban shifted his preference from hipped or gabled roof construction to flat concrete slab roofs during the period 1958−1959 when he discovered that conventional glazed-tile roof construction was no longer practical and effective.69 The necessity for monumentality apparently did not get in the way of a demand to represent nationality and tropicality. Silaban’s insistence on the “tropicality” agenda in his national commissions consistently differed from the work of his contemporaries, especially that of the foreign architects working in Indonesia. Precast sunshading devices were put back within the bay between the columns. In spite of employing different architectonic schemes for his projects, Silaban’s primary intention stayed focused on creating an intermediary space between the exterior and interior. For particular monumental projects, Silaban carefully placed the sunshading elements behind the repetitive columns, leaving the vertical elements in the foreground. In this sense, the verticality helped to suggest monumentality. For the Istiqlal Mosque, Silaban introduced a scheme that extensively used flat, concrete roof planes supported by tall marble-clad columns. Silaban used a similar strategy in Gedung Pola. To replace the demolished Tugu Proklamasi and the Proclamation Memorial House, Sukarno ordered Silaban to design Gedung Pola in 1961 on the very spot of the earlier memorial. The word pola referred directly to “pattern” or “plan.” In Sukarno’s words, pola corresponded to the word “blueprint.” It clearly indicated the program of the building. This building would be a gallery that exhibited the government’s development plans (or blueprints) to the public. Functionally, the program brief required the building to exhibit Sukarno’s eight-year Program Nasional Semesta Berencana [National Development Plan] (1961−1969) in the form of exhibition panels, architectural or infrastructure models, and dioramas. The building was also intended to house plans initiated by local governments. Despite the controversy over the demolition of the Proclamation Memorial, the design of the Gedung Pola was intentionally monumental in scale and modern in look. It was built to forget the traumatic memorial inauguration in 1946 by constructing something far more monumental than the original memorial. The exhibition building was intended to look forward to the future, but at the same time, Silaban was also entitled to propose a sculptural memorial in front of the building dedicated to the 1945 event.70

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Silaban put the repetitive columns in front of the metal sunshading device. The columns soared more than four-story tall, supporting a concrete roof slab in a perfect symmetrical composition. Silaban considered this architectonic arrangement essentially the same as the tropical verandah that commonly appeared in single-story buildings. However, the modern monumental space created in the Gedung Pola, I observe, might share some similar qualities with Guiseppe Terragni’s Casa del Fascio (1932−1936) in the sense that the monumental transparency of the building seems to incite public attention directly from the open front space. This space allowed continuous viewing by the public while seeming to be at ease in showing its monumentality and authoritarian spirit. Many of Silaban’s ideas were confirmed by his visits to foreign countries. In the concluding part of his report on his visit to Japan, he insisted on the need for a country to define its own bouwstijl (building style) based on its climatic condition, not on “local” or “indigenous” cultural forms.71 Upon a visit to Chandigarh, India,72 Silaban also made a few similar critical remarks about Le Corbusier’s works.73 Apart from Nehru’s conformity with Le Corbusier’s ideas, Silaban’s attention was interestingly focused on Le Corbusier’s elaborate use of exposed concrete brise-soleil (sunshading devices) in front of the buildings as an important architectural statement in defining India’s modern architectural identity. Silaban approved Le Corbusier’s design by stating that India no longer needed “original Indian characters” to represent its identity. He thought that Le Corbusier’s designs were perfectly suited to their climatic and geographical contexts; therefore, they no longer needed to address past cultural forms.74 Silaban personally complimented Chandigarh as a foundation and a model for the active search for a national modern (architectural) identity.75 Conclusion Silaban’s works were framed within specific conditions by Sukarno’s politics. The architecture, above all, functioned as a political message to impress the world and Indonesian people that a newborn nation was keeping up with the developed countries and was able to inspire fellow developing countries. The project was also to strengthen Sukarno’s (and Jakarta’s) role as the seat of power. Despite Sukarno’s leaning toward communist countries, it was naive to interpret the sculptures and monuments as Sukarno’s enthusiasm for social realism’s artistic forms. In explaining the projects he built, Sukarno never associated them with “leftist” or “socialist” ideals. In order to confirm Sukarno’s ideas, Silaban consistently employed the European modernist tradition instead of adapting traditional/ethnic architectural forms. Despite its origins, the application of modernist architecture

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in Indonesia was not interpreted as the embodiment of European colonial dominance or associated with Cold War political identities, but rather seen as a “neutral” pursuit of modernity and equality. Silaban personalized the brief further by appropriating the sleek modernist architectural grammar for the tropical context by employing sunshading elements and an extensive roof structure combined with tropical verandahs, which became his design signature. Silaban perceived the creation of such tropical spaces as essentially “Indonesian.” He openly refused to identify Indonesia’s diverse cultural and political geography with formalistic representation. He rather searched for a common ground that was based on functional interpretations of traditional architecture practices. The use of cultural-specific symbolism was also despised by Silaban. Silaban expressed his refusal of Sukarno’s idea for the National Monument by twisting the proportions of the elements. The use of the European modernist tradition as the new modern Indonesian architectural style was never a big problem. Silaban’s architectural forms were perceived as abstractions of modern Indonesian ideals and cultural diversities made possible by advanced modern engineering. His works were accepted as spectacles as well as examples from which one could learn. Silaban never explained his works outside his professional premises and always elaborated his decisions according to technical aspects such as permanence, durability, ease of maintenance, and the straightforwardness of his architectural forms. He addressed the sheer monumentality of his works as a necessity. Sukarno did all the publicity regarding the projects, their placement, and their conceptual backgrounds. Sukarno defended the choice of a modernist architectural language in such a way that it was never a debatable issue.

CHAPTER 5

Relocating Socialism: Asia, Socialism, Communism, and the PAP Departure from the Socialist International in 1976 Leong Yew, National University of Singapore

Introduction: The Spaces of the Cold War

T

he connections between the Cold War and spatiality, geography, and the geopolitical have seldom been far apart, yet in conventional analyses they have tended to be more ambivalent. On the one hand, the Cold War could not be understood without its location within a territorial, material, and grounded context. For instance, geography allowed intellectuals to visualize where adherents to capitalism or communism were located, make sense of how communist expansionism was taking place, and frame the global extent of the Cold War itself and the annihilist potential of the ensuing arms race. Yet, on the other hand, space and geography have often always been peripheralized, so in this case, all phenomena have been explained as part of an unfolding historical narrative spanning the time of Yalta to Reykjavik, and on to either the liberal triumphalist or civilizationally conflicting present. One does not have to look far beyond the theses of Fukuyama and Huntington to locate the preferred temporal explanations of Cold War phenomena. This is indeed a disappointing development considering the highly problematic nature—and thus intellectually challenging alternative—of the Cold War as having “sacralized” competing notions of spatiality, the sweeping articulations of ideological logic that have enveloped or ignored the pluralistic, contentious, and incommensurable spaces in the Cold War. Typically, the Cold War has often been interpreted as a continuation of realist power

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politics (the “de Tocqueville argument”) or as an ideological struggle between capitalism and communism, circumscribed within agglomerations of sovereign territories. Although both explanations are potentially divisive, they have, through examples like George Kennan’s infamous “X” article, been unproblematically unified. More crucially, even the image of a Western and Eastern bloc that reconfigures the European–Non-European distinction along ideological lines deliberately obscures and confuses cartographic renditions of the world that still persist along these cultural axes. Thus what one gets out of a conventional map of the Cold War are a series of messy and incommensurable spaces: the ideological West versus the East, the colonial cultural Orient versus the Occident, which then are mapped onto the “three worlds” model through some developmentalist hierarchy. Simultaneously outside these spaces exist a number of other realms that are difficult to position: the double inscription of nationalism and communism, the attempt to insert “neutral zones” in between a world split according to the free world/communist world or core/periphery distinctions. Taking a leaf out of the problem of ambivalence in the role of space/ spatiality in the Cold War, the subject that concerns this chapter— Singapore’s People’s Action Party’s (PAP) expulsion/resignation from the Socialist International in 1976—provides a number of instructive ways in which space and geography (as well as one’s imagination of them) could present an interesting case for reflection. While the event in itself has received little academic attention and has registered much less on the radar of Western Cold War narratives, its peripherality offers some possibilities in reconsidering how spatiality could be reworked into an account of the Cold War. First, the nature of the dispute between the PAP and the Socialist International has most commonly been seen as a dispute over the nature and meaning of democratic socialism and whether or not the PAP, as Singapore’s ruling party, had gone against its avowed democratic creed and if it had, to all intents and purposes, become capitalist. As such, the incident more specifically suggested ideational issues within one particular bloc in the Cold War, rather than a crisis of geopolitical or strategic magnitude. Second, when examined closely enough, one notices certain issues of spatiality that do disturb conventional framings of the Cold War. From Lee Kuan Yew’s pontifications on socialism in the 1960s and the PAP’s official policy on socialism in 1972, and from the party’s departure from the Socialist International up until the inauguration of the Asian Values debate in the early 1990s, the positions taken by the PAP with regard to socialism demonstrated attempts to constantly rework the notions of Asia, “the West,” communism, and even socialism itself. By doing so, the distinct geography presented by these notions disrupt the conventional discourse of

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the Cold War by either insisting on a culturalist position in an otherwise ideological terrain or producing shifting ideas of the communist that may not necessarily align neatly with those harbored by the United States or Europe. These intimations are to a sizeable extent influenced or informed by two sets of writings. The first is the work of scholars of critical geopolitics like John Agnew, Gearóid Ó’Tuathail, and Simon Dalby. As the adjective suggests, critical geopolitics attempts to uncover the metalevel relationships between space and the political, and how space and knowledge are mutually constitutive.1 Thus, critical geopolitics allows one to question the way a problematic trope like the “Third World” was spatially disciplined in an order that privileged simple global bifurcations. Instead of perceiving the Third World as neutral, both the United States and the Soviet Union could be seen as having constructed two spatial orders: the “traditional” versus the “modern” world, and the “ideological” versus the “free.” In a stroke reminiscent of colonial hierarchy and cartography, the first order was seen to be necessarily transitional, and the Third World’s ascent into modernity was only to be met by its assimilation into the second order.2 Although critical geographers draw quite substantially from the works of Michel Foucault, I wish to single out his 1967 lecture of “Des Espace Autres” as the second set of writings that have bearing on this paper. In this lecture, Foucault introduces the notion of “heterotopia” as an actually existing place or a site (more literally, an “emplacement”3) that mirrors the “unreal” place of utopia. Hence one sense of space that the subject occupies is often a negotiation of the two; heterotopias “have the curious property of being connected to all the other emplacements, but in such a way that they suspend, neutralize, or reverse the set of relations that are designated, reflected, or represented by them.”4 In this way, different spatial configurations of the Cold War could be juxtaposed against each other. First, to suggest our Cold War spatial imaginary is constituted by heterotopias and utopias implies that there are certain processes that give rise to them and produce the politics that govern their interrelationship. Second, both heterotopias and utopias conceptually revolve around the notions of reality and physicality of space; hence heterotopias perform a critical role in accentuating the impossible but desired realities of utopian places, which suggests that we could be able to unsettle certain meanings of the Cold War that might have been presumed to be settled and unquestionable. Taken together the idea of critical geopolitics and the concept of heterotopia allow me to interpret PAP articulations of socialism or an event like the PAP’s departure from the Socialist International as capable of reconstituting the spatial figurations of the Cold War discourse. In this chapter, I argue that the PAP’s various assertions of democratic socialism can be used

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to reconsider how space in a Cold War context could be seen as a multiply constituted entity, requiring at times competing notions of space for its realization. While texts like Lee Kuan Yew’s speeches in the 1960s to various socialist fora and the curious 1976 publication Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way5 could evince how an unideological (and supposedly pragmatic) political party like the PAP attempted to spatially fix an ideology for a newly independent state, they also suggest how “Western” conceptions of communism and socialism might have been mirrored, displaced, and distorted. To perform this analysis, I first provide a historical redescription of Singaporean socialism in the context of the PAP–Socialist International dispute and anchor it to some contending arguments. These arguments are at once connected to critical geopolitics and heterotopia in a more substantial way, which then lead me to examine the three major spatial challenges enacted by the PAP heteroglossia. First, the chapter examines the use and place of “Asia” as an oppositional category to an ignorant West, after which it revisits both socialism and communism to demonstrate how both have been reworked and made contextually relevant to the anxieties of being subsumed into a universalizing discourse. Singaporean Socialism: A Historical Retour The PAP’s participation in Singaporean politics and its eventual domination of the political discourse in the midst of Cold War Asia have often been noted for its departures and paradoxes. In ideological terms, the way the party/government positioned itself could not be simply identified. Was it Fabian socialist because its British-trained leaders were influenced as such while studying there? Or were they nationalist, pragmatist, or even potentially communist? What was one to make of the English-speaking anticolonials who collaborated with communists to bring the PAP into fruition in 1954? While admiring the left wing led by Lim Chin Siong, Lee Kuan Yew overtly declared his admiration for their organization skills, for the support they received from the ethnic Chinese population, and for their political acumen, even venturing as far as to claim his comparative preference of communism over colonialism. But to the rest of the world, Lee (and by extension, the PAP) also presented different faces: to Asian socialists, he was an antiWestern pragmatist; to the West, he was an ardent promoter of state modernization and industrialization, as well as a supporter of free enterprise and foreign investment. While there are undoubtedly different ways to account for these issues, one subject of interest to this chapter is the PAP adoption of democratic

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socialism and the way its transmutations paralleled these paradoxes. In particular, the PAP’s joining of the Socialist International—the august international organization of democratic socialist political parties—in 19666 heralded the party as a globally recognized entity embracing that political and ideological persuasion. Conversely, its ignominious departure a decade later seems to suggest its revocation of socialism. Interestingly, very little is mentioned about the PAP’s accession to the Socialist International. There is no mention of it in the four major PAP anniversary publications,7 the official party newspaper, Petir, or the more canonical monographs on the PAP by Bellows,8 Pang,9 and Fong.10 Comparatively, a bit more has been written and researched on the Party’s departure from the organization in 1976, and this is where the chapter starts.11 As an anticommunist, anti-imperialist organization promoting democratic socialism,12 the Socialist International’s core principles paralleled the interests of the PAP. Since the expulsion of the communist elements from the Party in 1961 and Singapore’s merger with Malaysia two years later, the Socialist International had provided the PAP with the worldwide legitimacy needed to reaffirm its noncommunist, democratic socialist stance. Furthermore, the Socialist International’s position on socialism as not “demand[ing] a rigid uniformity of approach”13 allowed the PAP to advocate an “Asian” form of socialism, and thus assert Singapore’s position in the Malaysian Federation during the merger years and as a sovereign nation in the region afterwards. Particularly in the anonymous annotations provided in the Singapore Ministry of Culture’s pamphlets reprinting Lee Kuan Yew’s speeches at the Socialist International in the 1960s, Lee was described as playing an influential and monumental role, presumably disproportionate to the size and newness of Singapore. So the events of 1976 must have come as some form of surprise to this narrative. In this year, the Dutch Labour Party (PvdA) suddenly tabled a motion to expel the PAP from the Socialist International. Its allegations are, in the contemporary context, familiar: that Singapore’s miraculous economic growth had come about due to “totalitarian policies and methods”;14 that the PAP’s dominance of Singaporean politics was a result of undemocratic means; that it used the force of law to detain “political opponents” without the privilege of trial;15 that the PAP government was suppressing trade unions, student movements, and intellectual freedom;16 and that press freedom did not exist in Singapore. In brief, the PvdA argued that the PAP contravened the guiding principles of democratic socialism and that its continued membership would tarnish the image of the Socialist International. This proposal was then backed by the British Labour Party (BLP), which also tabled a number of articles in support of this move.

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The PAP’s reaction appeared to be one of puzzlement. While the actions of the PvdA were undesirable, the PAP was more concerned that the British Labour Party backed the proposal at all.17 If anything, this was the unkindest cut owing to the vested interests between Singapore and its former colonizer. The PAP compiled a lengthy statement countering each of the accusations, asserting that Singapore’s (and by extension, Southeast Asia’s) unique circumstances required an application of democratic socialism that was different from what Europeans might be familiar with, that there had been no change in its treatment of political opponents from the time it joined the organization, and that the current move by the PvdA was motivated by a series of misinformation fed by disaffected communists in Malaysia and Singapore. Nonetheless, the PAP was unable to dissuade other members of the Socialist International, and so proceeded with its own resignation at the bureau meeting in May 1976. What is distinctively notable, as the outcome of these events, was the August 1976 publication of Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way, edited by the trade union chief Devan Nair (also the PAP representative at the May 1976 bureau meeting), and it was released in time for the November Congress of the Socialist International in Geneva. On the surface, the book reprinted the May PAP statement, but this was preceded by a lengthier collection of articles written by PAP stalwarts countering PvdA and BLP accusations in a more detailed way. For instance, the articles tried to assess transformations within the Socialist International, the problems of communism in Singapore, the emergence of the New Left in Europe, the role of trade unionism, foreign investment, and the state of social progress in Singapore. However there is also an unbridled polemicism in the text, which makes the articles vacillate between self-defense and Occidentalizing assertions, at times adopting a chastising tone and establishing a developing Asian world that was incomprehensible to the “West.” In this connection, Socialism That Works seems to present itself more as a socialist zeitgeist, a platform that attempted to, inter alia, pontificate on an Asian model of socialism centered in Singapore and acerbically decry the West as ignorant of Asian differences and of the creeping infiltration of communists within its own ranks, while at the same time being manipulated by communists in Malaysia and Singapore. Indeed Socialism That Works can be read as an official historical narrative of Singapore’s sociocultural development, told simply as Singapore’s ascent to modernity in spite of the twin obstacles of a local communist insurgency and the meddling intrusiveness of its Western allies. Discussions of the exceptionalism of Singaporean socialism, the contingent importance of multinational companies, or the unique ways trade unions were meant to

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privilege society as a collective whole are juxtaposed with photographic montages depicting Singapore’s progress from its backward and communally violent past to its present industrial arrival. At the same time too, other essays and photographs also served to reinforce the internal other to the Singapore narrative, depicting the continuing presence of communist subversion and the narrow options that were available: a mindless application of Western style socialism that would undo the progress already achieved, or a Singaporean socialism predicated on sacrifice and hard work that would lead to even greater material advancement and social stability. Undoubtedly, the paradox of the PAP’s democratic socialism has generated some amount of academic interest, the most common explanations being that PAP’s outlook was the result of some form of ideological shift, superordination, or innovation/consistency. In the first, the English-educated PAP leaders were indeed influenced by Fabian socialism, which armed them with the necessary anticolonial rhetoric and legitimacy to be elected. But once in power, these leaders had to constantly adapt socialism in a way that could work in a developing entrepot economy, leading to its abandonment and supersession by other developmental models like corporatist paternalism,18 or free market capitalism in 1976. In the second explanation, socialism is seen to play a more nominal role in contrast to a superordinate “pragmatism,” which allowed the PAP to direct actions contingent on achieving material progress (industrialization, modernization) well ahead of rigid doctrine even if they went against socialist dogma.19 The third is probably the official line, stressing that the PAP was much more consistent on its stance on socialism than accused, establishing an “innovative” form of selective socialism that retained certain core values of social justice while resourcefully adapting socialism to suit the more stringent requirements of the developing Asian societies. This was juxtaposed against the Socialist International itself as an organization that has changed, owing to infiltrations by the New Left.20 Speeches and policy papers by the PAP, especially in the 1960s and early 1970s, noted widespread failure throughout Asia in the adoption of democracy and European notions of socialism. They argued that what Asia could not afford were expensive social services and wealth redistribution, but that Asian societies required collective discipline and hard work to address such social needs. At this juncture it is fitting to recapitulate some of the ideas proffered by thinking about the Cold War as a geopolitical discourse. In so far as spatiality is concerned, the Cold War relied on certain spatial abstractions in order to make it meaningful, providing space with an immediately physical quality and the materially real objects that could constitute knowledge about the Cold War. But space, however, is more than that, since there is

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very little about human consciousness that is not also constituted by spatiality. From spatial metaphors in language to how the individual phenomenally experiences the world (for example, the idea of one’s body, its boundaries and limits determined by space), and from the self ’s spatial differentiation from the other to the way it determines our manifold identities (sex, race, etc.), space is in this sense more trenchantly invested in the constitution of subjectivity.21 To think about the conventional spatiality of the Cold War through critical geopolitics, therefore, is to rework space back into a discourse that has otherwise a narrowly sanctified notion of the spatial. First this contests how certain modes of knowledge considered “geographical” have come to be privileged, for example by exposing it as the “dominant geopolitical imagination [of ] the European-American experience that was then projected onto the rest of the world and into the future.”22 In particular, binaristic distinctions became more appropriately recognized as a form of Manicheanism, which Ó’Tuathail underscores thus: Within [the American Cold War geopolitical] discourse, the geographical complexities of particular places and specific conflicts were displaced by Manichean categories like “the free world” and “the enslaved world,” the geographical kaleidoscope of the map becomes the geopolitical monochrome of good versus evil, capitalism versus communism, the West versus the East, America versus the Soviet Union. All places and conflicts were interpreted within the binary terms of this Manichean map.23

As such the local particularities of spaces like the Third World could be made to fit into a preexisting template, the domino theory, for instance, rewriting neutrality as a transitional phase within Cold War eschatology rather than standing outside of it.24 Second, it calls for other objects, categories, and concepts to be more readily in the spatial domain. For instance, notions like “socialism” and “communism” are more frequently associated with the ideological and, as such, appear to emerge out of mental or intellectual processes. Yet, because human subjectivity is also grounded in spatiality, these notions also need to be figured in conjunction with the spatial in order for them to attain a higher order of meaning.25 Consequently “communism” attains pseudoreal properties: it can be experienced, it has a corporeal presence, it mobilizes its own set of spatial metaphors, and as such allows for a correspondingly opposite set of essences such as “capitalism” or the “free world” to surface. I wish to argue that critical geopolitics is immanent in the exchange between the PAP and the European elements within the Socialist International.

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This is not to suggest that the PAP was consciously using alternative notions of space to launch an Asian revanchism against the West. In many instances, the PAP absolutely internalized and thereby reproduced the Euro-American geopolitical discourse on the Cold War. But in a number of other instances, it also created a geography that seemed to be positioned disjunctively to this. First, although the PAP−Socialist International dispute is most immediately typified as a debate over ideological interpretation, Singaporean assertions about socialism before, during, and after this event are noticeably framed through the two cardinal positions of “Asia” and the “West.” While perceived to be relativistic—and therefore not believed to be reducible to each other—such positions are not divorced from a higher (Western/ modern) logic of cartography. Nonetheless it appears to rework or complicate the privileged Cold War cardinality of the free world/communist world. Second, while mostly expressed as an ideology, communism also occupies particular notions of spatiality, such as epistemology in which it is seen to have a certain extent in competitive relation to other ideologies and symbolism in which the human figure of the communist becomes cartographically metaphorical. In this connection, the PAP’s employment of communism shifted between the communist as nationalist and the communist as a security threat. In whatever rendition, the Singaporean communist was seen to be different from and unique in comparison to the communist understood by Europe. Third, the PAP’s attempt to wrestle socialism from its Western/ universalized history fragments the ideological terrain. Just as the space of communism is displaced and realigned, socialism is written back as plural, depositing Asian socialism within the more indeterminable ideological lexicon that includes Marxism, the New Left, democratic socialism, and social democracy. As I have mentioned before, it is important not to regard the repositioning of Cold War spatiality by the PAP government as indicative of a conscious postcolonial agency meant to resist and transform conventional discourse of the time, nor is it meant to effect any significant change in the grand narratives that the Cold War might be subsumed under. If anything, what the PAP did in this regard served to bolster these narratives. By suggesting that the PAP actions could be deciphered as a form of critical geopolitics but yet delimited by grander metanarratives, I am in many ways suggesting through Foucault that the spaces depicted by the PAP as “Asian,” “communist,” and “socialist” acted as some of the possible instances of heterotopias that have been ignored or marginalized in relation to their corresponding utopias. In “Des Espace Autres” Foucault provides another attempt at reconfiguring the relationship between time and space, and between space and

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its corresponding orders of reality and logic. To do this, he suggests that there are two types of emplacements—the unreal spaces of utopias and the actually existing spaces of heterotopias. Utopias are not, in this sense, neat and delineated oppositions to heterotopias but they both exist in a more disjunctive and symbiotic basis. Thus, heterotopias are “real places, actual places, places that are designed into the very institution of society, which are sorts of actually realized utopias in which the real emplacements, all the other real emplacements that can be found within the culture are, at the same time, represented, contested, and reversed …”26 In a more concrete way, Foucault does not provide instances of utopias although he does so for heterotopias: they are the physically real emplacements like hospitals, prisons, mirrors, schools, cemeteries, gardens, museums, libraries, and so on. While the different emplacements were used to illustrate different characteristics of heterotopias, the lack of emphasis on utopias presents a larger challenge to appreciating the broader principle behind why one should think about space in this disjunctive manner. Taken together with the overall brevity of the work, “Des Espaces Autres” comes across, therefore, as an ambiguous treatment of space. As Johnson avers, this has “provoked many conflicting interpretations and applications across a range of disciplines, particularly sociology, human geography and architecture. A dazzling variety of spaces have been explored as illustrations of heterotopia, including the Palais Royal, masonic lodges and early factories, landscapes, environmental installations, postmodern cities and buildings, internet sites and dozens more.”27 While some critics perceive such uses of heterotopia as “contradictory” and “completely incomparable,”28 most interpretations feed on the wider Foucauldian (anti)logic to create a greater sense of purpose. Foucault’s lack of or refusal to identify utopias is a case in point. If heterotopias are indeed “real” spaces, they are also the marginalized emplacements that disrupt the preferred but impossible and unattainable realms of normality. In identifying psychiatric hospitals, prisons, and rest homes as “heterotopias of deviance,”29 Foucault palpably indicates the space of the insane, the convict, and the retired/elderly as discernibly real, in opposition to the preferred but utopic normality of the mentally sound, the good citizen, or the economically productive worker. At this juncture, it becomes possible to see how the heterotopia-utopia relationship fits into Foucault’s oeuvre: by forcing us to associate normality with utopia, one brings into bearing the different regimes of “disciplinization” and instrumentalities of power. More appropriately, as Johnson interprets it, the idea of heterotopia does not liberate or inaugurate resistance and social transgression, but since it includes questions about power, it is more specifically a problematization of such power.30 As Foucault puts it, a heterotopia “allows us to be drawn outside ourselves,”

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enacting “an ensemble of relations that define emplacements that are irreducible to each other and absolutely nonsuperposable.”31 There are, therefore, a number of potential obstacles in associating discussions about “Asia,” “communism,” and “socialism” with notions of heterotopia/utopia specifically and the idea of critical geography more generally. First, insofar as heterotopias are real spaces juxtaposed with the correspondingly imagined or unreal spaces of utopia, where do categories like “communism” or “socialism” fit and what might their corresponding utopias look like? Are they necessarily comparable and commensurate? Second, from whose perspective and whose language are these spaces to be positioned and articulated? Both problems suggest that “Asia,” “communism,” and “socialism” might be more intransigent as heterotopias since their statuses as real emplacements could be as equally contestable as the utopias they reflect. For instance, “Asia” and “communism” are no less invented categories than their counterparts of the “West” and “capitalism.” Furthermore, even though a given discourse has its own set of spatialized antinomies like capitalism and communism in an abstract form, where might one find more grounded emplacements that do function as heterotopias? Given the brevity of “Des Espaces Autres” and given the propensity in relating this work with the wider intellectual trajectory of Foucauldian thought, it becomes possible for me to suggest that these spatial concepts might have something productive to say about the relations of power between spatial categories at stake in the confrontation between the PAP and the Socialist International. Each of the contested emplacements that are to be discussed—“Asia” and the “West,” Asian and European socialism and communism—does not necessarily consist of real spaces. They are very much constructed entities. Yet, in the process of their construction, they do underscore the dynamics and networks of power and resistance attending to different imaginations of space. Thus, even if the PAP’s counter use of “Asia” appears unaware of its own Eurocentricity, the very gesture of employing a marginalized emplacement (in this case, in the context of mainstream Cold War discourse) presupposes the acceptance of its realness in the eyes of the PAP in contrast to its “utopianization” of the West. So what we have in this context are not heterotopias per se, but imagined heterotopias that are finely interconnected, demonstrating how certain processes of resistance emerge within Cold War discourse and how they themselves might be problematic. “Asia” and the “West” The highly essentialized categories of “Asia” and the “West” have perhaps become the dominant archetypes in the contemporary discourse since

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the 1990s. Yet their place in Cold War geopolitics appears to be somewhat more awkward since another highly essentialized and figurative set of cardinal positions has provided cartographic meaning to that era. This was, in short, the physical division of the world centered in Berlin—Churchill’s iron curtain—(and by extension, Europe) that symbolically divided the world between “West” and “East.” This division bore no connection to actually existing geography, nor to any prior colonially informed distinction. The ideological “West” in this new order became diffuse and in a certain sense did converge with earlier iterations of the colonial East, so long as they remained noncommunist. Although the PAP fully embraced and appreciated Cold War geopolitical positions, its falling out with the Socialist International did accentuate for the party differences between Asia and the West, which were strongly reflected in Socialism That Works. But this Asian regional consciousness did not surface just in 1976 and was also not necessarily in the same celebratory language that was to be deployed in the Asian Values debate almost two decades later. In effect, the regional consciousness was prevalent even in the numerous speeches delivered in socialist fora by Lee Kuan Yew in the 1960s. Seen by the Singaporean Ministry of Culture32 as “representative of Asian socialism,”33 Lee’s speeches at events like the centennial meeting of the Socialist International in Brussels34 or the Asian Socialists’ Conference in Bombay35 constantly repeated with the same élan Asia’s unsuitability for an unmodified version of European socialism, and its many failures there, while prescribing the form of socialism it should take. This Asian consciousness would appear to be typical of the 1960s and 1970s since Singapore’s status as a newly excolonial developing state led it to find greater cause among similar states in the Afro-Asian world, just as the anti-Western rhetoric it adopted attempted to lay claim to a neutral ground.36 Nonetheless, what is unique in this case is the way Asia was positioned with respect to the “West” and how each category was in itself flexibly derived. Hence, in the 1960s and 1970s, a type of doubling constituted Asia that allowed the PAP to adopt an Orientalizing expression of the region that it could distance itself from, while also implementing a cathartic form of socialism that would work only if it identified itself with that region. In Lee’s estimation, therefore, Asia was a site of failure and crisis, in which the promises of post-colonial democratic reform and social change of the 1950s had descended into governmental mismanagement and poverty.37 Particularly, former socialist Asian regimes were seen to have been too caught up in the euphoria of anticolonialism, adopting European democratic socialism because it provided them with the language of emancipation and social justice. Yet, in practical terms, the attempt at wealth redistribution led

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to the problems of exhausted state finances and corruption.38 Similarly, the crisis of communism in places like Malaysia and Singapore required a colonially informed trope of evolutionism: while the European communist might have become more localized and autonomous from Moscow, and thereby preferred nonviolent forms of political participation,39 Asian communists were more ruthless, militant, and in a word, backward. But just as the actually existing Asian socialism practiced by Burma, Indonesia, and Ceylon/Sri Lanka constituted the crisis that was enveloping the region, the PAP also instituted another notion of Asia that it now sought to identify with. On the one hand, PAP leaders like Lee sought to recognize different forms of socialist solutions that Asian countries would need to devise,40 but this seemed to be filtered through the pragmatism that the Singapore government broadly laid claim to as its own approach.41 Paradoxically, the recognition of Asian difference seems in this case to be the revalidation of the Singapore model. The 1972 PAP policy paper entitled “Singapore’s Concept of Socialism” curiously had less to do with Singapore than it did with Asia. In effect, over half the paper attempted to diagnose the crisis of Asian socialism (in the first sense of the word), which it then juxtaposed against the Singaporean formulation that had led to its sense of economic and developmental achievements.42 Although the paper styled itself as a description of PAP measures aimed at resolving unique national problems, the positioning of a successful Singapore in the midst of failed Asian policies reinscribed the Singaporean model as the genuine, workable, and realistic form of Asian socialism. Seen in this light, the Asian crisis is thus framed as the imperfect other to Singapore’s developmental effort, but the region in this sense is also simultaneously rejected and redeployed as the site at which it needs to locate its visions of socialism in order to legitimize it. Just as “Asia” was constantly positioned and relocated by the PAP, the concept of the “West” bore considerable amount of fluidity. Especially in speeches to largely European gatherings in the 1960s, the West was seen as a more complicated heterogeny, and the language adopted more restrained. The Dutch were not readily reducible to the Germans, or the Americans to the British, and in many instances, the West was seen as a site for political learning and economic and industrial assistance. In many ways the European teleology of progress was adopted, as instantiated in this well-quoted statement: I am a democratic socialist of a rising generation of newly emergent nations. What we will emerge to, what he will inherit, depends upon how quickly we can learn from the experiences of those who have travelled similar roads before us, and found themselves confronted with similar situations in Europe and elsewhere.43

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The idea here is one of Asia seeking alternative socialist solutions, but nonetheless coexisting with the West. But it is also one of embracing Enlightenment rationality that allowed Singapore to separate technology from culture, modernity from tradition, and so on. Asians could modernize without Westernizing. In the following decade, this logic became highly instrumental in allowing Singaporean discourse to enter a phase that C. J. W.-L. Wee labels as “West-toxification,”44 relegating the degeneracy and promiscuity of Western culture as the other to some traditionally pure and authentic Asian self. Thus, while Singapore continued to embrace Western technology, investment, industrialism, and statecraft in the 1970s, “West-toxification” alternatively gave the PAP the framework for coming to terms with the accusations brought on by the PvdA and the British Labour Party in the Socialist International. The attempt by Lee in the 1960s to deuniversalize socialism therefore became full-fledged amid accusations of Western meddling and inability to comprehend changes within the European socialist self or the particularity and complexities of the Asian other. S. Rajaratnam’s acerbic and parodic “missive” to the synod of the “Socialist Orthodox Church,” for instance, sought to depict a picture of Singaporean policy consistency and a “Great Sickness” in Europe that coincided with the infiltration of the New Left into the various important areas of European society and governance.45 Not evident to the Europeans themselves, the PAP presented itself as having seen through the guise of the New Left and having exposed them as communists influencing and also being misled by communists in Malaysia and Singapore.46 This passage underscores the concerns about hypocrisy: What have Your Eminences to offer Singapore by way of salvation? How can you help put our own house in order when, as far as I can see, you have a great flair for putting your once great mansion into increasing disorder? All the advice you have given us so far, backed by threats, will, in our view reproduce in Singapore the havoc you are now wreaking in your own parish.47

In milder statements, such hypocrisy was detected in the way charges were brought against the detention of communists even though it was the British Labour government that committed such acts themselves in Malaya— and even in greater intensity—in the late 1940s. Similarly detention without trial also took place in the Netherlands during World War II.48 Depending on the circumstances, each image of Asia—the Asia of developmental, political, and security crisis or the Asia that stands to be redeemed through the application of the Singaporean model—and each image of the “West”—the benefactor dispensing industrial and developmental

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tutelage or the West that is hypocritical, culturally degenerate, and ideologically obstructive—are not on their own necessarily unrelated to or outside the Cold War geopolitical discourse. Indeed, there might not really be any firm basis for deploying these categories in the first place, since the uniqueness of Singapore’s social and economic circumstances in requiring different applications of socialism may not necessarily be rooted in any broad regional or cultural etiology. After all, Singapore as an entrepot economy, an island-state, and a resource-poor entity was and is substantially a different sort of creature from its neighbors in the region. What the PAP’s “Singaporean socialism” indicates more is the party’s willingness to employ different types of Orientalism and Occidentalism that, in the final analysis, connect them back to the Cold War via the metanarratives of Western rationality. However, what is interesting to note here is that while conventional Cold War discourse may have prioritized a different notion of geopolitics that deculturalized, ideologized, and visualized a specific mode of antagonistic exchange (capitalist and communist), the PAP responses to the Socialist International managed (inadvertently) to reposition the regional and the cultural and to appropriate the real antagonism to be one between Asia and the West. Repositioning and Relocating Socialism and Communism The problematic nature of “socialism” and “communism” are certainly wellestablished since they occupied an ambivalent space in conventional Cold War geopolitics. On the one hand, by relegating both “capitalism” and “communism” as ideal types antithetical to each other, a moral cartography could be drawn, separating the world into two distinct and opposing camps. On the other hand, political practitioners knew that societies were more complex than that; a capitalist society founded purely on Adam Smithian liberalism was inconceivable, and in reality was microcosmically constituted by contending interests ranging from quarters advocating laissez-faire and minimal governmental intervention to factions calling for increased efforts for social service and welfare. In archetypically “capitalist” societies, one finds, for instance, the New Deal or the Great Society in America, and the collectivist “Third Way” in Britain. In a word socialism does not necessarily stand in opposition to capitalism, but in many ways demonstrates the latter’s expansiveness and its ability to incorporate, and indeed be, constituted by contradictions. In a few recent works, Singapore’s ideological placement of socialism was subjected to some amount of critical scrutiny, particularly in light of the Asianist culturalism that was to surface during the time of the Asian Values debate in the 1990s. While advocates of Asian Values, such as Lee Kuan Yew, appeared to be convinced of the existence of some culturally authentic and

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original values, especially among the Asian miracle economies, what was not immediately established was that these values were nothing more than reiterations of Victorian and other Western values.49 Projected backwards into the 1960s and 1970s, the Asian Values discourse was also in many ways an extension of the same Singaporean socialist values of hard work, discipline, and sacrifice.50 This notion of repetition of the Western and the modern is important here because the heterotopic spaces occupied by “Asia,” the “socialist,” and the “communist,” which to their advocates are palpably real, require the highly figurative and demarcated spaces of the “capitalist” and the “communist” to be mobilized as utopian for these spatial relationships to work. The Singaporean socialism that was meant to rescue Asian socialism in the 1960s and 1970s relied on a pluralizing and antiuniversalizing rhetoric. By constantly placing socialism back in the late nineteenth century when the socialist movement was made up of different persuasions, the Singapore Ministry of Culture’s reprints of Lee Kuan Yew’s speeches attempted to contextualize socialism as a more fluid entity. In speeches recognizing the different shades of socialism “varying from progressive liberal, social democrat or democratic socialist to communist,”51 Lee, for instance, sought to license his idealized notion of Asian socialism. Thus, for Lee, Western socialism was also simultaneously associated with the particular political, economic, and social circumstances facing industrialized and developed societies. With their abundance of resources, Western governments could provide highly subsidized or free social services and welfare in education and healthcare, while their citizens’ expectations were also matched by their ability to afford high taxation rates to support them. Similarly, Western socialism also presupposed the political liberties often seen in Western trade unions and parliamentary institutions.52 In contrast, Asian developing societies, with their conditions of severe unemployment, poverty, and underdevelopment, could not adopt such practices of socialism without adaptation. The consequence, as Nair avers, would have been disastrous: Western-style liberalism would allow political elites in such places to become corrupt and nepotistic.53 A practical implementation of Asian socialism would be based on social discipline and various hard-nosed governmental measures for stimulating development and modernization. Thus, placed in a state of (permanent) deferral, these attributes were replaced by a form of national collectivism in which citizens had to forsake state-provided individual benefits but work toward a constantly redefined national goal. Lee, for instance, shows his skepticism of socialism in inducing national productivity: The capitalists make people work through monetary incentives which we call sweated and exploited labor. The communists do it by regimentation and

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exhortation and a systematically induced state of semi-hysteria for work, using both the stick and the carrot. The democratic socialist is less ruthless and consequently less efficient, torn between his loathing for regimentation and mass coercion and his inhibition to making more effective use of the carrot by his desire to distribute the rewards more fairly and equally too soon.54

Furthermore, in its attempt to depart from what it calls “socialism without tears,” the PAP articulated this ethic of hard work: Socialists must be blunt enough to tell the people the truth about the difficulties and problems of bringing about social justice and the egalitarian society. The right balance must be struck between the two extremes of the collectivist authoritarian rule of communism and the kind of unbridled personal freedom which retards healthy growth and social discipline in liberal democracies. People must be told to make sacrifices, but be shown from time to time that sacrifices have not been in vain. We have to be honest and frank with our people when we call for sacrifices by telling them the facts of the situation. The ideals of democratic socialism must not be discredited with empty promises; there is no short cut to a better life.55

Simultaneously, the receptivity to foreign investment, multinational corporations, and technology, even at times, to the “short-term” detriment of the Singaporean worker is expressed through the logic of Singapore’s exceptionalism: the traumas of its separation from Malaysia, its lack of natural resources, and the absence of an economic hinterland. If this attempt by the PAP resembles the operational problems of capitalism, it probably does because the logic behind Singaporean socialism indeed emanates from European/American political attempts at mediating between economic conservatism and individual rights. Writing retrospectively from the time of the Asian Values debate, both Wee and Chua Beng Huat have been able to connect socialism and Asianism back to these tensions. Wee, for example, locates Asian Values in the Blair government’s adoption of the Third Way (New Labour) as a means of reconciling the more traditionalist concerns of Old Labour with probusiness and free market interests.56 In this light, Wee is subsequently able to address the PAP–Socialist International dispute as part of a historically enduring attempt by the party to come to terms with global capitalism.57 As far as the notions of “communism” and the “communist” were concerned, the PAP’s attempt to establish Asian socialism or to respond to the fallout with the Socialist International both appropriate broader strategic definitions regulated by the Cold War discourse while also syncopating it. In many instances, the communists were seen to have connections with

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China, and communism’s aggressive, subversive, and militant form in Singapore and Malaysia helped to justify communists’ detention under the Internal Security Act in the public sense, while also enabling the legitimization of state controls and the creation of a discourse of social regimentation and discipline. In the PAP’s reaction to socialism, the communist became overdetermined; while the end of the first Cold War allowed for European communists to be refigured as more peaceful, localized, and having less to do with the grand designs of Eastern bloc expansionism, the Singapore/ Malaysian communists were represented in other ways. First, they were throwbacks whose agenda of subversion and fear appeared to belong to an earlier history of the first Cold War. Second, and almost contradictorily, they were used as a benchmark with which the New Left within Europe and the Socialist International were to be measured. In this case, the New Left was presented as being worse than communists. As Rajaratnam says: All that I have said so far might lead Your Eminences to believe that I have paid you the compliments of branding you communists. Not so. We can distinguish between real communists, and who have merely become the expendable instruments of people who know where they are going and how to get there. We have great respect for genuine communists, even though we have to fight them in Singapore. Some of Your Eminences might well be the genuine stuff, even though out of necessity you have had to mimic the New Left. But we can think nothing more humiliating than being duped by dupes.58

As evident in this passage, there are more appropriations of “communism” that have been employed by the PAP rhetoric (real versus genuine) as there are potentially more ways one might locate the Singaporean/Asian socialism in the broader discourse of capitalism and modernity. For now, what needs to be reemphasized is that although tropes like Asian socialism and communism used by Lee and the PAP are not necessarily unique but reproductive of the metanarratives that even the Cold War discourse is located in, the specific spatialization and enunciation in their particular moments are disjunctive to the narratives of the Cold War that might be pervasive at the same time. Seen from this perspective, both socialism and communism become the very imaginary spaces that compel one to rethink the corresponding and adjacent spaces inhabited by the Cold War itself. Conclusion In a highly simplified Cold War discourse, the figurative positions of “capitalism” and “communism” have tended to be seen as diametrically

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opposite. As configured through the Anglo-American camp, such spatial imaginations have given complex social phenomena easy meanings, while more troublesome categories like “socialism,” “imperialism,” “the Third World,” “neutrality,” “the geographical East (in this case Asia) versus the ideological East,” and “nonalignment” were managed and subordinated to the unfolding historical narrative of the Cold War.59 Thus, instead of being external to the United States and Soviet-led conflict, neutral or nonaligned states in the Third World were merely seen as indecisive entities awaiting the inevitable incorporation into the eschatology of the Cold War, while terms like “socialism” became ideological battlegrounds in their own right. In the United States, for instance, there is no greater vagueness about how socialism figured in the consciousness of Americans. On the one hand, it has been associated with the ideological and programmatic creed of the “Eastern bloc.” But on the other hand, it is inseparable from the democratic socialism that in varying ways and under different proponents blended Christian conservatism, civil libertarianism, and anticommunism with solutions to transcend capitalism.60 This ambiguity and pluralistic nature of socialism in terms of Cold War discourse is a fitting juncture to recapitulate some of the main concerns in this chapter. Just as socialism became a contentious category in the United States, in Singapore, the PAP’s expulsion from the Socialist International exposed a number of salient observations over the way one could think about the temporal and spatial in the mainstream Cold War discourse. Ostensibly, both the PvdA and the British Labour Party sought the PAP’s removal because it had violated the Socialist International’s core principles of democratic socialism. To confront the accusations that Singapore practiced detention without trial, suppression of the political opposition, the curbing of press freedom, and so on, the PAP issued its rebuttals in the form of a 270-page publication, Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way. By reading this work, in tandem with a number of speeches delivered by Lee Kuan Yew at socialist fora in the preceding decade, one gets a puzzling picture involving differing interpretations of socialism, the “culturally” offsetting place of regional politics, and an attempt to assert the right to ideological variation. Specifically, the PAP’s response was that socialism was indeed pluralistic, and Singapore’s place in the Cold War Asia of the 1960s and 1970s demanded a form of socialism that took into consideration the bellicose communist insurgents of the Emergency and the economic and human limits of a developing Third World nation. Thus, the liberally inclined form of socialism in Europe could not be implemented in Singapore. The PAP’s position in this regard was that it had always been consistent about this, and that it was only through the infiltration of the “New Left” (whom they

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saw as communists in disguise) into the ranks of the Socialist International and their collusion with communists in Singapore and Malaysia that antipathy toward the PAP was created. As seen through the lens of critical geography and Foucault’s idea of “heterotopia,” the case of the PAP and the Socialist International attains further crystallization, especially in the way it reworks and redeploys space and spatiality in the Cold War discourse. Particularly, by reclaiming space as a site at which knowledge is generated, constructed, and even resisted, it becomes possible to go beyond the immediate spatiality—the geographical location of the United States, Soviet Union, and the Third World—that grounds abstract history in some material reality. Instead the Cold War becomes composited by other spaces, some real, some imaginary, some realizable as lived experience, but grounded through human subjectivity. In this chapter, I argued that the simple material spaces of the Cold War were reopened as the PAP contested the claims by the Socialist International, and in doing so, reappropriated other equally problematic spaces. In pluralizing socialism, the PAP posited a heterotopic Asia in contrast to a utopianized “West”; Asia became the fragmented crisis-prone region, on the one hand, but also the Asia of the “unfinished revolution”61 that could be realized through the Singapore paradigm of disciplined modernization, on the other hand. Similarly the idea of “socialism” and “communism” were deuniversalized and in their fragmentation became regionally and culturally encoded. Hence “Asian” socialists or communists came to occupy spatiality that was different from their Western counterparts, and in doing so, they became disjunctive to their Western signification. Consequently, thinking about space in this manner is not necessarily an exercise in a form of conscious (or some might say postcolonial) agentic resistance. If anything the categories employed here bear remarkable circularity: the Asia prescribed by PAP was no less the Asia of the Western imagination. And the material reality of Asia is as problematic as that of its counterpart, the West. Nonetheless, what is instructive here is that the idea of appropriation—the act of making Asia more real than the West—suggests a relationship of power and resistance that has not been commonly elaborated or accentuated.

CHAPTER 6

Inventing a Proletarian Fiction for China: The Stalin Prize, Cultural Diplomacy, and the Creation of a Pan-Socialist Identity Nicolai Volland, National University of Singapore

I

n the early 1950s, the three most-translated Chinese novels were Ding Ling’s (1904−1986) Taiyang zhao zai Sanggan he shang (Sun over the Sanggan River, 1948), Zhou Libo’s (1908−1979) Baofeng zhouyu (Hurricane, 1948), and Cao Ming’s (1913−2002) Yuandong li (The Moving Force, 1948). Between 1949 and 1954, Ding’s great land reform novel was translated into at least nine different languages of the East bloc, while translations of Zhou Libo’s book appeared in Bulgaria (1953), Romania (1953), Hungary (1951), Czechoslovakia (1951), Poland (1953), Eastern Germany (1953), Albania (1955), Mongolia (date not known), and of course, the Soviet Union (1950). Cao Ming’s short novel was made available to readers in the Soviet Union, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, East Germany, and Korea.1 Ding Ling and Zhou Libo were both awarded the Stalin Prize for their works in 1951; their novels have received wide acclaim and are constantly reprinted as “Red Classics” in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) today. In contrast, Cao Ming was virtually unknown in China when her works were translated, and she has since slipped into almost complete obscurity. Why was her novel chosen for propagation and translation, and how did an author little known in her native country become ⎯for a short time ⎯ one of the stars in the universe of transnational socialist literature? The answers for these questions, I argue, must be sought in the logic of cultural diplomacy in the socialist world.2

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During the early Cold War era, cultural exchanges played a crucial role in shaping the perceptions and beliefs of people on both sides of the iron curtain. Cultural diplomacy, far from being merely a means of communication across the ideological divide once other avenues were blocked, was a crucial building block in the project to forge ideological communities in both the “free world” and the “socialist bloc.” While political, military, and economic alliances established the framework for interaction within the two blocs, cultural ties came to serve as a vehicle to promote unity and sponsor a common identity among the various nations that found themselves part of the same camp in the Cold War world. As I have shown elsewhere, cultural exchanges and contacts were a key strategy in the effort to create a pan-socialist identity that would be shared by people from Warsaw to Hanoi, from Sofia to Pyongyang, and from Berlin to Shanghai. Student exchanges, world youth festivals, writers’ delegations, and cross-translation of selected literary works were key means to transport values and promote a new ideological community with global aspirations.3 A particularly crucial institution of this kind was the Stalin Prize. Established in 1941, the Stalin Prize honored outstanding achievements in science, art, music, and literature from both the Soviet Union and, since the late 1940s, from other nations of the socialist bloc. With its wide promotion and enormous prestige, the Stalin Prize was little less than the pendant to the Nobel Prize in the socialist world. In the field of literature, the Stalin Prize was awarded to works written in the new and commonly accepted mode of socialist realism, the formula promoted since the first All Union Congress of Soviet Writers in 1934 and endorsed by Stalin.4 The prize, awarded to Soviet authors and their peers from the other new socialist nations, thus helped to establish a common standard of writing throughout the socialist world, and to promote works that complied with this standard, their authors, and their home countries across the bloc. As a latecomer in the socialist camp, the PRC had to play a catch-up game; to establish China as a truly socialist nation and a legitimate member of the bloc was a key task for Chinese cultural bureaucrats. By the early 1950s, however, these administrators faced a dilemma: the hallmark of socialist realism clearly was a new form of proletarian-industrial fiction, yet as a chiefly agrarian nation, the young PRC could boast a substantial amount of fiction on rural topics ⎯ such as the works of Ding Ling and Zhou Libo ⎯ but preciously little literature on industrial subjects. To make up for this problematic “gap,” I argue, the Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP’s) cultural bureaucracy, with their eyes set on the all-important Stalin Prize, handpicked the little-known writer Cao Ming and her novel The Moving Force, and catapulted her practically overnight onto the international socialist

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stage by organizing the translation of her book into more than a dozen East bloc and Asian languages. The invention of a Chinese proletarian fiction was thus driven by the needs of Cold War cultural diplomacy and the promotion of a common value package across the socialist world. The Stalin Prize: Socialist Internationalism and Cultural Diplomacy The State Stalin Prize was established in 1939 to commemorate the sixtieth birthday of Stalin; it was designed to honor leading writers, artists, composers, and scientists in altogether twenty categories. Prizes were to be awarded every year for outstanding achievements from the previous year.5 The first award ceremony was held in spring 1941, when more than 250 Soviet scientists, engineers, and intellectuals were honored.6 Thereafter, awards were handed out every year, with short wartime interruptions (no ceremonies were held in 1944 and 1945, but this was made up for by a special ceremony in 1946). The last Stalin Prizes were announced in 1952; the lists for 1953 were reportedly prepared and awaiting approval, but Stalin’s death in spring that year left the process in limbo until 1956, when the Soviet Union announced a new Lenin Prize that effectively replaced the erstwhile Stalin Prize.7 In 1966 it was announced that the winners of the Stalin Prize were entitled to exchange their diplomas and medals for the new U.S.S.R. State Prize.8 The Stalin Prize in literature was first and foremost an attempt to canonize the concept of socialist realism, the centerpiece of Soviet literary doctrine. While considerable space was allotted to works glorifying the motherland and catering to patriotic sentiment⎯ especially during the war years ⎯ the canonizing function of the prize is easily recognizable. In the very first award ceremony, Mikhail Sholokov was awarded the Stalin Prize first class for his grand oeuvre Tikhii Don (And Quiet Flows the Don, 1934), widely considered one of the masterpieces and blueprints of the new style. The literary authorities in the Soviet Union were explicit about the function of the Stalin Prize. An editorial praising the winning novels for 1943 and 1944 stated9: [T]he government’s resolution on the Stalin Prizes defines the path to be followed. By singling out the most worthy candidates, the resolution shows each of us working in the field of literature whom we must emulate.

The Stalin Prize thus set a common standard, a benchmark against which other literary works were to be measured, and a definite guide for writers. The criteria for the Stalin Prize changed in line with shifts in Soviet literary policy. The growing influence of Zhdanov, the most influential literary

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critic in the late Stalin era, was reflected in the award selections since 1948. In its last years, the number of Stalin prizes awarded annually was expanded significantly, and a third class of prizes was created in 1948. The growing number of prizes must be attributed to the cultural policies targeting the national Republics of the Soviet Union: from the late 1940s, Stalin Prizes were regularly handed out to writers from Ukraine, the Baltic republics, and the inner Asian Soviet republics. The Stalin Prize thus acquired an integrative function that would raise the prominence of these republics as part of the Soviet Union and its literary community, but also extend the reach of the benchmark: socialist realism became the common standard of writing throughout the Soviet Union, and the Stalin Prize recommended those writers who successfully applied the official mode of literary creation and wrote in the new, common spirit.10 On this basis, it was easy to further expand the Stalin Prize to new members of the international community of socialist states. The establishment of the people’s republics in Eastern Europe and the new socialist nations in Asia in the late 1940s opened up further national literatures to which the Moscowdefined standards of writing could be extended. Since at least 1949,11 Stalin Prizes were therefore awarded to writers from outside the Soviet Union. For the new socialist states, the Stalin Prize acquired an extra amount of significance: it gave pride to their young republics and signaled the amount of progress they had made on the road to socialism. While the prizes were awarded for outstanding achievements that advanced the cause of socialism, they also showcased the integration of the socialist world, led by the Soviet Union, thus becoming a crucial mechanism of cultural diplomacy in the socialist bloc. The cultural status of the Stalin Prize in the socialist world was comparable only with the contemporary Nobel Prize. For the young PRC, which had embarked on a course of “Learning from the Soviet Union” practically from the day of its founding, the Stalin Prize naturally became a target of great attention in the literary world. Dictionaries and encyclopedias explained the meaning and the cultural status of the prize.12 The reorientation of literary life toward Moscow produced the need to read and study the models of socialist realism, few of which had been translated into Chinese until then. The Stalin Prize was a guide that told Chinese translators and publishers which authors and works to translate. Stalin prizewinners from both the Soviet Union and the other socialist nations were almost invariably translated into Chinese and given intense publicity; the prize served as a quality marker for works that merited attention from the new Chinese literary scene.13 However, in order to live up to the standards imported from the Soviet Union, China would eventually have to produce its own Stalin Prize winners.

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The Dilemma of Genre Politics On March 18, 1952, the People’s Daily, China’s premier newspaper, could proudly tell its readers that two authors, Ding Ling and Zhou Libo, had become the first Chinese writers ever to achieve the distinction of earning the all-important Stalin Prize.14 Three days earlier, on March 15, the Soviet Council of Ministers had announced the Stalin Prize winners for 1951. When Ding Ling, then on a state visit in Moscow, expressed her gratitude for this highest of honors, she spoke not just in her own name, but in the name of the Chinese people: “I am just a small and insignificant person, and I just made a tiny little bit of work. But I have received immeasurable reward and encouragement from the people … This honor belongs to all Chinese writers, belongs to the Chinese people. It is an encouragement for all Chinese people and writers. All the honor belongs to the Chinese people, to the Chinese people and the great leader Mao Zedong.”15 In her eulogy, Ding Ling instinctively falls back on the collective rhetoric of the CCP: as a writer, she draws from the Chinese people, and whatever honors may be awarded to her are automatically also awards for the people and the People’s Republic. The Stalin Prize is significant not as an award for individual achievements, but as a recognition of the labor and the achievements of the nation as a whole. Ding and Zhou were undoubtedly among the most acclaimed Chinese authors of the new genre of socialist realism; their novels had captured audiences in China since their publication. Ding Ling’s Sun is an epic depiction of land reform under the leadership of the CCP in a northern Chinese village. Zhou’s Hurricane describes land reform in Northeast China. Yet, while the newspapers boasted with pride over the two Stalin Prizes, the awards left a bittersweet taste behind closed doors, in the mouths of the Chinese cultural bureaucracy. In both Sun and Hurricane, it is agricultural issues that take center stage ⎯and not industrial topics. Both novels depict land reform and China’s revolution in the countryside. This was of course justifiable given China’s level of economic development⎯the young PRC was a largely agrarian nation. The hallmark of socialist realism, however, could obviously not be land reform, which was defined as a transitional policy designed to prepare the ground for the eventual introduction of socialist forms of labor in the countryside. The core economic policy since 1949 was rapid industrialization, and especially the building of a heavy industrial complex.16 In the context of “learning from the Soviet Union” (xuexi Sulian), the dominant slogan in the early PRC, the CCP had decided to emulate the industrial policies of high Stalinism, with their emphasis on heavy industry, such as iron and steel and the petrochemical industry. China’s socialist future would lie primarily in the industrial sector, and only to a lesser degree in the countryside.

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The very definition of “socialist realism,” as laid down at the first All Union Congress of Soviet Writers, held in Moscow in 1934, seemed to point in the same direction. The statute adopted at the congress defined socialist realism as “the basic method of Soviet literature and literary criticism … demand[ing] from the artists a truthful, historically concrete depiction of reality in its revolutionary development … combined with the task of ideologically remolding and educating the working people in the spirit of socialism.”17 The focus of this definition clearly lies in the future, on the revolutionary development and the “spirit of socialism.” This spirit was not to be found solely in the countryside. During the very years of the formulation of the new Soviet literary doctrine, Stalin intensified the struggle against the Russian peasantry, which was viewed as a backward element resisting the national policies of socialist construction and industrialization. In literature, the Soviet Union had shown the way with the emergence of a new genre, industrial fiction. Since the 1920s, writers had studied life at the industrial workplace and the struggle of workers on the “battlefront of industry.” The factory had emerged as an important setting for socialist fiction only a few years after the October Revolution.18 Probably the most prominent example of industrial fiction in the Soviet Union⎯and the one most often emulated across the socialist world⎯is Fedor (Fyodor) Gladkov’s Cement. The book tells the story of the demobilized Red Army soldier Gleb, who returns to his hometown after the war to reopen the crumbling local cement factory. Against all odds⎯skeptical superiors, sabotage by bourgeois engineers, and attacks by Cossack regiments ⎯he succeeds in organizing the workers and reviving production, contributing to the construction of the socialist system.19 Gladkov’s novel, published in 1925, was an instant success and was immediately translated abroad. A German edition appeared in Vienna in 1927;20 an English rendition was published in 1929.21 Gladkov constantly revised his novel in line with the shifting political preferences in the Soviet Union to ensure that his book would remain in print over the next decades. It was officially approved for school libraries in the Soviet Union. As one of the landmarks of Soviet fiction writing, Cement became a classic both at home and abroad. Cement was translated into Chinese by Dong Qiusi and Cai Yongshang (Dong’s wife) from the English edition and published in Shanghai in 1929.22 In 1946, Dong revised his translation and it consequently went through numerous editions by half a dozen publishers.23 An abridged Chinese translation was published by Kaiming shudian in 1951.24 Attention to Gladkov’s book had increased when China’s most acclaimed modern writer, Lu Xun, published, at his own cost, a collection of illustrations from the German edition of Cement and wrote a preface.25 Both this preface and the illustrations

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were incorporated into later Chinese editions of Cement ; the great writer’s endorsement helped to promote the book among Chinese readers. The model of Soviet industrial fiction had thus entered the Chinese literary orbit. As of 1950, however, the young PRC could boast precious little fiction of its own that would count as genuine contributions to the genre of industrial fiction. The few pre-1949 novels that were based in an urban setting, such as Mao Dun’s Ziye (Midnight, 1933) or Lao She’s Luotuo xiangzi (Camel Xiangxi, 1936) did not focus on workers, on their exploitation and their struggle for liberation, or on industrial construction. Neither did these works adhere closely to the Soviet prescriptions for socialist realism. They were thus unsuitable as models. The majority of the leftist literary works written before 1949 depict the vast Chinese countryside and focus on class struggle among the peasantry and on the peasants’ fight against exploitation and their landlords.26 Ding’s Sun and Zhou’s Hurricane are not exceptions, but just the finest examples of a popular genre. Yet, if land reform is only a transitory stage to a socialist economy dominated by large-scale industrialization, then land reform novels must be followed by new works of fiction that point to the future by depicting China’s efforts to industrialize. For the CCP’s cultural administrators, the question that emerged was, where was China’s industrial fiction? Only in this way would the young PRC be able to prove to its peers in the socialist world that China had embarked in earnest on the path to socialism. Inventing an Industrial Fiction for New China New China’s contribution to the international socialist universe of industrial fiction came from a little known author, Cao Ming. The publication of her novels The Moving Force and Huochetou (Locomotive, 1950) earned her a modest degree of critical acclaim in China, but soon thereafter Cao slipped into almost total obscurity. Her merit, then, was to have produced practically the only example of industrial fiction in the early PRC. Cao Ming was born in 1913 into a family of local officials in Guangdong province.27 After a modern middle school education in Guangzhou, she joined the local leftist literary community and moved to Shanghai in 1933, where she married the writer Ouyang Shan.28 In 1941, the CCP decided to transfer the couple to Yan’an, where Cao Ming, in the following year, attended the meeting on literature and arts where Mao Zedong made his famous addresses detailing his theoretical prescriptions for literary creation.29 After the Japanese capitulation in August 1945, the CCP transferred numerous cadres to the “liberated areas” in the Northeast, where Cao Ming served various administrative functions, in addition to writing fiction and reportage for various journals and newspapers.

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Cao Ming was chosen by her superiors in the CCP to write one of the first Chinese pieces of industrial fiction. In spring 1946, when numerous intellectuals in the Northeast went to the countryside to participate in land reform, she was sent to the power station on Lake Jingpo in Heilongjiang province to familiarize herself with the conditions of the local workers.30 Over the following months, Cao Ming collected material for reportage, studying the technical issues of power generation as well as the workers’ life and their experience in class struggle. In spring 1948, she decided to write down her experiences in a fictional format. The writing process included consultation with CCP cadres, fellow writers, and workers from a nearby power station; Cao Ming tried to take all these opinions into account when revising her draft. The novel was rushed to be printed and distributed in time for the sixth National Conference of Worker Delegates in August 1948 and was officially published in September 1948.31 The Moving Force is set in a power station in the remote mountains of Northeast China. In early 1946, only months after the Japanese capitulation, a small team of workers struggles in the bitter cold of the Manchurian winter to repair the power station that had been abandoned by the retreating Japanese army, and to defend it against sabotage from remnant nationalist Kuomintang (KMT) forces still roaming the area. There is ideological confusion among the workers in the newly “liberated” area: many hesitate to sympathize with the CCP, others are openly or secretly hostile to the communists. The Japanese-educated engineers in particular resist calls to mend their ways. Through a gradual learning process, Old Sun (Lao Suntou), a peasant-turned-worker with little education, emerges as the leader of the workers. Under the theoretical and practical guidance of CCP cadres, he mobilizes his fellow workers to defend the power station’s generators against damage from ice and flooding. He leads the workers to overcome a serious of setbacks, including a fire that destroys one of the generators when these are turned on prematurely after ill-advised and hasty repairs. Under Old Sun’s direction, the station is successfully repaired and eventually returns to the electrical grid. The location and the setting of The Moving Force must be considered rather unusual for a piece of industrial fiction. The little industry that China could boast in the mid-1940s was concentrated in a few urban centers, mainly in Shanghai and in the southern Manchurian corridor, where the Japaneseoccupation government had invested heavily in an effort to build industrial infrastructure. One would expect a piece of fiction designed to portray the struggle of China’s workers to be set in one of the large urban factories or textile mills, with their thousands of underpaid and exploited workers; yet Cao Ming chose a small electricity plant with less than thirty workers, in the

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far mountains of Heilongjiang province, to serve as the backdrop for her novel. While her personal experiences have certainly played a role in this choice, it seems that considerations of a more strategic nature were decisive. The ambivalent setting of The Moving Force lends much credibility to the story in the eyes of its readers: rather than the outlandish factory floors of Shanghai, the environment of the power plant is immediately recognizable for readers in a mostly agrarian nation. The remoteness of the location, the mountains surrounding it, and the proximity to rural villages are familiar to many readers and make identification easier. The choice of the power station thus lends credibility to the story and stresses the decentralized nature of industry as a political concept: industry is possible not just in the big cities, to which most of the Chinese population has no access, but there is industry in the countryside as well, and the workers as a class are not necessarily bound to the city. To the contrary, there are close links between the peasantry and the workers. Old Sun’s figure is emblematic of these links: he comes from an impoverished farming family and became an industrial worker only when farming proved unable to sustain his family. His roots in the peasantry allow him to unite the interests of the power station’s workers and the villagers nearby. The unity of the peasantry or nongmin and the industrial working class or gongren is an essential element of Mao Zedong’s theory of adapting Marxism to Chinese conditions,32 and The Moving Force is a vivid illustration of this ideological approach. To readers outside the Chinese horizon, the novel explains the unique characteristics of the Chinese situation and Mao’s revolutionary theories; to Chinese readers, the novel’s appeal lies in the familiarity of the setting. Cao Ming’s effort to create an industrial fiction for New China unfolds on a narrative and an aesthetic level. These two levels, which are closely intertwined, deserve closer scrutiny. The most visible feature of the narrative devices deployed is Cao Ming’s attempt to theorize the working class. To set the workers apart as a class with a particular consciousness, as the core ally of the Communist Party and the leading force of the Chinese revolution, is a crucial aim of the novel. While they unite with peasants and the soldiers of the revolutionary army in a broad coalition, the working class or gongrenjieji is recognizable as a class in its own right. Hints for the workers’ identification with their own class can be found throughout the novel, in the recurrent first-person plural “we workers …” or “women/zan gongren …” that signifies the solidarity of the workers and the collective nature of their interests. Early in the book, the workers debate the attitude of the CCP: “… the Eighth Route army chaps are very good to the peasants, so they have the support of the people. I wonder what they are like to workmen like us?⎯They are pretty good to workmen like us too.”33

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The book sets out to show the unity of interests between the Communist Party and the workers as a class: the working class derives its strength from its nature as a collective that secures the interests of all members. To belong to the working class eventually helps the novel’s characters to overcome conflicts among them. Yet in the end it is the cooperation and mutual understanding of workers and the Communist Party that leads them to victory. This, however, is a gradual process. At the beginning of the novel, the workers are isolated at their power station in the remote mountains. They are aware of their dependence on each other and on the machinery that makes them workers in the first place. But they lack the kind of insight into their situation that Marxist terminology calls class consciousness. The second chapter explains this state of mind in allegorical terms, in a remarkable passage that describes the workers’ struggle to free the power plant’s machines from thick ice, caused by spilled water in the deep winter34: It is still bitterly cold in February in the Northeast, so that if you as much as stick a hand out it will be frost-bitten. Normally, in weather like this, you might tell people there was gold buried in the ground; yet they would not trouble to look for it. But labor triumphs over everything. After one or two blows with the pickaxe their blood began to circulate more freely, they felt stronger and more confident. In this business of breaking the ice, nobody had issued any order, nobody had forced anyone else; only that day Old Sun had made the suggestion, they had talked it over together, and now had started to work. And not one of them could have explained what force this was that in late winter had made him undertake such a hard and thankless task.

It is a mysterious force (clearly a reference to the novel’s title) that brings the workers to overcome their lethargy in the symbolic winter: the freeze is caused as much by the winter weather as by the long years of Japanese and KMT rule. But once the workers get into “the business of breaking the ice” (once more to be read in a symbolic manner), there is little that can stop them: “They felt the fire in their bodies was almost enough to melt the ice.”35 Yet, at this point, the workers themselves are unable to explain the origins of the mysterious force, and this is why their passion is “almost enough,” but not yet “enough,” to realize their ultimate goals. They are acting merely out of their instincts, and not yet out of class consciousness. The workers’ struggle that unfolds over the novel’s chapters is as much an effort to repair the power station as it is a process of acquiring the higher insights brought by a consciousness of their collective situation as workers. Jumpstarting the power station symbolizes the arduous struggle of the working class to emancipate itself; the wordplay in the use of dongli (power) suggests the goals of this emancipation process in no uncertain terms. The path

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toward emancipation and raising class consciousness, however, is protracted and riddled with obstacles. The CCP arrives at the power station but its cadres initially fail to achieve a proper understanding of the local situation. Their prescriptions are bookish and they remain isolated. A lack of understanding and mutual trust leads to the disaster in which one of the power generators goes up in flames. The lesson to be learned is that the workers cannot be emancipated from without; they must liberate themselves. Once both the Party and the workers have come to this insight, they are able to overcome both technical difficulties and a final climactic attack launched by bandit forces conspiring with the station’s Japanese-trained engineers. The book’s last chapter reads like an epilogue to the main plot: in the following year, in spring 1947, Old Sun and two others receive awards as “model workers” and the former is solemnly admitted to Party membership. Work responsibility at the power plant has been redistributed, it is now under the management of the workers themselves. The power station becomes the destination of inspection tours by people from other work units who come to study the successful experience of the plant. In the book’s last pages, the workers explain the function of their machines to such a visiting delegation36: After he [Old Sun] had finished his explanation [of the machines’ function] a fairly young cadre said swiftly. “So the actual moving force [yuandongli] is water and oil.” The comrade in charge amended this with a smile: “The important thing is these fine workers!” Old Sun said in his customary slow, emphatic tones, “Without the leadership of a Democratic government, just the workers alone wouldn’t do either.” When everybody heard this they all smiled inwardly.

The epilogue thus answers the question from the second chapter: the workers hacking away at the ice on their machines in the deep winter had wondered “what force this was that made them undertake a hard and thankless task.” We now learn that the “moving force” is the workers themselves. Based on class consciousness and on a correct understanding of the Communist Party’s ideology, the workers unite with the Party’s cadres and lead the nation to victory. The workers have mastered this insight, and Old Sun, now a Party member himself, knows about the intimate relationship between cadres and workers. Together, they can become the force that conquers the nation, defeats the enemies, and leads China on the path of socialist construction, to become an advanced industrial nation in the family of socialist nations. The writing of industrial fiction cannot be limited to questions of content and ideology alone. In her effort to create a prototype of writing on the working class, Cao Ming clearly makes an attempt to match her characterization of

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the Chinese workers by inventing an industrial aesthetic and a language that aims to set this new kind of writing apart from other types of socialist literature produced in China. While her novel is set in a milieu and a region that are supposed to help readers identify with the plot, creating a feeling of familiarity, Cao Ming’s linguistic experiments aim at the opposite effect: to exoticize the factory and the workers’ environment and attract readers through novelty and the aura of mystery that surrounds the large machines. Throughout the novel, readers are for instance confronted with technical vocabulary and the names of machines; few of them are presumably familiar with these alien sounding names, and much less might they be able to imagine these machines. This, however, is just the desired effect: designations such as generator or fadianji and transformer or biandianji are pointers to the future, an industrial age that China will enter under the leadership of the Communist Party. The futurist dimension of industrial imagination in the Soviet Union37 is imported into China by Cao Ming and finds expression in outlandish but scientifically sounding names, underlining the reliability of the CCP’s grand socioeconomic experiment. Scientific discourse enters the language of The Moving Force time and again, such as in the epilogue-like last chapter: Old Sun and his two colleagues receive their rewards not merely for their heroic fighting spirit, but also for their inventiveness, for important contributions to industrial construction. These inventions and innovations are explained over more than a page in much more detail than most readers can deal with; the passage is littered with terms such as “valve chamber,” “turbine oil,” “protection ring,” “commutator,” “returning line,” etc.38 Scientific knowledge has left the ivory tower of specialist engineers; it has become the common property of the working class, and, through works of fiction such as The Moving Force, is being further disseminated to the public. Industrial fiction of the kind Cao Ming is trying to create is therefore also science fiction ⎯ both fiction about science, and, with regard to the future of New China, scientific fiction. One of the hallmarks of industrial fiction is that it is written in the language of science and technology. Cao Ming’s creation of a Chinese industrial fiction would not be complete without the aesthetics of industrial production. Can an electrical generator in a hydroelectric power plant be aesthetic? In the ears of the workers, the sound of the roaring machines is music in itself. The passage describing the turning on of the generator after long repairs, a moment the workers have awaited anxiously for many months, is one of the most striking passages of the book39: Yang Futian took charge of the switch board, Yang Shengtian of the speed of the water wheel and Lü Bingzhen of the distributor, while Chen Zuting was to see whether the sound seemed normal or not. All the workers were

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looking on, their faces tense with excitement. They were assigned to report on conditions in the control room, machine shed, cellar, and even the transformer station. At eight o’clock in the evening Lü Bingzhen went solemnly up to the steering wheel of the water wheel and raised the lever. The water wheel started to turn; the speed regulator, the generator and the oil hydraulic press started moving too. The thin bending copper pipes attached to the machines also began to vibrate beautifully. Chug … chug … chug … the regular sound was once more heard in the machine shed. When the old power plant hands heard what they had not heard for over a year, they were inexpressibly happy ⎯Yes, they had heard famous ballad singers, and Mei Lanfang’s Beijing opera; they had heard the village girls singing folk songs in their clear voices, and the sweet hum of their own children singing; they had also heard the pure notes of the forest birds and the low gentle murmur of the spring breeze ruffling the surface of Jade Girdle Lake. But now all of these appeared ridiculous, insignificant, absolutely not to be compared with the fine sounds of the machines moving in the machine shed today ⎯beautiful!

To the workers, the melodies of their machines are dearer than opera and the sounds of nature. When the machines come to life, they start to speak to the workers, and Cao Ming’s aim is to make them speak to the readers as well ⎯ about life on the factory floor, about the future in a transformed, industrialized, and socialist China. She has to change the accustomed poetic registers: references to nature, common in more traditional forms of fiction writing, and easily adaptable for new fiction on rural themes ⎯such as Ding Ling’s Sun and Zhou Libo’s Hurricane ⎯ do still appear in The Moving Force, but nature serves no longer as a signified itself, but rather as a signifier, as a comparative framework that allows Cao Ming to relate the inner sensation of the workers. Singing girls and murmuring streams give way to vibrating copper pipes and the rhythmic pounding sounds that are the heartbeat of industrial life. Cao Ming’s effort to create an industrial aesthetic are tentative at best, restrained also by the ambiguous setting of her novel; but her aim is to introduce her readers to the world of industry and the lives of the working class on a formal as well as stylistic level. Chinese Industrial Fiction and the Pan-Socialist Literary Universe Cao Ming’s efforts to contribute to the creation of an industrial fiction for New China were well received by her contemporaries. Two major writers, who were to become the PRC’s top cadres in charge of literature and art, expressed their favorable opinions in letters to Cao Ming. Guo Moruo, who was appointed head of the Writers Union in 1949, congratulated Cao Ming on “the success of this first work depicting the workers” written in China.40

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In particular, Guo stresses: “[W]riting about technical subjects is demanding for author and reader alike, but you have just found the right mode; with your lyrical qualities and the sensitivities of a woman, you have softened up the hardness of the material.”41 In a similar vein, Mao Dun, who would soon become the minister of culture, gave his assessment: “I have read The Moving Force. Well written. In particular, there are currently very few works depicting industry and the life of the workers, so [this book] deserves our appreciation.”42 While the novel did not live up to such classics of industrial fiction as Gladkov’s Cement, it was a good starting point. Several favorable critiques appeared in major literary journals and newspapers.43 All commentators agreed on the pioneering nature of Cao Ming’s novel. A reviewer for Hebei wenyi stressed: “The Moving Force may be regarded as the first [literary] work depicting the workers. That is a new start, and the success of this new start surpasses our expectations.”44 Another reviewer concedes the same point: while Chinese authors had produced excellent novels on war themes and stories in an agricultural setting, there had been a lack of books depicting life on the factory floor; Cao Ming’s novel was the first book attempting to fill this gap.45 For a critic writing in the prestigious Guangming ribao, Cao Ming’s breakthrough lies in its attempt to address the concerns of the working class: writing about the masses and writing for the masses had been a challenge for Chinese writers, most of whom had come from a bourgeois or intellectual background, since the origins of the leftist literary movement in the early 1930s. He saw the choice of the topic as well as Cao Ming’s literary language as an overwhelmingly successful attempt to bridge ideological themes, the down-to-earth concerns of industrial workers, and the lyrical sensibilities of literature.46 What is the overall significance of The Moving Force for the Chinese literary scene? “The restoration of our factories clearly is the starting point for the industrial construction of New China, and the writer has picked as her topic the very driving force of modern industry ⎯ a hydroelectric power plant, that shows how she searches for the roots of reality, how she presses ahead in her new subject matter.”47 Writing just weeks before the founding of the People’s Republic, this reviewer had his eyes set on the future, and so had Cao Ming. This future clearly lay in an industrial modernity. The shift in literary emphasis, from agriculture to industry, made Cao Ming and her novel a pointer to the road that lay ahead. With so much positive acclaim for Cao Ming’s pioneering work, the cultural bureaucracy of the PRC felt confident to select the book for promotion abroad. To enter the orbit of international socialist literature, the young PRC had to prove that New China would be able to live up to the expectations of its peers and boast the full range of socialist literary genres. With

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the Stalin Prize, the ultimate benchmark of literary achievement in mind, Cao Ming’s novel was recommended for translation ⎯ Chinese industrial fiction would thus stand side by side with the great land reform novels by Ding Ling and Zhou Libo.48 The Russian translation of The Moving Force appeared in 1950, followed quickly by the Bulgarian version. Hungarian and Polish translations were published in 1951, and Czech and Romanian translations appeared in 1952. The German edition, translated by Gerhard Mehnert, was published in 1953 in East Berlin. Finally, in 1955, readers in North Korea gained access to Chinese industrial fiction. The spread of Cao Ming’s book across the socialist world was driven by both the promotion by the Chinese bureaucracy and the positive critical acclaim the book received in several East bloc nations. An important multiplier was press reviews in the Soviet Union, where the first foreign translation had appeared. Once the Soviet critics set the direction, translators in other nations followed suit. An article in the CCP organ People’s Daily gave readers an impression of the popular reception of Chinese socialist literature in the Soviet Union. At a discussion forum in Moscow, Russian readers (reportedly railway workers and housewives) expressed their fondness for works such as Ding Ling’s Sun and Zhou Libo’s Hurricane, as well as The Moving Force: “The works of these Chinese authors ring so familiar and easy to understand … Reading them reminds me of what I have seen with my own eyes in China when we fought together against Japanese imperialism … The moving force, that’s the wise leadership of the Chinese Communist Party, the unlimited power of the Chinese working class that is growing by the day.”49 Soviet readers could draw parallels with their own experiences and with the construction of a socialist industrial complex in the Soviet Union itself. Works like The Moving Force could reach foreign audiences precisely because of their subject matter; they expanded on a common theme shared across the socialist literary orbit. In February 1951, the leading Chinese intellectual newspaper Guangming ribao published the translation of a book review that had appeared in the journal Sovietskaia literaturna in December 1950, shortly after the publication of the Russian translation of The Moving Force. The Russian critic Aitelin welcomed The Moving Force as a major contribution to an ever growing genre of Chinese writing on the working class and proclaimed: “The life and the struggle of the Chinese working class, and their new attitude towards labor are a theme that constantly appears in contemporary Chinese literature. A great number of works has already appeared that depict workers’ participation in the cause of constructing the New Democratic China, that depict labor since the revolution and the emergence of new men in this process.”50 The Moving Force, according to Aitelin, may justly be compared with Gladkov’s Cement in

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both its dedication to the subject and its important function: “The publication of The Moving Force is a major event in the history of Chinese fiction writing ⎯ this is the unanimous opinion of the Chinese critics. With this work, the new heroes depicted therein ⎯ the advanced workers who represent the moving force of the revolutionary people’s cause ⎯ have securely consolidated their place in Chinese literature.”51 It is not difficult to sense a rather surprising time warp in Aitelin’s article. While Cao Ming’s novel is set in prerevolutionary China and gives the reader an impression of the anxieties in the insecure environment, her book now becomes an example of writing in New China itself. And while Aitelin acknowledged the pioneer function of The Moving Force by comparing it with Gladkov’s book, he treated Cao’s novel as a typical representative of new Chinese writing, an apparent contradiction. Aitelin’s somewhat premature judgment may well be the result of a superficial reading and the critic’s lack of understanding of the Chinese literary world; the impression, however, is strong that his praise was meant not as an adequate description of the current state of the art in China, but rather as an endorsement of a trend in the right direction.52 This interpretation is supported by the fact that the editors of Guangming ribao, in full knowledge of the inadequacies of Aitelin’s article, considered his critique important enough to merit translation and publication in a paper aimed at the Chinese intelligentsia. The Chinese critics quoted in Aitelin’s article, who complained about a dearth of fictional representation of the Chinese working class, were in fact the readers of this outside observer’s judgment. While his analysis may have contained minor inconsistencies, Aitelin’s voice overruled that of local critics: he was writing from the Soviet Union, the model nation that China was learning from, and he was writing in the most prominent literary journal of the socialist world. His authority was overwhelming once transplanted, through translation, back into the Chinese literary space. The critique of The Moving Force thus became a powerful public endorsement of a new literary genre. The translation into Chinese of a Russian article, written by a Soviet critic on the Russian translation of a Chinese novel, highlights the significance of transnational circulations for the creation of literary value in the socialist world. The prominence given to Aitelin’s article in China was certainly also meant to boost the popularity of industrial fiction in China in general. Sales of The Moving Force had stagnated at a relatively low level; by September 1950, 25,000 copies had been printed ⎯ not a large figure at a time when major bestsellers (of both domestic and translated fiction) would reach print runs of 100,000 copies and more. In a sign of further deteriorating interest in Cao Ming’s works, a 1958 edition of The Moving Force had an imprint of merely 2,000 copies; the expensive hardcover edition was presumably published chiefly for library use, and not for individual

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retail sales. The challenges for the genre, and for its main representative, remained formidable. With only few other representative examples forthcoming, industrial fiction faced a continued uphill battle in China. Other socialist genres, such as Chinese war novels and fiction on agricultural subjects, were much better received by domestic audiences who also happened to prefer the same genres when reading Soviet fiction. Despite the internationalizing trends expressed through the pan-socialist literatures of the 1940s and 1950s, reading habits in the countries of the socialist bloc were defined by the particular preferences of various audiences. Conclusion When the list of Stalin Prize winners for 1951 was announced in March 1952, translations of two Chinese novels made the list. Both Ding Ling’s Sun over the Sanggan River and Zhou Libo’s Hurricane, however, were novels on agricultural themes. The Moving Force was conspicuously absent from the list. All three novels had been published in 1948; their Russian translations had appeared in 1950, making the failure of Cao Ming’s novel to fetch the highest honors of the socialist literary universe even more apparent. Last hopes that The Moving Force might fetch a prize in the next ceremony were dashed when Stalin’s death in March 1953 left the deliberations on the prize committee in limbo. Ding Ling and Zhou Libo turned out to be among the last batch of awardees before the Stalin Prize was discontinued. Despite the failure to catch that most coveted of honors in the socialist world, The Moving Force apparently remained modestly popular in the socialist world. Two of the novel’s altogether eight foreign language editions (the German and the Korean translations) were actually published after the announcement of the prizewinners of 1952. This relative success abroad contrasts with Cao Ming’s fate as a writer at home. Despite the affirmative articles telling Chinese readers of the enthusiastic reception that the book had found in the Soviet Union, reception of The Moving Force and Cao Ming’s next novels remained lukewarm in China. While she remained active on the PRC literary scene, her writings quickly faded from the memory of most readers. This raises the question for the reasons behind Cao Ming’s promotion abroad. The large-scale marketization of her book must be attributed to the proactive efforts of the PRC cultural bureaucracy53 to sponsor Cao Ming as a Chinese representative of a crucial genre: industrial fiction was a core component of the new literature that was produced and promoted across the socialist bloc, and the young PRC had to prove its worth by joining this literary universe. The single most important benchmark for those looking to join the pantheon of socialist literature was, of course, the Stalin Prize. Genre politics

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was thus at work, part of the considerations to position the young PRC strategically in the international cultural landscape of the socialist bloc. In this light, however, the eventual failure of The Moving Force to win endorsement, and the prize committee’s decision to award the Stalin Prize to two novels on agricultural themes instead, acquire another meaning with regard to the state of the “art” of Chinese socialist cultural production and the PRC’s proper position within the Soviet-led socialist bloc. As the reading above has shown, The Moving Force had made efforts to create plot structures and an aesthetic that would make industrial fiction acceptable to Chinese readers, but overall the novel is rather crudely crafted, perhaps written in haste, and adhering to political stereotypes to the neglect of more sophisticated characterization and narrative. Cao Ming’s work fails against highly acclaimed and well-written novels like those of Ding Ling and Zhou Libo. The judges of the Stalin Prize Committee (if not Stalin himself, who reportedly approved all decisions personally)54 apparently took issue with the literary quality of Cao Ming’s work, as against other available candidates from the PRC. In doing so, however, they also rebuked the wider ambitions of the PRC. As a nation on the periphery of the socialist world, a country at the very beginning stages of large-scale industrialization, China had not yet reached the point where it could contribute to the branch of industrial fiction of socialist realism, the common mode of writing defined in Moscow and promoted in the new socialist nations in Eastern Europe and East Asia. The prizes for Ding Ling and Zhou Libo, in contrast, showed the PRC as what it was: a largely agricultural nation that, despite its size, had a long way to go before it could catch up with the Soviet Union, or even the more advanced European socialist states. Mixed with the joy over the announcement regarding the winners of the coveted Stalin Prize for 1951 must have been a bitter aftertaste in the mouths of the Chinese cultural bureaucrats. The Stalin Prize thus emerges as a unifying and a dividing force at the same time. While it set the standards and welcomed the new nations into the socialist literary orbit, it also defined the hierarchies that existed within the socialist world. As I have argued elsewhere, the tension between centripetal and centrifugal forces within the network of cultural diplomacy and cultural exchange in the East bloc did eventually tear that very alliance apart.55 Once the PRC was no longer willing to confine itself to the place it had been assigned by Moscow ⎯ through mechanisms that ranged from bilateral agreements on military support to the politics of literary (de)merit analyzed above ⎯ its leaders started to search for alternatives to the developmental path prescribed by the Soviet Union. When Mao announced the“Great Leap Forward” in 1958, industrial policy makers discarded the economic plans devised only months before with the help of Soviet specialists, plunging the

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nation into unprecedented experiments with small-scale industrialization in the countryside. At the same time, literary theorists debunked socialist realism as the guiding norm for literature and art, proclaiming instead the unwieldy notion of “combining revolution realism and revolutionary romanticism.”56 Chinese writers, who had felt uncomfortable with the concept of industrial fiction all along, were happy to focus again on more familiar issues, and the PRC witnessed a new upsurge of epic novels set in the countryside.57 The fate of The Moving Force and Chinese industrial fiction in general can thus be taken as an illustration of the dynamics of cultural diplomacy within the socialist world at large. They show both the impact of the Cold War ideological fronts on cultural practices and artistic creation in the member nations of the two blocs, and the tensions created by the complex interactions of unequal partners within the two camps. State-sanctioned cultural enterprises and initiatives in the Cold War era created bridges among nations as well as new fault lines.

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CHAPTER 7

Communist Vanguard Contest in East Asia during the 1960s and 1970s Bernd Schaefer, Woodrow Wilson International Center

Introduction

A

ddressing the issue of Stalinist communist cultures in East Asia, this chapter discusses how claims of ideological vanguardism shaped foreign policies of the ruling parties in the People’s Republic of China (PRC), the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV), and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) between the late 1960s and the mid1970s, as well as the role of the emerging Communist Party of Kampuchea (CPK) that came into power in 1975. The three one-party states formed between the 1940s and mid-1950s were ruled by autocratic leadership of either a collective or an individual type. Society at large existed only in social organizations created and controlled by a monopolistic party steeped in the ideological tradition of Marxism-Leninism and the practical experience of Soviet Stalinist rule. The public sphere was exclusively reserved for acclamations of loyalty to views and actions of political leaders. Except for the temporary all-out factional fighting during the early stage of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, individual and collective dissent was either suppressed or strictly limited to internal discourse within party structures. The culture of those three socialist states was shaped to a high degree by the respective ideologies of their leaders. In the case of North Korea and China, imperative worldviews were handed down and derived from the absolute and unfettered power of one individual’s concepts, perceptions, or musings. North Vietnam as a state in almost permanent war mode was only slightly different in the absence of a constant, single, most powerful leader.

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Kampuchea later followed the North Korean/Chinese pattern of absolute rule but replaced public personality cults with a highly secretive mode of authoritarian hierarchy. All four communist parties shared strong ideological beliefs and embraced notions of being the Marxist vanguard from nationalistic viewpoints. Yet at the same time they considered their respective concepts, to various degrees, as superior and suited to serve as international models. Thus they aspired for greater roles both in the East Asian region and on a global scale. Those ambitions and claims brought them necessarily into ideological competition and conflict with each other and fueled several regional and international developments. Most American-, European-, and Soviet-centered historiography, fails to emphasize the crucial role of Asian actors and their communist ideology in the course of international history during the 1960s and 1970s. Such is not least the result of limited or nonexistent access to Asian and Soviet sources for the period concerned. Hence sources from Europe and the United States can help to shed some light on perspectives and activities of North Vietnam, China, North Korea, Kampuchea, and the Soviet Union during those decades. For an unforeseeable time, they represent a valuable substitute. In particular, party, intelligence, and government records from the former German Democratic Republic (GDR), extremely well-organized and closed until 1989 and still well-organized and open thereafter,1 provide insights into the authentic thinking, perceptions, intentions, and actions of East Asian communist countries and the USSR at the time. In its attempt to be a model ally within the Warsaw Pact, the GDR was particularly close to the Soviet Union. It became thus also extremely well informed about Moscow’s policies, especially through interactions with the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) apparatus and the Soviet government. Obviously, East German closeness to Soviet perspectives sometimes engendered a biased view. This is particularly true of some anti-Chinese outlooks and interpretations associated with the Soviet camp’s “fight against Maoism.” Overall a small country like the GDR elicited more sympathy and friendly contacts in East Asia than the “superpower” Soviet Union. The East German state considered German unification on socialist terms a long shot and struggled to consolidate its position vis-à-vis West Germany. In contrast, North Vietnam, China, and North Korea viewed their own national unification in rather imminent perspectives. Nonetheless they felt to varying degree a similar fate, or even a special bond, with the GDR as another nation divided by “imperialism.” In any event, GDR historical sources require very careful reading, considerable experience, and circumspect analysis to separate substance from bias. Most East German documents report accurate facts and

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authentic East Asian statements and actions. If substance is separated from opinion, they represent highly valuable sources. East Asian Communist Ideology: Vexing the Superpowers When Henry Kissinger met Zhou Enlai for the first time on July 9, 1971, he had to listen to this programmatic exhortation by Beijing’s premier: “We don’t believe that super-power will be able to control the world. [The USSR] will be defeated as it stretches out its hand so far. You are feeling difficulties now, and they will also feel difficulties. They are just following after you.”2 Communist East Asia played a major part in creating such difficulties. Geographically, as well as in Western perception, it may have been at the periphery of a Cold War centered on transatlantic antagonisms.3 Yet China’s antihegemonic mission to create an alternative third global center of gravitation besides Soviet-style socialism and American-style capitalism and North Vietnam’s and North Korea’s vanguard aspiration to “national liberation” demonstrate how communist East Asia had a decisive impact on the bipolar systems of the Cold War. Its role during this period was crucial for global currents like the advance of revolutionary movements, “anti-imperialism,” and “antihegemonism.” Those developments came at both the Soviet Union’s and the United States’ expense while simultaneously destroying their nascent détente and refueling their competition. An East German observation made on the Vietnamese Workers Party (VWP) applied accordingly to the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) and the Korean Workers’ Party (KWP): they had all “nationalized” MarxismLeninism to a significant extent and continued to do so in creative and sometimes highly imaginative ways. All three parties had ultimately refused to seize the 1956 wave of de-Stalinization within the communist world movement. Minorities in respective leaderships who thought otherwise were purged and some of them lost their lives. All three nominally communist East Asian parties in power relied on a strong, charismatic, and ruthless leadership. In Vietnam, aging Ho Chi Minh was eventually pushed into the background by 1964 and was to assume cult status only after his death (and against his last will). In China and North Korea, however, personality cults surrounding a supreme leader reached unprecedented heights, elevating their human objects not only to god-like status but to infallible power in all internal and foreign affairs. Pyongyang’s leader Kim Il Sung gained limited global weight as long as China and Mao were preoccupied by the Cultural Revolution, domestic infighting, and war scares. With both its internationalist mission and its fierce internecine struggles, the communist world movement aspired during the late 1960s and 1970s

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to create a global alternative to the “imperialist” spread of economic liberalism and capitalism in the world. This dynamic was fueled by revolutionary violence that turned local conflicts, uprisings, and coups into global affairs to create models of “anti-imperialist struggle” that would be styled as inspirational vanguards. An East German analysis from 1973 interpreted this particular pattern of globalization in this way: “In our epoch, where fate of peoples are ever closer linked together, where international and intra-state relations become ever more intertwined, each seemingly limited local war receives a geopolitical dimension. It touches directly upon the interests of all peoples, and not only because it always entails danger of escalating into global war. It does so, moreover, since the extent of internationalization of relations within societies and class struggle has reached such a high level during our times, that no people has been left with the option to stay neutral on the question of war and peace and withdraw itself from responding.”4 In the 1950s, ruling communist parties in China, North Vietnam, and North Korea had become an integral part of the global “revolutionary main force” and joined the European-dominated international socialist movement and its mission.5 From the mid-1960s on, China and Vietnam respectively moved into positions from where they exerted extraordinary pressure on the Eurocentric communist world movement. Both the Soviet Union and the United States experienced extremely unwelcome impacts on their countries when repercussions from their respective patronizing emanated from these East Asian challenges. During the period concerned, the ruling communist parties of the DRV, the PRC, and to a lesser degree even the DPRK, actively changed the course of history while they simultaneously preserved their own stay in power. They drove Washington’s and Moscow’s policy to an unprecedented degree and transformed the superpowers’ so-called third-world interventionism into another confrontational stage from the late 1970s onwards.6 Without socialist Vietnam’s triumph in Indochina and its powerful inspiration for activist socialist internationalism, and without China’s global ideological challenge to the Soviet Union, international history may have turned in different directions. In general, Hanoi, Beijing, and Pyongyang pursued different national policies and competing socialist models with respective claims of being the vanguard. Each expected its international friends and foes to rotate around its interests. All three shielded their respective bilateral contacts from third parties, as they did with their internal leadership disputes and purges raging in all of them. Furthermore, Pyongyang perceived itself in permanent contest with vanguard Vietnam for revolutionary unification. Although being close to each other for reasons of communist solidarity, “Asian” ethnicity, and Chinese cultural heritage, the two minor powers DRV and DPRK were more

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successful in pushing their northern Chinese neighbor in desired directions than patronizing Beijing was able to dominate them. After the rage of the early Cultural Revolution and its decentralized efforts toward regime change in Pyongyang and Hanoi, the PRC began to show a sense of pragmatism and flexibility toward DRV and DPRK. Internally it acknowledged mistakes of its own as well as achievements of others. China always remained socialist Vietnam’s and North Korea’s powerful shadow and protective hinterland. The PRC was the primary partner with strong residual influence. Yet the intimidating character of the Cultural Revolution did damage to Chinese communist credentials in East Asia and in turn increased revolutionary vanguard postures in both Hanoi and Pyongyang in temporary defiance of Beijing. A Korean-Vietnamese Vanguard Contest for Socialist Unification The Cultural Revolution in the PRC represented the most serious external threat to North Korean leader Kim Il Sung’s hold on power since the fallout from Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization campaign in 1956. Like Ho Chi Minh in the case of Vietnam, Kim had dared in 1966 to ignore Chinese exhortations for launching its own Cultural Revolution and had even attempted to talk Mao out of his plans for China. Both Ho and Kim valued their nations’ cultural heritage highly and rejected the iconoclastic postures and rages in the PRC in this regard. Both leaders wanted to remain on good terms with “progressive bourgeois elements” in South Vietnam and South Korea respectively as they needed them for revolutionary purposes. As a consequence of their policy differences with Mao Zedong, between 1966 and 1969 leaders in Hanoi and Pyongyang became objects of Red Guard scorn and propaganda and suffered from Chinese transgressions. Both North Vietnamese and North Korean leaderships managed to survive by treading cautiously, avoiding provoking China by swallowing its slander, and by remaining passive in the face of aggressive postures at the borders or, in the case of Vietnam, in the border provinces (the DRV hosted between 1965 and 1969 roughly 320,000 Chinese pioneer and construction units in its northern parts). Paradoxically, Chinese preoccupation with internal conflict during the Cultural Revolution freed Kim Il Sung in particular to aspire to become an “outstanding leader of the world revolution.”7 This new ambition resulted not only in efforts to spread his teachings worldwide, but also in renewed “adventurism” on the Korean peninsula. Inspired by the Vietnamese communists’ struggle to unify their country under nationalist and socialist auspices, Kim Il Sung prepared his people for forthcoming reunification with the South and

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developed audacious schemes to achieve it in coincidence with the 1968 Tet Offensive in Vietnam. This upcoming endeavor was well known to socialist ambassadors in Hanoi many months before its actual occurrence. In fact, Kim Il Sung wanted to reunify Korea under his watch that very year. Asserting the existence of a revolutionary movement in South Korea, he ordered the North to be on constant alert and eventually seize the right opportunity to act.8 Since the United States was preparing “to attack” North Korea and was arming its “puppets” in the South, North Korea’s people were told to get ready for a preemptive strike by DPRK’s armed forces.9 Following this proclamation, DPRK propaganda began to demand the “liberation” of South Korea in the current generation, meaning under the present leadership and during the lifetime of Kim Il Sung,10 who turned fifty-five in April 1967. In January 1968, the hapless American naval intelligence ship USS Pueblo became a pawn in this game, providing the DPRK with a welcome distraction from one of its failed unification plots. A few days before, and about a week before the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, a North Korean commando raid had failed to break into the residence of the South Korean president in Seoul and to assassinate him.11 This followed a similarly daring script soon to be on display in Saigon and elsewhere in South Vietnam with mixed results: overthrow the “American puppets,” instigate an uprising, install a revolutionary government, and subsequently tell the Americans to leave and make way for socialist reunification. As noted above, the chaos of the Cultural Revolution had turned China into an inward-looking country and temporarily diminished its influence on foreign countries. Thus freed from ideological subordination to Beijing, the fifty-five-year-old Kim Il Sung also perceived an opportunity reaching even beyond Korean unification. The Vietnamese acting ambassador to Pyongyang, Hoang Muoi, phrased it this way in May 1967: “Our President Ho Chi Minh is already very old, and he will die soon. Whatever happens to Mao Zedong, his role as a world leader is nearing its end. [The Mongolian leader] Tsedenbal has a very weak personality. Kim Il Sung is relatively young and has a strong personality. The Korean leadership is pursuing a long-term strategy to propagate Kim Il Sung as the leader of the Asian people. They are assuming Kim might become the strongest personality of the revolutionary movement in Asia within ten to fifteen years.”12 The North Korean leader himself probably harbored those thoughts as well. He readily adopted the self-styled role of ideological bridge between the two major antagonistic communist powers and contributor to the further development of the theoretical foundations of the international Marxist-Leninist movement. In articles such as “Let’s Turn the Spearhead of Fighting against U.S. Imperialism,” published in the KWP official organ Nodong Sinmun on November 16, 1967, North

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Korea addressed communists around the world, focusing particularly on Asian, African, and Latin American national liberation movements. Vietnam understood these postures as a contribution to an ongoing vanguard contest between the communists of East Asia’s divided nations. The DPRK attempted to portray itself as being on equal footing with Vietnam as a “fighting country,” and hence drummed up claims of clashes along the South Korean border and fictitious skirmishes with intruders on North Korean territory. For their part, many diplomatic representatives of the Hanoi government and the National Liberation Front (NLF) in South Vietnam who served in Pyongyang were dismissive of North Korean military strength and fighting capabilities in comparison to those of their own country. They were annoyed that DPRK propaganda borrowed from Vietnam’s prestige when it defined North Korea as another “real fighter” against U.S. imperialism. Vietnamese diplomats pointedly noted that the North Koreans were incapable of creating any indigenous revolutionary movement in South Korea, and would certainly not be able to defeat Seoul militarily.13 Nevertheless, the DPRK political line, which the socialist countries of the Soviet camp dubbed as “centrist-nationalistic” as they did with Vietnamese policy, struck a chord with political movements of similar isolationist thinking, such as those in Ghana, Guinea, and Mali. In 1968 the North Korean leader began presenting himself as the leading theorist for the “small states,” which, in his view, distinguished themselves by actually fighting against the United States, in contrast to the mere rhetorical course pursued by both Beijing and Moscow. Beginning in July of that year, a new slogan “Cutting off the Limbs of U.S. Imperialism Everywhere,” was repeated throughout North Korea: “Vietnam is breaking one leg of the American bandit; we are breaking the other one. In Cuba and in Latin America they are tearing out the first arm, in Africa the second. If the small countries jointly dismember him, the American bandit will be torn apart.”14 Yet, with the failure of North Korean unification plots in 1968 and beyond, the DPRK returned to the Chinese mold, lowered global aspirations, and remained Beijing’s faithful ally. The DRV kept on fighting the United States and its regional allies fiercely. The Vietnamese model of revolution in the South and military assistance from the North constantly nurtured North Korea’s own aspirations to become the East Asian vanguard of revolutionary unification. After the failure to reunify the peninsula in 1968, Kim Il Sung had returned, to a large degree, to the Chinese political mold. From August 1971 Pyongyang pursued a negotiation strategy with the ROK to capitalize on Nixon’s visit to Beijing and China’s presumed influence on the United States with the aim of pushing Washington out of East Asia. When this strategy did not work out by 1973, the DPRK apparently returned to weigh military options to

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achieve Korean unification.15 In November 1974, two of allegedly seventeen major tunnels dug under the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) into the ROK were discovered. A few weeks before the fall of Saigon but right after the fall of Phnom Penh, Kim Il Sung paid an extensive visit to Beijing from April 19 to April 26, 1975. He had not left his country for such official business for almost a decade. Drawing on the text of the final joint communiqué in Beijing, the White House suspected that the DPRK leader “may have traded off PRC unwillingness to support Pyongyang in more aggressive tactics to reunify the Peninsula in return for greater Chinese military and economic aid, and more vigorous diplomatic backing.”16 Indeed, the events in Cambodia and the upcoming fall of Saigon had raised Kim Il Sung’s hopes that riots in South Korea and calls from supporters would enable the DPRK to send “revolutionary assistance” down South. The Vietnamese and other socialist diplomats in Pyongyang hinted at domestic image problems for the North Korean leader created by the communist victories in Indochina: any exposure of the DPRK population to these triumphs implicitly raised the question of North Korean shortcomings in the South and the wisdom of Kim Il Sung’s strategies.17 Yet in 1975 a Northernled “revolution” in the ROK was inconceivable without at least passive Chinese support. Kim Il Sung did not fail to undertake attempts to garner Beijing’s approval. In his first public appearance in April 1975 in Beijing, he declared Asia to be on a “high tide of revolution.” If war was to break out in Korea, he said, “we have to lose only the Military Demarcation Line but will gain the country’s reunification.” It will be “up to the U.S. whether there will be war in Korea or not.”18 Apparently it needed Chinese pressure to dissuade Kim from a military adventure. The final communiqué defined as the “correct path to solve the problem of Korean reunification” Kim Il Sung’s own three principles from 1972 (peaceful, without foreign interference, national unity despite different systems) and a DPRK Five-Point-Program of 1973. The PRC obviously supported a peaceful resolution of the Korean question to maintain its relations with the United States and Japan and to avoid getting dragged into a war on the Korean peninsula.19 The DPRK leader, though, did not yet completely recede from his concept of upheaval in the South and the North’s implementation of Korean reunification.20 Vietnam’s Vanguard Triumph and the Emergence of a New Rival Meeting Mao Zedong in Beijing in May 1970, the VWP general secretary Le Duan quoted the U.S. president Richard Nixon’s recent emphasis on the United States having never been defeated “in the past 190 years.” After Mao

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doubted Nixon’s claim, Le Duan instantly listed three East Asian communist examples of what he saw as American defeats the loss of mainland China in 1949, the failed elimination of the North Korean state between 1950 and 1953, and the French defeat in Indochina in 1954, where, according to Le Duan, the Americans had covered “80 percent of France’s military expenditures.”21 The next major American defeat in Vietnam was only a matter of time, he claimed; leaders in Hanoi would be absolutely convinced of this. North Vietnamese pride in shaping global currents also went beyond “defeating” the Americans. “It was us who brought Nixon to come to Beijing and Moscow in 1972, and China into the United Nations,” Le Duan and Prime Minister Pham Van Dong stated repeatedly, adding that top leaders in both Beijing and Moscow had affirmed this assessment to their Vietnamese counterparts.22 Be that as it may, North Vietnam was indeed able to shatter hegemonic collusions of American “triangular diplomacy” with the Soviet Union and PRC, and to transform its own “national salvation” triumph of 1975 into a major inspiration for revolution and “national liberation” elsewhere. Vietnam did also foment protest movements on a global scale Hanoi regarded as evidence of its worldwide revolutionary attractiveness. The unrelenting drive for American withdrawal and toward unification, for calibrated Indochinese revolution in Laos and Cambodia, and for the creation of indigenous Vietnamese socialism fomented Moscow’s active internationalism and interventionism. Indochina’s ultimate “revolutionary victory” in 1975 was considered powerful evidence by the Soviet Union that the “global correlation of forces” had been “tipped in favor of socialism.” Apparently the “third main force in the process of world revolution” was advancing and on the move against “imperialism.” Even more remarkable, this victory had been achieved against all military odds and over repeated Soviet skepticism. The war with the Americans and its eventual successful outcome had fueled Vietnamese aspirations of being the revolutionary vanguard. It furthered the argument of a resilient people with thousands of years of history that were bestowed with the destiny to lead the offensive for global revolution. “True patriotism and national spirit,” General Vo Nguyen Giap declared on December 21, 1968, has been “complemented by MarxismLeninism and proletarian internationalism” to turn into “Vietnamese revolutionary heroism.”23 In October 1969 Pham Van Dong expected Vietnam to become the model of socialist development for two-thirds of mankind after the victory over the United States. He saw his country entitled to receive help from all socialist states during the war and beyond, since “peaceful construction” of socialism elsewhere was made possible thanks to Vietnam’s struggle.24 According to Foreign Ministry official Le Xuan Dong,

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the DRV never forgot that the Vietnamese revolution was part of an international tide and propelled by the latter. It could not have succeeded without the Soviet victory in World War II, the triumph of the Chinese Revolution in 1949, and the struggle of the French Communist Party against colonialism. And now, stated Le Xuan Dong, a Vietnam supported by internationalist solidarity had reached the expert stage in fighting imperialism with its battling of the United States.25 Vietnam claimed nothing less than the lead in inspiring world revolution. Public communiqués, like for instance at the occasion of Zhou Enlai’s visit to the DRV in March 1971, explicitly stated Vietnam’s shining example and expressed solidarity with the “revolutionary” or “anti-imperialist struggle” of Korea, Japan, Cuba, East Germany, Palestine, the peoples of Asia, Africa, Latin America, Western Europe, North America, Oceania, and “the American people.”26 A phenomenon intertwined with those vanguard claims was a so-called theoretical Vietnamization of Marxism-Leninism. A thorough 1971 East German analysis conceded that the DRV avoided ideological conflict with Maoism this way to secure a continuation of supplies from China. Yet, unlike “Mao Zedong Thought,” the VWP maintained the Marxist-Leninist doctrine on the three forces of world revolution, namely, the socialist world system, the working class in the capitalist Western countries, and the national liberation movements in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. Communist Vietnam contributed with an ideological offensive of its own: “Small and weak nations have begun to play a positive role in world history.” It made no secret of its conviction to be the global “spearhead of the peoples’ revolutionary struggle against American imperialism.” The East German analysis cited ascribed this militant radicalism of VWP leaders somewhat condescendingly and helplessly to their “intellectual-bourgeois origins” and alleged “exaggerated nationalism” as the cause behind feelings of ideological superiority.27 After the Paris Agreement of 1973, however, the Soviet Union and its allies tended to flatter Vietnamese vanguard conceptions for Southeast Asia to strengthen Hanoi’s hand in the region against China.28 Indeed, Le Duan imagined in late 1974 “socialist hegemony” in a Southeast Asia of 200 million people, made up of Indochina and Thailand and bound to add rich resources of unexplored raw materials and resources to the socialist world system.29 Once communist Vietnam was finally triumphant, its leaders felt its revolutionary vanguard claims had been vindicated. According to VWP politburo member Truong Chinh, by 1975 liberation movements were leading the offensive against imperialism and pulling along the other two forces of world revolution in socialist and capitalist countries. Global balance, he said, is moving against overrated imperialism and revolution must not be

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underestimated. Ho Chi Minh was right, Truong Chinh asserted: former colonies would embolden revolutionary forces in the mother countries and eventually overthrow imperialism. Now there was time to attack everywhere; revolution might win in the colonies even before triumphing in mother countries. Had not Lenin noted, he asked, that revolution won at imperialism’s weakest link, and had not Vietnam, unindustrialized and without a working class, proven that again? And how “weak” imperialism actually was: a “small united people with the correct political and military strategy,” supported by fraternal countries, could defeat American imperialism.30 Vietnam’s triumph was a “victory for the entire socialist camp,” Le Duan told GDR leader Erich Honecker in October 1975. Quoting Lenin’s “who [will defeat] whom,” he defined winners as strong and their exposed adversaries as weak. So “the revolution is on the move, in the offensive; it must fight with the enemy for every position.”31 Hanoi’s leaders exuberantly basked in global admiration and their own sense of mission. When Le Duan returned from a tour of gratitude to China, Eastern Europe, and the Soviet Union on November 21, 1975, he spontaneously declared on the airport runway in Hanoi how “it is inconceivably difficult everywhere to grasp why we won,” and “how we could accomplish achievements not only to the benefit of Vietnam but to an entire world.” As for the United States, “how could it start another war” elsewhere after this “grave defeat”? Talking to fraternal ambassadors in Hanoi’s Presidential Palace the next day, he reiterated his points and noted that “Vietnam has proven that our enemy is really weak. Everywhere you notice how truly weak it is. That is why the peoples believe in us.”32 Yet, in a quite different and unexpected response to Vietnamese triumphalism, there soon emerged a local vanguard rival and enemy that drew on Chinese support and was to bog down Vietnam for years to come, thereby decisively thwarting its global ambitions: the Cambodian communists stylized Democratic Kampuchea as the historically superior model for global revolution. On the basis of an almost racist concept of national greatness, the secretive Communist Party of Kampuchea (CPK) reached out to Asian communists outside of Indochina and competed for influence with Vietnam in places like Thailand.33 Its peculiar resilience and survival within Cambodia during the recent decade had created a conviction of ideological superiority, unmatched even by its later Chinese patrons who had begun to actively support the CPK as late as 1974.34 In 1975 CPK racism had already turned exterminatory toward real and imagined Vietnamese. In March that year, at least seventy CPK officers of Vietnamese background were executed for “espionage” and others were expelled from the party. While the DRV conceded that the Vietnamese minority in Cambodia had “chauvinistic”

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attitudes toward Khmer people,35 and feelings of superiority were anything but alien to Vietnamese communists, CPK actions against the Vietnamese exceeded every imagination. Even ethnic Cambodian Khmer were killed for the allegation of possessing “Vietnamese brains.”36 Hanoi was shocked over Cambodian developments, and by how it had been “deceived” by CPK leaders who had hidden their real views so well while they were still dependent on the DRV.37 Conclusion Constantly underpinning all those developments since the mid-1960s was Beijing’s challenge to Soviet ideological hegemony. The propagation of “Mao Zedong Thought” as the ultimate global communist vanguard concept in the fulfillment of the teachings of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin inspired Moscow-critical forces in revolutionary parties and movements worldwide. Vanguard Maoism represented a major challenge to the Soviet Union on four levels: within the country, within the Warsaw Pact, in postcolonial states, and in communist parties of the Western world. China regarded the ideological vanguard claims by Vietnamese, Korean, and later Cambodian communists as regional affairs and tended to overlook them as long as they did not interfere with Beijing’s main focus: since 1969, the Soviet Union had become much more than an ideological rival to the PRC, namely, a threat and true “enemy.” The ailing Mao Zedong never gave up his revolutionary hopes for China and the world and expected the outbreak of a global war from which true revolution would emerge. In his mix of dire fatalism and exuberant radicalism, he viewed the state of the globe at the end of 1975 like this: “The current international situation is characterized by a great disorder under heaven, and the situation is excellent. All the basic contradictions in the world are sharpening. The factors for revolution and war are both increasing. Countries want independence, nations want liberation and the people want revolution. This torrential tide of our time is rising even higher. The peoples of the third world countries have won a series of significant victories in their struggle against colonialism, imperialism, and hegemonism. The contention between the superpowers for world hegemony has become ever more intense.”38 In particular, the emerging radicalism of the Cambodian communists struck Mao as a hopeful sign. On June 21, 1975, the CPK leader Pol Pot received a hero’s welcome in Beijing and admiring support for having “eliminated classes with one strike.” The PRC chairman was extremely excited about the bold evacuation of Cambodian cities and encouraged Pol Pot “to create your own experience yourselves” and to avoid China’s failure

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to root out a “system of inequality.” Sending him off, Mao presented Pol Pot with thirty volumes of writings by Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin.39 In conclusion, despite deep internal divisions, the communist world movement aspired to create a global alternative to the “imperialist” spread of economic liberalism. This dynamic was fueled by revolutionary violence that turned local conflicts into global affairs to create models of “anti-imperialist struggle” that would be styled as inspirational vanguards. Ruling East Asian communist parties played a major part in this endeavor. Hanoi, Beijing, Pyongyang, and later Phnom Penh pursued different “nationalist-centric” policies with international ambitions and competing vanguard socialist models. North Vietnam was able to transform its own “national salvation” struggle into a worldwide inspiration for revolution and “national liberation.” Chinese Maoism became a major ideological challenge and military threat to the Soviet Union. In general, East Asian communist vanguard radicalism and belligerency bedeviled the United States and pressured the Soviet Union into a global contest for leadership of the communist world movement. This became possible since China, North Korea, and North Vietnam had never completely emulated the Soviet model of party rule, “democratic centralism,” and mode of leadership. Neither did they adapt orthodox Marxism-Leninism as administered by Moscow’s doctrinal watchdogs. All three nominally communist East Asian parties had “nationalized” MarxismLeninism to a significant extent in ongoing creative processes. It was left to Kampuchea to surpass such “creativity” with its post-1975 ideological path that was extreme even by East Asian communist or historical Stalinist standards. In the context of the Maoist challenge and in combination with revolutionary inspiration through Vietnam’s example and anti-American triumphalism, Moscow and its allies sensed a powerful “third main force of global revolution” emanating from Third World countries. Leading Soviet and Eastern European ideologues began to propagate the compatibility of simultaneous détente in Europe and “anti-imperialist struggle” in the Third World. East Asian stimulation, by means of vanguard as well as rivalry, was seen as fostering the deterministic turn of the global correlation of forces in a revolutionary direction. By the mid-1970s, seemingly nationalist interests had been superseded by a reinvigorated global revolutionary agenda of socialist internationalism. Moscow first sailed on various East Asian winds before it turned to strong African stimulants to further tip “the global balance” in favor of socialism.40 In spite of all their rivalries and national peculiarities, the ruling communists in East Asia and their ideological vanguard contests shaped global Cold War currents and culture for about a decade between the mid-1960s and the mid-1970s to a degree yet to be fully recognized.

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CHAPTER 8

The Rhetorical as Political: The Ramon Magsaysay Award and the Making of a Cold War Culture in Asia Rommel A. Curaming, National University of Singapore*

Cold War was, as much as anything else, a competition over discourse, a “struggle for the word.” Christian Appy1

O

ften considered Asia’s Nobel Prize, the Ramon Magsaysay Award was instituted in 1957 through the initiative of the Rockefeller Brothers Fund (RBF).2 Just six weeks after the death of Ramon Magsaysay in a plane crash in March 1957, John D. Rockefeller III proposed, in a letter to the successor-president Carlos Garcia, the establishment of a living memorial to the late president, to be called the Ramon Magsaysay Award. Rockefeller declared in the letter that “this award will be given annually to one or more persons in Asia whose demonstrated leadership is motivated by a concern for the welfare of the people comparable to that which characterized the life of Ramon Magsaysay…”3 Since its inception, 254 individuals and seventeen organizations have been recognized for exemplifying the “greatness of human spirit” that Ramon Magsaysay was supposed to embody.4 The award consists of six categories: government service (GS); public service (PS); community leadership (CL); journalism, literature, arts, and creative communication (JLACC); peace and international understanding (PIU); and emergent leadership (EL), which was instituted only in 2001. With a total of forty-seven awardees, India tops the

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list followed by the Philippines (forty-six); Japan and Thailand (twenty-three each); and South Korea and Indonesia (nineteen each). Malaysia, Pakistan, and China have eleven awardees apiece; Bangladesh and Sri Lanka have nine each; whereas Taiwan has eight and Hong Kong has contributed seven. The remaining twenty-four awardees came from nine other Asian countries and a number of international organizations. A corporate entity called the Ramon Magsaysay Award Foundation (RMAF) manages the award. The governing body consists of a president and a board of trustees whose members are all very prominent Filipinos. Section 7 of the award’s Code of Procedure stipulates that “[o]nly candidates recommended in writing by invited nominators…shall be considered for an Award.”5 The president of the foundation, subject to the approval of the Board of Trustees, selects these nominators every year from a pool of highly respected and qualified persons all over Asia.6 The solicited nominations, backed by full documentation, are carefully evaluated through the help of individuals appointed by the foundation to investigate the backgrounds of the nominees. From a short list of finalists, the Board of Trustees decides on whom to choose as the winners, who will receive $50,000, among other prizes.7 Through the years, the RMAF has commissioned or encouraged the publication of a fairly sizeable corpus of materials—books, pamphlets, press releases, video, short stories, biographies, and essays—to disseminate widely information about the award and the awardees.8 Media coverage of the award in several Asian countries typically peaks in August and September each year, coinciding with or anticipating the formal awarding ceremonies for the winners, which is held on August 31, Magsaysay’s birth anniversary. Among the various official channels, this chapter focuses on the citations that accompany the award. Read during the award ceremonies, these citations—about 300−900 words in length—summarize the context, the profile of the awardees, and the justifications for the awards. With economy of words in mind, these citations are concise expressions of the worldview that underpins the award, making them a minefield for discursive exploration, which is taken here to mean an examination of, borrowing from Hayden White’s definition of discourse, “the ground whereon to decide what shall count as fact in the matters under consideration and to determine what mode of comprehension is best suited to the understanding of the fact thus constituted.”9 Like other award-giving bodies, the RMAF categorically and consistently disavows any ideological or partisan leaning. Suspicions are rife, however, that being funded by one of the ships in the Rockefeller fleet (following the often cited metaphor for the character of large American foundations), the award plays a part in a fairly coherent, if discreet, effort to promote a culture or value system favorable to the economic and political interests of

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the global capitalist elites. As Richardson and Fisher claim, the trustees of the foundations have “vested interest in the present organization of society and in protecting their gains by alleviating disruptive elements.”10 Seen in this light, the scientific, educational, medical, public health, cultural preservation, rural development, and other projects for which foundations such as Rockefeller, Ford, and Carnegie are known are done not for their own sake but to prevent disruption of the otherwise stable functioning of various societies as they undergo transition to modernity in different parts of the world.11 As Lindeman forcefully argued, the interests of philanthropy and capitalist classes were not coincidental but identical.12 This chapter seeks to demonstrate that the suspicion cited above was not unwarranted in so far as the Ramon Magsaysay Award was concerned. It argues that the award appears to be not just a recognition of the achievements of individuals and organizations that have exhibited “greatness of spirit”; it simultaneously promoted or advertised cultural constructs sympathetic to one side against another in the Cold War divide. It would be wrong, however, to oversimplify the equation by taking the award as singularly favorable to the capitalists. Just as Magsaysay was a contested and ambiguous signifier, so has the award been a platform of incoherent, even competing, discourses. Rather than making it politically ineffectual, however, such ambiguity or incoherence lends the award an aura of impartiality or objectivity that makes it potentially even more effective both as propaganda and as a mechanism for cultural reproduction. The following section provides a background on Magsaysay to elucidate his position as a contested political icon. Subsequently, the areas of concerns emphasized by the award will be mapped out in preparation for the analysis of the patterns or themes that are discernible in the profiles of the awardees as well as in the rhetorical structure of the citations that accompany the award. While the award pays close attention to a wide range of human endeavor, this chapter pays more attention to a number of areas that in the eyes of the unsuspecting public appear apolitical or nonpolitical: social welfare, rural development, heritage, environment, and scientific achievement. By showing how hidden politics operates within these seemingly nonpolitical areas, I wish to explore the inner working of the politics of the nonpolitical. The fundamental question is, how does rhetoric lend the political an appearance of its opposite? Magsaysay as a Cold Warrior The Second World War left the Philippines in ruins, with Manila among the world’s most devastated cities. While the regimes of Roxas (1946−1948) and Quirino (1948−1953) made some headway in rehabilitating the country,

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problems such as poverty, inequality, and corruption seemed to have become aggravated. The situation proved fertile as a breeding ground for the communist rebellion launched by the Huks. Against the backdrop of the victory of the communists in China and the escalation of the Korean War, the situation in the Philippines by 1949−1950 gravely alarmed the Americans and their allies among Filipino political and economic elites. Under such a situation Magsaysay came to fill a void in the United States’ Cold War designs. An active participant in the anti-Japanese guerrilla movement during the war, Magsaysay was appointed military governor of his home province of Zambales upon its liberation from the Japanese in 1945. In the following year, he ran and won a seat in Congress, where he vigorously pushed for the interests of war veterans. He was reelected in 1949, appointed the secretary of defense the following year, and two years later, he was elected as the president. Hailing from a provincial, middle-class family,13 with less than stellar educational achievements14 and an unglamorous professional background,15 his rise to political prominence seemed extraordinary in the context of Philippine politics. Conventional belief has it that without the close association with the Americans, particularly Edward Landsdale, he would not have made it to the highest office. Magsaysay first met Landsdale in 1949, when the former went to Washington, DC, to lobby for the passage of the bill for the benefits of the Filipino war veterans. They fast became close friends. A professional advertising man, Landsdale made effective use of his advertising skills in working for the Central Intelligence Agency’s (CIA’s) anticommunist campaigns in Asia. Landsdale was reported to have immediately seen in Magsaysay the charismatic personality and anticommunist attitude that would make for a good cold warrior.16 Machinating from behind, Landsdale managed in 1950 to have Magsaysay appointed as the secretary of defense by the hesitant President Quirino. At that time, the Quirino administration was badly tarnished by a series of scandals and it appeared incapable of stemming the upsurge of the threat of communism. With the help of the Americans and under high-profile media exposure, Magsaysay instituted reforms in the armed forces and directed the anti-insurgency campaigns that led to a series of successes. These included the capture of high-ranking politburo members in late 1950 and the subsequent arrest or surrender of a sizeable number of Huk rebels. Within two years, the Huk rebellion was considerably weakened, and partly owing to this, Magsaysay became even more popular among the people. In 1953, he ran for presidency and handily handed the incumbent president Quirino a crushing defeat.17 As president, Magsaysay carried out policies that won for him even more affection from the common people. He opened the Malacanang Palace to

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the masses, for instance, literally, and to an extent, figuratively. Under the media spotlight, he personally addressed some grievances brought to his attention by peasants and other common people, thereby giving the impression not only that he empathized with them but also that he was truly a man of action. He also worked hard for the passage of the land reform bill. Whether his pro-poor stance was genuinely felt or not, whether his efforts did or did not make much impact on addressing the roots of the problems, did not matter much. The image that stuck in people’s minds was that of a leader who cared about the plight of the poor. Perhaps more than the effective military campaigns, such an image won for him the battle against the Huks. When he died prematurely in 1957, millions wept—a tribute no other Filipino leader, let alone Filipino president, has earned.18 Despite the lofty stature of Magsaysay in Philippine political folklore, he has been a contested signifier. He was disparaged by some very influential opinion makers, for instance, for being too subservient to the Americans.19 At the time when there was a resurgence of Filipino nationalism, which was (and still is) largely anti-American, he stood in stark contrast as being unabashedly enamored of the Americans. In history textbooks, his images swing between the extremes of adoration and disdain.20 For the American operatives, however, there was hardly room for ambivalence. Magsaysay’s usefulness to the United States’ Cold War interests is well documented and widely acknowledged.21 Upon his sudden death in early 1957, the CIA immediately sought to look for, or “to make,” another Magsaysay. Landsdale’s success in “making” and managing him had served as a template for “using” other leaders in the Third World, notably Ngo Dinh Diem of South Vietnam.22 The Americans may not have found another Magsaysay, but the images of him as propagated through the Magsaysay Award and other media have served as a catalytic device for influencing, conditioning, and “culturing” millions of Asians, who, in the course of the Cold War, were objects of intense “advertising” campaigns by the competing Cold warriors. What the award has done through the years, among other things, is to smoothen the otherwise rough edges and ironic elements in Magsaysay’s images, and to fossilize such images for dissemination and consumption by people within and beyond the boundaries of the Philippines. Mapping the Terrain The Magsaysay Award gives recognition to people who have exhibited exemplary achievements in a very wide range of human endeavors. As shown in Table 8.1, there are a number of areas, however, that receive much

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Table 8.1

Rommel A. Curaming Major areas of concern and total number of awardees

Areas Social welfare Good governance and anticorruption (including those promoting democracy and democratization) Rural development Defense/promotion of human rights and public interest Scientific/medical/technological Heritage/arts/cultural conservation Environment Tradition—upholding and adapting to modern times Other areas of journalism: cartoon, agricultural, business, and international cooperation Labor organizing Population control Land reform Resource utilization: international cooperation Regional cooperation Economic development: international dimension Others

Totala 65 55

38 30 25 21 11 9 4 2 2 2 1 1 1 2

a Because some awardees were cited for more than one area, the total tally exceeds the total number of awardees.

heavier emphasis than the others, as evident in the distribution of awardees per area of concern. Based on my counting, the most heavily emphasized areas are social welfare (65); good governance, anticorruption, and democratization (55); rural development (43), human rights and defense of the public good (30); scientific, medical, or technological advances (25); and cultural conservation (21).23 Among the least emphasized are labor organizing and land reform, areas with which the left-leaning groups are closely identified. Under the category social welfare, the dominant themes include health services for the poorest of the poor (fifteen), volunteerism for social welfare (thirteen), women empowerment (nine), and education for the disadvantaged (eight). The most dominant subareas of concern under rural development are cooperatives (sixteen) and administration and planning of rural development projects (fourteen). Under the category scientific, medical, or technological, concerns for the modernization of agriculture dominate

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(eleven). Considering the deep-seated and widespread poverty of the predominantly rural-based population in Asia, emphasis on these subareas does not surprise. As a benchmark of exemplary behavior, these easily reflect the character often attributed to Magsaysay and are in line with the avowed thrust of the award to recognize the “greatness of human spirit” as manifest in the selfless service to the marginalized. What seems surprising is the award’s fairly strong push for the arts, heritage, and cultural conservation. If we combine the two areas of art/heritage/ cultural conservation (twenty-one) and adoption/adaptation of tradition (nine), the total surpasses that for scientific, medical, or technological (twenty-five). Two patterns are notable in this survey: (1) a strong bias toward service to the poor and other poverty-alleviation measures and (2) modernization without abandoning culture and tradition. In the following section, a number of overarching themes will be identified and their possible significance shall be drawn out within the context of the prevailing political, economic, and sociocultural contestations in the country, region, or the world at large. Individuals versus Structure One dominant theme that cuts across various areas is the liberal conception, perhaps at the same time an exhortation, of the individual as volitional, able to make a difference and free to decide for oneself. Corollary to this conception is the neglect of the structural contexts, treating the individuals as if they act and think in a social, historical, and political vacuum. The following cases are typical. Pablo Tapia (Philippines, Community Leadership [hereafter CL] 1964) was awarded for his relentless effort in combating usury and for “steadfast determination in mobilizing the savings of his community to provide workable credit facilities for its productive needs.” Similarly, Silvino and Rosario Encarnacion (Philippines, CL 1968), a couple of very modest means, were awarded for being effective managers of a cooperative. The citation claims that “[p]rogress in any rural community begins with people themselves mastering the art of saving their modest funds and using them productively.” In the same vein, Anton Soedjarwo (Indonesia, CL 1983) was commended for “stimulating Javanese villagers to genuine self-reliance with simple, readily applicable appropriate technology.” The main idea is captured clearly in the citation for Richard William Timm (Bangladesh-based foreigner, Peace and International Understanding [hereafter PIU] 1987) that quotes him as saying: “I have more hope in changed people than in changed structures and political system.”

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These citations, which are typical, are notable as much for highlighting individual responsibility as for their silence on the structural and the deep historical roots of rural poverty. They create an impression that poverty is a function of the failure to use a proper approach or techniques such as savings, effective management of cooperatives, and the use of appropriate technology. Ignored is the fact that the exploitative system of tenancy that has a long history in many Asian countries had left many peasants perpetually in debt with no disposable income to save. Likewise, the possibility is overlooked that some peasants are simply too poor or marginalized to have access to appropriate technology and cooperative facilities. By highlighting particular successful cases, the award drives a message that no matter how difficult the situation might be, things can be done or achieved, if only individuals know enough and work hard enough. The burden of responsibility is thus shifted entirely to the individual (or the small group where he/she belongs), and all structural or systemic features that hinder upward mobility are relegated to the background, if not ignored altogether. The liberal conception of the individual that the award promotes is encoded in the coherence of values it endorses. The citation for Goh Keng Swee (Singapore, Government Service [hereafter GS] 1972) is representative. It notes, for instance, his strong endorsement of the positive role of personal characteristics—thrift, industry, ambition, honesty, perseverance—in economic development and these qualities are said to carry greater weight than “foreign loans.” Other values for which the awardees are often cited include self-reliance, selflessness, humility, Spartan work ethic, hope or faith in government, patience, religious tolerance, love and respect for tradition, optimism, integrity, simple living, modesty, cooperation, adaptability, professionalism, love for education, tenacity (against-all-odds mentality), peace and love for freedom. Not all these values necessarily sit well with liberal, capitalist designs but they may have a collective effect of “educating the desire” of the people to strengthen their faith in themselves, to be content with the existing system, and to aspire for peaceful, gradual reform within the limits defined by the existing system. The implications are that the roots of, and solution to, the problems lie within the people, and that the call for systemic change espoused by critics, including the communists, is unwarranted. The assumed primacy of the individual resonates as well in other areas that are otherwise seen by some observers as systemic or governmental. Let us take the problem of endemic corruption, bad governance, and underdevelopment. These problems have made many people lose their faith in government, a condition that was deemed to pose a serious threat to the

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“Free World” during the Cold War. Just as Magsaysay was hailed as “incorruptible”—and this epithet helped him (and the Americans) prevail against the communists in the Philippines—the preponderance of awardees such as Keo Viphakone (Laos, GS 1967), Miriam Santiago-Defensor (Philippines, GS 1988), and Tan Sri Ahmad Noordin (Malaysia, GS 1985) may be understood in the same vein. Their cases exemplify the suggestions (1) that one should not lose hope or faith in one’s government as there are always exemplary persons who can reform it; (2) that corruption is a moral and personal issue; and (3) that this malady can be addressed through individuals’ steadfast adherence to moral standards. By underscoring these factors, the burden, again, rests heavily on individual responsibility. The role played by systemic factors such as neocolonialism and neoliberal global capitalism in causing or perpetuating corruption and underdevelopment in the Third World is downplayed or ignored. The dominant message is that countries in the Third World are poor not because (following Marxist-inspired analysis) of the exploitative nature of the capitalist-dominated global economic system, or the lingering neocolonial relationship, but because their leaders are corrupt, their government is ill-managed, and the people are not working hard and right enough. Whether one or the other of these contrary explanations carries more “truth” is not our concern here. By no means is it being suggested that the award is right or wrong in emphasizing the liberal notion of the individual and its attendant implications. Employing discourse analysis that seeks to expose hidden assumptions or implications, this chapter lays bare what the award has emphasized and what it has been silent about, and draws out the possible ideological implications. Modernization Theory The liberal conception of the individual goes in tandem with modernization theory in providing the overarching logic that underpins the award in general, and the notion of change in particular. Described by Nashel as the “civil religion championed by liberal cold warriors,”24 modernization theory is characterized as a “firmly held set of mutually reinforcing ideas about the “passing” of traditional society; the integration of social, economic, and political change; and the opportunity for the United States to channel a “revolution of rising expectation.”25 Formulated as a counterweight to Lenin’s very influential analysis, it plotted the trajectory of the stages of development to culminate in the “age of high mass consumption” (read: prosperity for all) rather than the withering of the state to give way to a classless society.26

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As noted earlier, the award gives considerable weight to the contributions made to rural development; technical, technological, and scientific advances; and technocratic efficiency. Such emphasis conforms to the parameters of modernization theory that emplots the underdevelopment of the Third World as a transitory phase that poor countries are prescribed to negotiate through the use of appropriate technology, a change in values among the people, and effective management techniques. This theory attained hegemonic status in the American social sciences and its influence was pervasive in the universities and policy-making bodies in the Free World since the 1950s.27 This situation had the effect of “naturalizing” and, thus, depoliticizing the ideas, practices, and policy prescriptions that were essentially favorable to the political and economic interests of the capitalist world. Among these are the liberal and neoliberal economic policies and the gradual or controlled transformation of societies from the feudal stage to capitalism and eventually to high or late capitalism. Against such a backdrop we can easily understand the award’s keen appreciation of individuals who found ways to smoothen transition from the traditional to the modern. Except in an instance when the traditional values of rural-based Filipinos were specifically singled out as impeding progress (Encarnacion, Philippines, CL 1968), the award was careful not to denigrate or reject offhand the traditional. What it generously encourages is the creative blending of the elements of the two, with the implied message that it is not bad, but may even be good, to modernize. Zahlah Hanum (Malaysia, GS 1989), for instance, was recognized for her use of a modern archival system in preserving historical heritage. Shahrum Bin Yub (Malaysia, GS 1978), for her part, was commended for fostering a “national cultural awakening” through modern museology. The case of Phon Sangsing Kheo (Thailand, GS 1966) is even more instructive. He was recognized for his innovative and effective methods of incorporating traditional values, cultural practices, and religious ideas into modern psychiatric techniques. In addition, the citation is clear about the psychological dislocations that a modernizing society has to deal with, but is equally hopeful that these problems can be adequately addressed by proper techniques. What may be inferred here, at the risk of overreading, is that the problems that accompany modernization have corresponding solutions, thereby sidestepping the alternative interpretation that the capitalistic path to modernization may in itself be the problem. The award’s “attitude” toward change coincides with that of the American philanthropists whom Fisher describes as “sophisticated conservatives.”28 For them, changes that contribute to greater efficiency; control and planning such as more efficient industrial, productive systems; better health

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for workers; ways of controlling trade cycles; and the spread of free, democratic systems are welcome, even encouraged.29 Packaging itself as progressive and reformist, the award is notable for recognizing the cohorts of mostly forward-looking thinkers, exemplary leaders, activists, visionaries, reformists, and optimists—people who have shown that things can be done and a difference can be made, no matter how difficult the situation might be. There is a fairly clear limit, however, to the kind and direction of change or reforms that the award endorses and promotes. Let us see how the award handles the issue of land reform, a good test case considering that in radical discourses it serves as a linchpin of the call for structural change. Given that the award tends to look unfavorably toward ideas or practices that are identified with socialism or communism, one may be surprised that the award is not altogether silent about the question of land reform. Muhamad Alias (Malaysia, GS 1980), for example, was recognized for leading the successful government-run land-redistribution program. Acharya Vinoba Bhave (India, CL 1958), on the other hand, was awarded for voluntarily giving away his land and for leading the movement that spearheaded voluntary land reform. It was cited as “a new kind of social revolution” that proved that “… needed change could be accomplished voluntarily.” These cases indicate that so long as reform projects such as land reform are initiated by the government and by nongovernment actors and are done voluntarily, then the awards do not find them to be a cause for concern. Moreover, if a reform project is government-initiated, the government should preferably be a “democratic” (as opposed to communist or socialist or dictatorial) government. As the citation for Alfred Bengzon (Philippines, GS 1991) made explicit: “ … his courageous demonstration that urgent social goals, however strongly opposed, can be achieved through the machinery of democratic government … ” (emphasis added). The award’s distaste for dictatorial government is fairly evident in the sidelining of officials who had served, say, in Marcos and Lee Kuan Yew’s governments, notwithstanding the notable accomplishment of a good number of them.30 Likewise, what Barisan Tani Indonesia (BTI), a huge Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI)-affiliated peasant organization did in forcibly redistributing lands in Java was something that the award could not recognize, let alone endorse, notwithstanding its apparent greater impact on a number of poor peasant families. The efficacious act of alleviating poverty per se appears less important; it is who does the act and how it is done that matters more. Anyone who expects a profusion of abrasive, blatant anticommunist passages in the citations will be disappointed. The description of Abdul Razak (Malaysia, CL 1967) as having “directed war against Communist

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terrorists who rejected an amnesty and plea for peaceful cooperation …” and that of the Naxalites as a “Maoist terrorist movement” that “sought power through widespread murder” (see citation for Gour Kishore Ghosh, India, Journalism, Literature and Creative Communication [hereafter JLCC] 1981) stand almost alone among over two hundred31 carefully written seemingly politically innocuous paeans to the “greatness of human spirit.” The antileft biases are made clear through indirection and omission. The absence, for instance, of publicly identified socialists/Marxists or leftleaning individuals in the list of awardees until 1995 when Pramoedya Ananta Toer was recognized is very notable. The bypassing of Nehru and Sukarno is also telling. While Tunku Abdul Rahman (Malaysia, CL 1960) was praised profusely in the citation for effective management of a multiracial society and successful institution of a mechanism to defuse tension among various ethnic groups, it is curious that Nehru and Sukarno were not recognized, considering that they did so much more in the area of managing a multicultural nation. It is also curious that while many Indians received awards in various categories from 1958 to the early 1990s, only one Indian government official (Chintaman Dwarkanath Deshmukh, GS 1959) was recognized in the same period. Apparently, it indicates that India’s socialism and the state-led industrialization that was inspired by the Soviet model did not sit well within the award’s promotional domains. In a number of cases ( Jayaprakash Narayan, India, Public Service [PS] 1965; Matiur Rahman, Bangladesh, JLACC 2005), the citation makes it very clear that the awardees were former socialists or communists (Marxists/ Leninist/Maoist) who had turned their back on the ideology. Jayaprakash Narayan (India, PS 1965), who used to be a leading figure in the Socialist Party, was said to have “renounced dialectical materialism and power politics … to devote himself to the … unrewarding task of enlightening and guiding his countrymen on crucial problems” (italics mine). The use of the word enlightening here and its linkage to the renunciation of dialectical materialism is particularly suggestive. One may wonder, was Narayan not also enlightening the people when he was still a leader of the Socialist Party? The award’s emphasis on technocratic, technical, technological, and scientific solutions creates the impression of scientific impartiality, thoroughness, and precision. It lends the award a nonideological or apolitical face. It is perhaps for this reason that many doubt or downplay, if they are not totally oblivious of, the alleged political intent of the many projects, including the Ramon Magsaysay Award, that are funded by huge American grant-giving foundations such as Carnegie, Ford, and Rockefeller. How, indeed, can helping the poor, elimination of contagious diseases, and increasing rice or wheat production be political?

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In the context of the Cold War that entailed intense competition between two opposing ideologies, any area of human endeavor in which one side could offer a better performance or greater hopes for humankind could not be spared from politicization. With resolute communist campaigns in the rural and urban areas for the support of the masses, on the one hand, and the realization by the grant-giving American foundations of the vulnerability of Third World countries to communist agitation while these countries were navigating the “difficult transition to modernization,” on the other, rural development and other poverty alleviation projects such as the Green Revolution and collectivization served as instruments against the advances, both real and perceived, of one ideology against another.32 Moreover, the emphasis on technical, technocratic, and scientific solutions may have the effect of promoting the culture of hope that conceals or mitigates the darker and exploitative sides of capitalism and imperialism, not to mention the political systems that they spawn and sustain. By dramatically increasing the annual yield two or three times, the Green Revolution, for instance, had the peasants believe (at least momentarily) that there was indeed hope, making the difficult life more bearable than it would otherwise have been.33 The message is, again, that the problem is not systemic; it is rather technical or technological and the solution is not a revolution to replace capitalism, but a higher level of technical or technological achievements. Incoherence and Ambivalence The award is far from being a monolithic expression of the capitalists’ Cold War interests. While it comfortably fits within the interests of the capitalist world, there are areas where ambivalence or contestation may be discernible. Despite the award’s modernist tenor, for instance, it seems favorably predisposed as well toward the Gandhian model of development—communityoriented projects, grassroots initiatives, and labor-intensive technologies. Such a model was scorned by theorists from both sides of the Cold War divide for disfavoring industrialization and other aspects of modernization.34 To note, a good number of awardees (such as Jayaprakash Narayan, India, PS 1965; A. T. Ariyaratne, Sri Lanka, CL 1969; Ela Ramesh Bhatt, India, CL 1977; just to mention a few) were either Gandhi disciples or his self-confessed followers, and they are profusely appreciated in the citations. One may argue, on the one hand, that this counters the modernization theory that undergirds much of the award. On the other, it may be interpreted as an oblique critique of Nehru’s socialist economic model. It is also possible that the empowerment and uplift of the rural poor was the main

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point here, and it may, therefore, be a part of the whole effort to promote self-reliance and rural development to shield the people from the temptations of the communist promises. Whatever the case may be, the less than smooth or coherent images that the award can generate add to its persuasive power. It lends the appearance of impartiality or being nonideological, making the award more credible. The award also heavily favors those who have done exemplary service to the poorest of the poor, the sick, and the downtrodden, as exemplified by Mother Teresa. It may be argued that such emphasis helps promote the culture of hope that, again, cushions the poor against the seductive promise of the communist utopia. One can say that such recognition may also be just a benign expression of genuine appreciation for the greatness of spirit that these people exhibited. On the other hand, the plethora of images of poverty and marginalization in the citations can give one the impression that the current system does indeed breed such a deplorable situation, that it could subvert the culture of hope that the award may in fact wish to promote. The ambiguous messages are noticeable. The award is also sympathetic toward the artists and intellectuals who have a burning passion for reviving the indigenous art forms and for promoting traditional cultural practices. While there are strong currents that are indicative of the influence of modernization theory, which encourages people to blend traditional values and practices creatively with the new ones, the award also conveys a message of the inherent value of the traditional. Princess Maha Sirindhorn (Thailand, PS 1991), for instance, was praised for initiating projects to preserve and promote traditional arts. One may argue that the protradition message may easily get drowned out in the cacophony of opposing voices that are largely promodernization. With the open-endedness of meaning formation in the target audience, however, the possibility that the message gets through to the audience cannot be ruled out. Another possible interpretation is that the emphasis on the traditional serves the purpose of strengthening the conservative impulse to maintain the status quo as a bulwark against the onslaught of communist influences. The case of Ton That Thien (South Vietnam 1968) is illustrative. The citation emphasizes that he had deep roots in Confucianism and that unlike other Vietnamese intellectuals who were steeped in French intellectual influences and who proved “vulnerable to communist persuasion,” Ton That Thien had “convictions that led him to act with perceptive courage and staunch individualism.” As tradition is presented here as a cushion against communism, the fairly dominant modernist tenor of the award is not subverted; it is instead reinforced. But then again, this reading is just one among other possibilities.

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There are also instances when the interest of the global capitalist network is directly opposed. Balachandra Chakkingal Sekhar (Malaysia, GS 1973) was commended for his leadership of the Rubber Institute of Malaysia, a research institution that did much productive research on natural rubber that enables rubber-producing countries to save the industry from the serious challenge of the synthetic rubber that giant Japanese and Euro-American multinationals produce in great quantity. The process of meaning-formation is exceedingly complex. While the goals and the means to attain them, designed by an agent of cultural production such as the Ramon Magsaysay Award, may be preprogrammed, the reception of the people and the ultimate outcomes remain open-ended. We should not forget, however, that the degree of open-endedness may be inversely proportional to the extent of inequality in the calculus of power relations in a society and the international community. Conclusion: Culture of Hope and the Politics of Suggestion This chapter takes off from the idea that the Ramon Magsaysay Award, as a prestigious international institution, has served as an agent of cultural production. As an agent of cultural production, the award is at once affected by, and influences, the constitution of the prevailing sociocultural domains. Taking a cue from Raymond Williams,35 cultural production and cultural practices are not simply derived from, or just a reflection of, the existing social order; they rather are a major element in its configuration. In understanding the process of such a configuration, Gramsci’s notion of hegemony seems useful. The concept of hegemony presupposes a dynamic process whereby the interests of a particular group or class are transformed to become the general or the dominant interest in the society. It does not mean uniformity of ideas or total dominance by a ruling class, as resistance is an essential element in configuring power relations that define the matrix of domination. What it means is that the set of ideas or norms that prevails reflects and serves the interest of the dominant group. Hegemony thus serves as an “umbrella of interpretations, not [as] a simple integrated system,” and it is “necessarily multi-layered, multi-faceted coalition of social forces, its components and alliances changing through time.”36 This chapter tried to show that notwithstanding its apolitical posturing, it is fairly clear in official award citations that the award wishes to promote a culture that is favorable to the interests of one side in the Cold War divide. While it is rare that one finds blatantly anticommunist comments in the citations and the same goes for the brusquely procapitalist pronouncements, it is by naturalization, indirection, suggestion, and omission

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that the one-sidedness is attained. The rhetorical tropes discernible in the citations indicate the considerable promotional weight given to (1) the primacy of the individual and the corresponding silencing of the structural roots of problems and (2) the ideas and practices (rural development, scientific advances, and technocratic efficiency) compatible with modernization theory. The citations picture the ideal individual as someone who is ethical, selfless, responsible, hopeful, skillful, hardworking, knowledgeable, in touch with tradition but welcoming of modernist changes, and with faith in the government and in the ability of the system to reform or regenerate itself. The ideal society, on the other hand, is one that is welcoming of change and reforms, but within the limit set by the government and toward the direction of improving, not subverting, the existing system. By naturalizing the status quo, by recognizing the endemic and serious problems yet positioning the (responsible, skillful, hopeful) individuals as the primary key to the solutions of these problems, the structural or systemic roots of the problems are elided, and the culpability of global capitalism put under erasure. This is one way by which the culture of hope—hope that the status quo is not irreparably exploitative—may have been promoted. The promises of capitalist modernization offered another way of promoting the culture of hope. By enticing people with the promise of the coming “age of high mass consumption,” as supposedly exemplified by the United States, the poverty of the people was explained away as a transitory phase that will pass, provided that they assiduously follow the path to, or the requisites of, modernization. In such formulation, poverty is naturalized and thus becomes more bearable and, by suggestion, the salvation lies no longer in achieving communism, but in casting one’s lot with capitalism that promises a better future. As shown earlier, the citations offer less than coherent messages or images. These images are capable of generating “excess” meanings, those that cannot easily fit in within the frame defined by the dominant discourses. This does not mean, however, that hegemony was not attained. The award is hegemonic in a sense that it reflects and promotes a set of values, economic system, and practices that are compatible with and recreative of the dominant capitalist culture. The presence of the contradictory voices among the awardees tends to confirm, rather than subvert, such hegemony. As noted earlier, the totality of control is not necessary; adequate ascendancy is enough. From the standpoint of propaganda, the ambivalence and less than coherent character of the Ramon Magsaysay Awards make it appear even more credible. Its dominant messages thus have a greater chance of being picked up by the target audience.

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What difference did the end of the Cold War have on the profile of the awardees? The overall tenor of the award — emphasis on the individual and modernization (both economic and political) — remains. One notable change is the apparent loosening of the “ban” against Marxist intellectuals. For example, a well-known leftist such as Pramoedya Ananta Toer was recognized in 1995 (JLACC 1995).37 It seemed unthinkable in the Cold War years. The threat of political Islam also began to be noticed as early as 1993 when Abdurahman Wahid (Indonesia, CL 1993) was commended for believing that “religious politics is dangerous and militates against the achievement of democracy.” One dominant discourse that emerged in the mid- to late 1980s, but became very prominent in the 1990s, is “democratization.” Perhaps it was initially a reflection of the euphoria of the post-Marcos years in the Philippines, but was sustained by the waves of democratization that swept different parts of the world. The discursive configuration of the Magsaysay Awards in the post−Cold War era certainly deserves close attention. It is unfortunate that due to space considerations, it cannot be covered here. One common mistake that, I think, should be avoided is to diminish the importance of, and the appreciation for, the accomplishments of the awardees for unwittingly serving certain groups’ political agendas. The “greatness of human spirit” that they exemplified may be favorable to the interests of the liberal-capitalists, but for the people whose lives were touched or improved by the thoughts and deeds of these awardees, it is their politics not to care about the difference. The deed is not inherently political; it is politicized, and it takes one politics to neutralize another.

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CHAPTER 9

Expulsion for a Mistranslated Poem: The Diplomatic Aspects of North Korean Cultural Policies Balázs Szalontai, Mongolia International University

Introduction In the so-called cultural Cold War, North Korea, officially known as the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK), constituted a rather special, though not entirely unique, case. Korea, a nation divided into two competing states, was one of the most intensely contested battlegrounds of the Cold War. Since a real inter-Korean détente remained more or less out of the question until the 1990s, there was little, if any, legalized cultural exchange between Pyongyang and Seoul. As a consequence, the northern leadership could not pursue an effective cultural diplomacy with the South in the same way as the Soviet, Chinese, and East European regimes sought to extend their cultural influence to those capitalist and developing countries whose governments showed at least a modicum of readiness for cultural exchange with the Communist countries.1 While North Korean cultural policies were considerably influenced by the government’s desire to make a favorable impression on South Korean public opinion, the DPRK authorities faced formidable obstacles when they tried to reach the southern audience. This did not mean, however, that the North Koreans were unfamiliar with the fine art of cultural diplomacy. On the contrary, they used these techniques with remarkable persistence and subtlety, but in a peculiar way. Namely, the most accessible targets of their operations were Pyongyang’s own Communist allies, rather than its South Korean and American enemies.

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This unusual situation resulted from the maintenance by North Korean leaders of more extensive cultural contacts with the Soviet Union and other Communist states than with non-Communist societies, yet at the same time they doubted if their putative allies would wholeheartedly support Pyongyang’s initiatives and fulfill its requests. For this reason, they often felt it expedient to ensure the compliance of the “fraternal” countries through coaxing, pressure, or even outright deception. In the post−Korean War era, SovietDPRK cultural relations repeatedly took the shape of a “Cold War within the Cold War.” In this chapter, I would like to concentrate on this last topic, for various reasons. Firstly, the use of cultural diplomacy in the relations between Communist states has not yet been as extensively analyzed as the “cultural Cold War” between the Soviet Union and the Western powers. Secondly, the best existing work on the international dimensions of North Korean cultural policies, “The Cultural Cold War in Korea, 1945−1950” by Charles Armstrong, is focused on the pre-1953 period, rather than the postwar decades. Moreover, Armstrong’s article, a detailed and colorful overview of the cultural scene in the two Koreas, concentrates on the institutions, strategic aims, and long-term trends of U.S., Soviet, and Korean cultural policies, rather than tactical changes.2 In contrast, this chapter seeks to demonstrate that tactical objectives, like short-term diplomatic considerations, could also shape North Korean cultural policies to a significant extent. Such secondary objectives sometimes inspired cultural measures whose tone was markedly different from the supposed “general line” of North Korean cultural policies. “They Inflexibly Abandoned the Progressive Traditions of the Past”: The Twists and Turns of Cultural and Economic Nationalism The DPRK never underwent any extended period of intellectual “thaw.” As early as the Stalin era, the political control the North Korean regime maintained over cultural life seems to have been even stricter than the methods practiced in Moscow’s East European satellites. In 1951, a Hungarian correspondent named Tibor Méray, a playwright by profession, found the wartime North Korean cultural scene quite depressing, even by Stalinist standards: I have seen many one-act plays, and these are all schematic, without a single exception. The stories are made largely after the same pattern. The characters are also the same in almost every [play]: the heroic soldier, the self-sacrificing mother, and the evil American . . . The characters are unsophisticated, in most

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cases exactly alike (even in their physical appearance), and they mostly utter slogans.3

In the post-1953 years, such critical comments, made not only by “sensitive” intellectuals but also by hard-bitten East European Communist diplomats, became increasingly numerous. Following the death of Stalin, the new Soviet leaders started to replace the repressive and confrontational style of his policies with a more flexible and cooperative approach. They also prodded their satellites to introduce a political and economic “New Course.” Kim Il Sung, however, was highly reluctant to follow suit. Dependent on foreign economic aid, he had to take a step at a time, but as early as the mid-1950s, he was partly able to resist Soviet pressure for changes. The contrast between Hungary’s gradually softening cultural policies and Kim’s insistence on retaining a strict control over intellectual life soon became conspicuous enough to inspire the Hungarian diplomats to write a sharply critical report about the North Korean cultural scene: One source of the errors is that in 1954, they inflexibly abandoned the progressive traditions of the past. They wanted to create their new literature and art without taking advantage of the old experiences … In our opinion, the new socialist realism should be rooted in the soil of classical Korean literature, and the writers should study the progressive traditions [of Korean literature] more intensely.4

This temporary abandonment of Korean traditions in favor of foreign Communist models should not be attributed solely to the “pernicious” influence of those Soviet Koreans (Soviet citizens of Korean origin who moved to North Korea after liberation) whom Kim Il Sung later accused of having denationalized North Korean cultural life. First of all, in 1954, few, if any, Soviet Korean leaders were directly involved in cultural policy.5 Secondly, the regime’s attitude toward Korean cultural traditions was considerably in flux during the two and a half years that preceded Kim Il Sung’s famous “chuch’e speech” (December 28, 1955). In the second half of 1953, the authorities published a substantial number of classical Korean literary works; in 1954, they pressured artists and writers to favor Soviet models over Korean traditions; but in the first two months of 1955, they again displayed more tolerance toward those painters who favored the classical Korean style.6 The repeated waxing and waning of tradition-oriented cultural activity during the period 1953−1955 cannot be wholly explained by the struggle between Kim Il Sung and his Soviet Korean opponents. Interestingly enough, North Korean economic policies also strongly fluctuated in these

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years. In the second half of 1953, the leaders of the ruling Korean Workers’ Party (KWP) proceeded slowly with agricultural collectivization. In contrast, in 1954, they launched a campaign of heavy industrialization, which they considered a cornerstone of economic independence. Their autarkic vision was clearly at variance with the expectations of the Soviets, who tried to persuade mineral-rich North Korea to concentrate on the export of raw materials. Then, in 1955, Kim Il Sung slowed down the pace of industrialization—mainly because his ultraleftist economic policies caused a famine that compelled Pyongyang to ask Moscow for emergency aid.7 In sum, from 1953 to 1955, the peak periods of cultural nationalism rarely coincided with that of economic nationalism. This negative correlation became particularly clear in December 1955 when Kim Il Sung harshly criticized the “antinational” cultural policies attributed to the Soviet Koreans, but at the same time took further measures to slacken the government’s industrialization drive. The authorities published several classical Korean dramas. An art exhibition held in December was dominated by landscapes, rather than paintings about the “new socialist life.” Conspicuously, there was only a single portrait of Kim Il Sung.8 The “landscape-centric” character of the December exhibition was all the more peculiar because on August 15, barely four months earlier, the authorities had held another art exhibition at which landscapes were entirely absent. This abrupt change revealed that North Korean cultural policies were shaped not only by long-term, fixed guidelines but also by short-term, tactical considerations. From October 1 to December 20—that is, between the two exhibitions — the party-controlled Union of Artists organized a “professional and ideological course” for painters and sculptors.9 That course, during which fierce debates raged over various aesthetic issues, was probably influenced by the simultaneous clashes between Kim Il Sung and his Soviet Korean rivals.10 Surprisingly enough, Kim’s campaign against the “Soviet faction” was not accompanied by an intensification of his personality cult, a further politicization of arts, or a return to a hard-line economic policy (as one might have expected). On the contrary, the dictator combined his repressive measures with a relaxation of pressure on economic and cultural life. This unusual combination, which demonstrated both his tactical flexibility and his ability to tone down his own personality cult, may have been at least partly motivated by diplomatic considerations. Despite his firm grip over the party and state machine, Kim could hardly afford to stand up to the Kremlin on two fronts at the same time. When his autarkic economic policies resulted in a famine, his Soviet aid donors forced him to make some concessions to the hard-pressed peasantry.11 After this debacle, Kim probably found it advisable to concentrate on cultural nationalism and temporarily postpone economic nationalism.

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“Decadent European Art” under Attack: Kim Il Sung and Soviet De-Stalinization North Korean cultural nationalism underwent further intensification in 1956, not the least because Kim Il Sung, who considered Nikita Khrushchev’s “secret speech” on Stalin’s crimes a potential threat to his own rule, sought to isolate the North Korean public from “subversive” Soviet influences by playing out the card of nationalism. In April 1956, the minister of education Kim Ch’ang-man harshly criticized North Korean university professors for paying more attention to the teaching of the culture of foreign countries (read: the Soviet Union) than that of Korean literature and music.12 In August 1956, a group of KWP leaders, disagreeing with Kim Il Sung’s personality cult and his hard-line economic policies, made a futile attempt to depose the dictator or compel him to modify his ways. They were quickly expelled from the Central Committee (CC), but in September the Soviet leader Anastas Mikoyan and the Chinese leader Peng Dehuai forced Kim to readmit the purged “factionalists” to the CC.13 In the next few months, the dictator found it advisable to keep a low profile. Predictably, cultural policy followed suit. At an art exhibition held in November-December 1956, conspicuously few Kim Il Sung paintings and statues were displayed.14 The backlash against Mikoyan’s intervention came as early as 1957. Throughout the spring, summer, and early fall of that year, North Korean cultural policies overemphasized national traditions to such an extent that foreign music was rarely played, and theaters hardly, if ever, showed foreign plays or operas.15 This Korea-centric cultural policy indicated substantial tension between Pyongyang and Moscow, all the more so because it coincided with the abrupt recalling of most North Korean students from the European Communist countries. On the other hand, in the economic sphere, the KWP leadership — unnerved by the political upheavals which had occurred in Eastern Europe in 1956 — pursued relatively moderate policies in the same period, and sought to lessen popular discontent by improving living standards.16 In October 1957, however, Kim reached a reconciliation with Moscow, after which he quickly adopted a hard-line economic policy. In 1958, he launched the so-called Ch’ollima Movement, a mass campaign patterned upon China’s Great Leap Forward.17 Remarkably, there was once again a conspicuous negative correlation between his economic and cultural policies. In late 1957, and particularly in 1958, An Mak, the newly appointed minister of culture and education, made an effort to pursue a less Koreacentric cultural policy, and frequently invited the “fraternal” diplomats to various cultural programs.18

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In late 1958, the KWP leadership purged An Mak, and in 1959, a renewed emphasis was laid on certain forms of cultural nationalism. Among others, musicians were instructed to concentrate on mastering the skills of playing Korea’s traditional musical instruments. At the same time, the cadres in charge of culture saw to it that the content of the new literary and artistic works was sufficiently ideological. For instance, they decided to produce an opera about the anti-Japanese guerrilla struggles in a form resembling The Song of Shim Ch’ong, a traditional Korean opera (ch’angguk).19 Cultural nationalism was also stimulated by the leadership’s increasing concern with national unification. In May 1958, Han Sol-ya, North Korea’s cultural tsar, called upon northern intellectuals to appreciate the efforts of “progressive” South Korean writers.20 He had good reason to say so. For instance, in December 1957, Kim P’al-tong, an influential South Korean writer, published an article in which he boldly declared that since national unification by force was unrealizable, the regime of President Syngman Rhee should abandon the empty slogan of “March to the North.”21 The connection between North Korean cultural nationalism and Kim Il Sung’s unification policies became particularly clear after the South Korean revolution that toppled Rhee’s dictatorship in 1960. Encouraged by the downfall of his archenemy, Kim did his best to convince South Korean public opinion of his goodwill and flexibility. Apart from adopting a cooperative stance toward the new Republic of Korea (ROK) authorities, he also reinforced nationalist propaganda. Anxious to demonstrate that the North was more concerned with cultivating national culture than the South, Radio Pyongyang’s broadcasts hardly included any foreign musical compositions.22 Kim’s drive to impress southern public opinion through nationalist propaganda played an ambivalent role in his relationship with the Soviet Union. On the one hand, it created considerable friction, since the DPRK sought to downplay the importance of the economic assistance it had received from the Communist states. When the KWP leaders claimed that they had reconstructed war-torn North Korea mainly through their own efforts, the Soviets rightly felt offended.23 On the other hand, Pyongyang’s proclaimed intention to influence South Korean public opinion constituted a useful smokescreen that concealed North Korean cultural nationalism’s additional aim of shielding the DPRK from the effects of Soviet de-Stalinization. When the Sino-Soviet conflict became public in mid-1960, Kim Il Sung’s first reaction was to isolate the DPRK from “harmful” external influences. In October 1960, the KWP leadership passed a resolution that condemned “flunkeyism” (sadaejuui), and criticized the indiscriminate adoption of foreign experiences. In early 1961, North Korean journals hardly published

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anything about the cultural life of the “fraternal” countries, nor did theaters stage the works of foreign playwrights.24 Nevertheless, cultural nationalism was kept within certain limits, due to both domestic and diplomatic considerations. For one thing, not only foreign works but also classical Korean dramas were missing from the repertoire of North Korean theaters in 1960−61. In November 1960, Kim Il Sung told writers and artists that they should devote greater attention to the present Ch’ollima era. Culture should serve the purposes of revolution, the dictator declared.25 Secondly, Kim was not yet ready for an open confrontation with Moscow. Worried by the protests of certain Communist embassies, in March 1961 the KWP CC instructed journalists not to ignore the cultural achievements of the “fraternal” countries. During that month, the press hardly published any article on chuch’e. These developments were at least partly related to the visit of a high-ranking Soviet delegation in June, during which the North Koreans made considerable efforts to appear cooperative. They had good reason to do so, because in May, a military coup had taken place in South Korea. Unsure whether the putsch constituted a favorable or unfavorable turn, Kim could not afford to alienate his allies. In the summer of 1961, he visited Moscow, and signed a treaty of mutual assistance with the Soviet Union.26 Nevertheless, the very same copy of Nodong Sinmun that announced Kim’s coming visit to the Soviet Union also carried an article that harshly criticized the foreword added to the Soviet edition of a North Korean work, The History of Korea. That attack, motivated probably by the desire of demonstrating that the DPRK was not a Soviet stooge, was not the first incident of this kind. In 1959, the Soviet and North Korean academies of sciences agreed to publish a joint monograph, but when the Soviets proposed certain “revisions” in the Korean chapters that exaggerated Kim’s role in the anti-Japanese struggle, the North Koreans flatly refused to make changes. The joint monograph was never published.27 North Korea’s complex attitude toward the Soviet Union also manifested itself in the cultural policies that the KWP leaders pursued in the immediate aftermath of the twenty-second Soviet party congress (October 1961), at which Khrushchev once again denounced Stalin. This new outburst of de-Stalinization naturally alarmed Kim Il Sung, but at first he tried to avoid an open confrontation with Moscow. During the Soviet-DPRK “month of friendship” (October 15−November 15), North Korean theaters staged various Russian and other foreign operas to express Pyongyang’s readiness to cultivate cultural ties with the “fraternal” countries.28 Kim’s cooperativeness did not last long, however. Afraid of the growing “contagion” of de-Stalinization, in December 1961 he started taking repressive

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measures. Radio Pyongyang ceased to broadcast Moscow’s Korean programs. A domestic manifestation of this campaign was an attack on a comedy written by a certain Kim Ch’ang-sok. Since the play made fun of the bureaucratic regulations that hindered, rather than facilitated, industrial production, it was declared a “revisionist” work influenced by “decadent European art.” The attack was apparently aimed at intimidating the intelligentsia and preventing the spread of the ideas of de-Stalinization.29 Marilyn Monroe and the Great Leader: The Cultural Aspects of Soviet−North Korean Reconciliation By the early 1960s, Kim Il Sung’s cult reached extreme proportions. Even the gate of the Pyongyang zoo was adorned by a big picture of the Great Leader until the sarcastic comments of the Communist diplomats finally persuaded the authorities to remove it.30 Nevertheless, Kim’s cult was still subject to certain fluctuations. For instance, in late 1965 and in the first half of 1966, the cult seems to have been deliberately curtailed by the top leadership. In January 1966, a Hungarian diplomat observed a recent decrease in the number of poems and songs written about Kim Il Sung.31 “His largescale pictures or statues have been removed from several public buildings and clubs,” the embassy reported in mid-1966. “His ‘appearances’ in cultural life underwent a conspicuous decline … many works depicting him have been removed from the Museum of Fine Arts.”32 This temporary decrease of Kim’s cult may have been related to the renewal of Soviet−North Korean cooperation that followed the replacement of Khrushchev (October 1964) and the visit of Premier Alexei Kosygin in the DPRK (February 1965). After all, in December 1955 and December 1956, Kim Il Sung had also temporarily reduced his own cult in order to alleviate Moscow’s suspicions and demonstrate his capability for change. Further evidence supporting this explanation is to be found in the cultural policies that the KWP leadership pursued in 1965−1966. Laying less emphasis on the depiction of the anti-Japanese guerrilla struggle than in the early 1960s, North Korean cultural journals started to publish a remarkably high number of articles about foreign writers, artists, directors, and actors, such as “The Art of Donatello,” “Eisenstein,” and “The Tragedy of Marilyn Monroe.”33 In all probability, many of these articles were inspired more by diplomatic than domestic considerations. That is, they were to demonstrate Pyongyang’s interest in the outside world and its readiness for cultural cooperation with foreign countries. After all, Marilyn Monroe had died some three years before, and none of her films were ever shown in North Korean cinemas anyway.

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The cultural policies of the mid-1960s also demonstrated the regime’s complex and ambivalent attitude toward Korea’s cultural heritage. For instance, the cadres in charge of cultural policies broadened the repertoire of Radio Pyongyang’s musical programs so as to include more foreign operas and symphonies, but the newly written revolutionary and patriotic operas were to be based on Korean folk music. In dancing, the cultivation of national traditions proved particularly intense, whereas Korean-style painting on silk and paper was no longer practiced. In painting and sculpture, there was a stronger focus on Kim Il Sung and the anti-Japanese guerrilla struggle than in other spheres of culture.34 Political guidelines appeared strikingly changeable, however. In October 1966, the authorities held an art exhibition at which the primary emphasis was laid on economic production and the joys of family life. Paintings about the anti-Japanese resistance, the Korean War, and Kim Il Sung were conspicuously rare.35 This tendency stood in a marked contrast not only with the topics of previous artistic works but also with the contemporaneous trend of North Korean foreign policy. After all, the exhibition coincided with a KWP conference at which the leadership, adopting a highly belligerent attitude toward South Korea, resolved to increase defense expenditures to a staggering extent. Whence this strange discrepancy between the peace-oriented art exhibition and the militant party conference? A possible explanation is that the North Korean leaders, trying to present their military preparations as being of a defensive nature, held the exhibition with a view to convince Moscow that they did not harbor any aggressive intentions. Remarkably, at the time of the conference Kim Il Sung sought to allay the fears of the Soviet-bloc countries by informing (or rather misinforming) the Romanian ambassador as follows: “China repeatedly tried to persuade the DPRK not to pursue a policy of economic construction, because, according to the Chinese evaluation, the USA will soon launch a new war in Korea, in which case everything will be destroyed anyway. Kim Il Sung remarked that they had rejected this Chinese conception.”36 “Folk Music is the Music of Slaves, Serfs, Landlords and Drunkards”: North Korea and China’s Cultural Revolution It was not without reason that Kim tried to ingratiate himself with the Soviets by contrasting his standpoint with that of the Chinese leadership. Partly due to the post-1964 renewal of Soviet-DPRK cooperation, the relationship between North Korea and China underwent a gradual deterioration during the period 1965−1968. Sino-DPRK friction produced a perceptible effect on North Korean cultural policies, all the more so because it was interrelated with Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution.

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“Now the Chinese are noisily making a Cultural Revolution,” North Korean military leader O Chin-u acidly told an East German delegation. “They ought to work instead.”37 This remark was but one of the numerous critical comments which the KWP cadres made on the political turmoil in China. In 1966−1967, North Korean cultural measures were considerably influenced by the intention of disassociating the DPRK from Chinese policies. For instance, in the summer of 1966, a North Korean newspaper published a series of articles that extensively described how the Chinese emperors had made repeated attempts to subjugate Korea. Highlighting the rich traditions of Korean national resistance against Chinese, Japanese, and American expansionism, the North Korean cadres questioned a central tenet of the Cultural Revolution that claimed that no representative of the “exploiting classes” could have ever played a positive historical role. As the officials of a North Korean museum told a Hungarian journalist in mid1966, in Korea’s history, “everybody was ready to sacrifice his life for national independence, no matter whether he was rich or poor.”38 Cultural nationalism reached new heights in 1972 when Kim Il Sung instructed cadres to excavate royal tombs, collect Buddhist cultural objects, and open a new Museum of Ethnography for the treasures of Korean national culture. When a delegation of Hungarian museologists visited the DPRK in April-May 1973, their hosts told them that even a museum of Buddhist art might be established in the future.39 However, there were also sharply divergent tendencies in North Korean cultural policies. In October 1973, Chu Chae-yul, the head of a main department in the ministry of culture, informed a Hungarian diplomat about the guidelines of North Korean cultural policy as follows: In the works of art, one must depict people who are loyal to the party and the revolution. National cultural traditions are cultivated in accordance with the interests of socialism. In South Korea, American imperialism is spreading bourgeois culture, against whose intrusion a wide-ranging struggle must be launched. [The DPRK authorities] also fight for the elimination of bourgeois lifestyles from everyday life, from the people’s attitude towards life. They reject those attempts which want to restore obsolete, old things. There are some people who want to bring back or retain backward things on the pretext of cultivating national culture [emphasis added]. The objective [of the authorities] is to facilitate the birth of socialist realist works of art.40

If these words were somewhat obscure, the KWP leaders soon made it all too clear what they had in mind. In August-September 1974, a Hungarian cultural delegation visiting the DPRK heard from a Romanian

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cinematic delegation that a deputy minister of culture had made the following statement in the Romanians’ presence: “[We] regard folk music as the music of slaves, serfs, landlords, and drunkards, which is unsuitable for instilling enthusiasm in the workers.” The Hungarian delegation, on its part, was greatly impressed by the rich historical collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, but much less so by modern North Korean music: The operas we saw are actually not operas in the European sense but imitations of some mixture of the shallowest kind of 19th-century European salon music and melodrama, in whose musical material, apart from the influence of European light music, there is no trace of Korean or East Asian folk music. Its rhythm is that of German and Italian light music: the rhythm of waltz and other fashionable 19th-century dances is common.41

While these antitraditionalist tendencies may have been more pronounced in music than in other spheres of culture, they were extensive enough to catch the attention of other Hungarian visitors as well. In November-December 1975, a Hungarian educational delegation reported the following: By [speaking about] the struggle against Confucianism, they mean the struggle against old ideas, views, architectural styles, and arts. On the basis of our limited experiences, we feel that the DPRK is potentially in danger of losing its folk art, ancient musical culture, and architectural style … When we asked them whether they taught the classics in music education, they answered with a definite no. They explained that they taught only that kind of art which facilitates the construction of socialism, and is capable of serving this purpose … Every child must learn to play at least one musical instrument. For instance, piano accordions are very common. We asked whether it was to be considered an instrument of folk music. They replied that it was. However, they started to use this musical instrument only after 1953. We also saw ancient instruments of folk music. All the songs which they played on the latter were works of living composers.42

Whence came these glaring inconsistencies between the leadership’s 1972 campaign to cultivate Korean cultural traditions and the aforementioned manifestations of antitraditionalism? One possible reason was that the various spheres of North Korean cultural life, as described earlier, were often treated differently by the KWP leadership. Measures taken in one field were not necessarily accompanied by simultaneous and analogous steps in others. Secondly, the regime’s cultural policies were probably influenced by the twists and turns of inter-Korean relations. Remarkably, the campaign for

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cultivating national traditions was launched in a period when the DPRK-ROK relationship underwent a brief improvement. For instance, on July 4, 1972, the leaders of the two Koreas issued a joint declaration stressing that “a great national unity, as a homogeneous people, shall be sought first, transcending differences in ideas, ideologies and systems.” This emphasis on common national identity probably inspired North Korean efforts to preserve Korean cultural traditions. Another benefit of the unification talks was a temporary relaxation of North Korean domestic policies. To make a good impression on southern public opinion, in 1971−1972 the KWP leaders increased the variety and availability of consumer goods, and raised state expenditures on culture and education. This new approach also implied a certain toleration of “bourgeois lifestyles.” As a Hungarian report noted in February 1972, “Nowadays one can see women wearing fur coats (this was previously regarded as a sign of bourgeois lifestyle). We have heard from Koreans that women are no longer afraid of taking out those beautiful articles of clothing which they kept hidden in chests, and they are no longer criticized for it.”43 The North-South dialogue soon came to a deadlock, however. Having consolidated his power by introducing the repressive “Yushin constitution,” in June 1973, the South Korean president Park Chung Hee expressed his disinterest in rapid national unification by proposing the admittance of both Koreas to the United Nations.44 Under such circumstances, inter-Korean relations became increasingly tense. “Differences in ideas, ideologies, and systems” were once again considered more important than “great national unity.” Hence Chu Chae-yul’s fulminations against “bourgeois culture,” “bourgeois lifestyles,” and “obsolete, old, backward things,” and the stress he laid on socialist realism. Thirdly, the regime’s antitraditionalist drive probably gained inspiration from the last phase of China’s Cultural Revolution (1973−1976). The diplomatic situation appeared favorable for such an influence, because in 1973, Sino-DPRK relations were incomparably more cordial than during the period 1966−1968. In 1969−1970, China began to make efforts to achieve reconciliation with North Korea, and Pyongyang was quick to respond. Moreover, the KWP leaders soon started to “lean to the Chinese side.” In the first half of 1974, the North Korean press covered China more extensively and sympathetically than the Soviet bloc, and it also published news about the Chinese campaign against Lin Biao and Confucius. That campaign, which sharply condemned both Confucian traditions and European classical music, had much in common with North Korea’s antitraditionalist cultural policies.45 In fact, the process of Sino-DPRK reconciliation led to a gradual North Korean “reinterpretation” of the Cultural Revolution. As early as 1970, during a visit of the Chinese premier Zhou Enlai, the KWP leaders started making positive comments on the Cultural Revolution.46 In 1971, at a

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reception held by the Chinese ambassador, the chief of staff O Chin-u summarized the achievements of the Cultural Revolution as follows: “The Chinese people smashed the revisionists’ attempts to restore capitalism, and reinforced the dictatorship of the proletariat.”47 In May 1972, the North Korean press announced that the KWP’s publishing house had just published Mao Zedong’s “Remarks on Art and Literature,” a speech that played an important symbolic role at the start of the Cultural Revolution.48 Nevertheless, the cultural policies that the KWP leaders pursued in the early 1970s were also used for reinforcing Soviet-DPRK cooperation. For instance, in early March 1972, a North Korean opera ensemble performed a revolutionary opera in Moscow. Its visit came wholly unexpected for the Soviet side, because it had not been included in the joint annual plan for cultural cooperation. The sudden announcement of the trip indicated that this program was not motivated by cultural considerations alone.49 In fact, the ensemble’s performances took place right after the U.S. president Richard Nixon visited China during the period February 21−28. Although on March 4 Nodong Sinmun, the KWP daily, publicly approved his trip on the grounds that it revealed the bankruptcy of Taiwanese and South Korean diplomacy,50 the KWP leaders seem to have concluded that the improvement of Sino-U.S. relations might isolate not only the ROK but the DPRK as well. But if they intended to offset their pro-Chinese gestures by reinforcing their cultural cooperation with Moscow, their efforts yielded only limited results. Their revolutionary opera patently failed to impress the Soviet audience. The Soviet organizers found it difficult to recruit a sufficient number of spectators, and of those who did attend, many left during the break.51 “The Boss Overstates the Issue to Warn Other Countries”: Diplomatic Conflict over a Mistranslated Poem In North Korea, even a trivial matter of cultural exchange could result in a diplomatic confrontation. This was what happened in 1976 when the North Koreans accused a Mongolian diplomat of having mistranslated and distorted a North Korean poetic work, Cho Ki-ch’on’s Paektusan. On April 24, the deputy foreign minister Chong Yong-su summoned the Mongolian ambassador, and rudely demanded that the Mongolian translation of the work be withdrawn from circulation; that a new, “correct” translation be made; and that “appropriate measures” be taken (read: a Mongolian apology be made) to wind up the affair. Predictably, the Mongolian government declined to fulfill these demands, whereupon on June 4 the North Korean foreign ministry declared the hapless diplomat-cum-translator persona non grata, and promptly expelled him from the DPRK.52

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At first sight, the North Korean demands appeared quite incomprehensible. As a Mongolian diplomat acidly told a North Korean official, “The book was published [in Mongolia] in 1973, and the issue is raised in Pyongyang in 1976. Surely one needed such a long time three years to check the translation.” The Mongolian foreign ministry pointedly asked the DPRK ambassador why the North Koreans “considered a few lines of a poem more important than the relations between the [two] countries.” But an off-the-record remark made by a deputy departmental head of the North Korean foreign ministry revealed that the alleged mistranslation was probably just a pretext. As he put it, “The boss overstates the issue to warn other countries.”53 That is, the debate was not an exclusively bilateral affair. In all probability, the “other countries” included the Soviet Union as well, for the Mongolian government was well-known for its loyalty to Moscow. And in 1976, when the translation incident took place, Soviet-DPRK relations were indeed far from harmonious. At that time, Pyongyang tried to persuade the Soviet Union and its satellites to make a strong public commitment to the cause of Korean unification, but its requests evoked little more than evasive responses from the Soviet bloc.54 Moreover, in 1975−1976 the North Korean economy underwent a serious crisis, during which Moscow did not give Pyongyang as much economic support as the latter wanted.55 It seems that the North Koreans used the aforesaid trivial cultural problem as a pretext to express their dissatisfaction with Soviet policies. Since a direct confrontation with the Kremlin would have been too risky, Kim Il Sung picked on a weaker opponent. And yet it was probably not entirely accidental that the KWP leaders chose Cho Ki-ch’on’s Paektusan for this purpose. Namely, this work dealt with a highly sensitive political topic, the liberation of North Korea from Japanese rule. Its original text, written in 1951 when Kim Il Sung was already the glorified supreme leader of the DPRK but Soviet influence was still strong, gave credit for Korea’s liberation both to Kim’s guerrillas and the Soviet army.56 Actually, Kim played no role whatsoever in the 1945 campaign.57 Nevertheless, North Korean propagandists, striving to enhance his nationalist credentials, started to claim that “General Kim Il Sung overthrew Japanese imperialism and liberated the Fatherland” as early as 1948.58 Following the post-1960 deterioration of Soviet-DPRK relations, the KWP leaders did their best to hush up Moscow’s crucial contribution to the liberation of their country. As Bruce Cumings remarked, “even in the 1980s both regimes still needle[d] each other about who liberated Korea.”59 Under these circumstances, the DPRK authorities republished Paektusan in a heavily edited form that downplayed the Soviet role in Korea’s liberation and laid the main emphasis on the (alleged) exploits of Kim Il Sung. Predictably,

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the Soviets did not translate the version that denigrated their wartime efforts, but they were circumspect enough not to republish the first version either. In contrast, the Mongolian translation, based as it was on the first edition, was published in 1973, that is, well after the creation of the second version. This gave Pyongyang an opportunity to demand a retranslation.60 Still, the fact that the North Koreans ignored the issue for three years indicates that the translation was indeed only a pretext for the conflict in 1976. Similarly, the real target of Kim Il Sung’s confrontational act was not Mongolia, a quantité négligeable in East Asian power politics, but its overlord, the Soviet Union. Fourteen Basketfuls of Flowers: Cultural Cooperation in the Shadow of Diplomatic Confrontation If Soviet-DPRK relations had been tense in 1976, they underwent further deterioration in the following years. In August 1978, Kim Il Sung made a public speech in which he sharply criticized the practice of chibaejuui (dominationism). This word was conspicuously similar to the Chinese term “hegemonism,” which Beijing used to vilify the Soviet Union, and the similarity was by no means accidental.61 From the spring to the early fall of that year, Pyongyang adopted a demonstratively unfriendly attitude toward the Soviets and their Vietnamese allies. North Korean newspapers frequently republished the anti-Soviet articles of the Chinese press. The DPRK, a close ally of the Pol Pot regime, harshly condemned the Vietnamese invasion of Kampuchea, but made no comment when China attacked Vietnam in retaliation. Since the Soviet Union approved of Vietnam’s Kampuchean policy, Pyongyang’s hostility toward Hanoi led to Soviet-DPRK disagreements as well.62 In the light of these signs of Soviet-DPRK friction, it appears quite surprising that in late 1978, cultural cooperation between Pyongyang and Moscow underwent a sudden improvement. On October 26, 1978—that is, only two months after Kim Il Sung’s “antidominationism” speech— North Korea’s minister of culture asked the Soviet ambassador to prolong the stay of a visiting Soviet ensemble by a whole week. The ambassador concluded that the request must have been motivated by political, rather than cultural, considerations. He was soon proven right. The North Koreans treated the ensemble with maximum courtesy. After their performance in one of Pyongyang’s largest theaters, the Soviets were given no less than fourteen basketfuls of flowers, a gesture that the Soviet ambassador rightly called “unprecedented.” Another unprecedented event was that in the same month, the episodes of the Soviet series Seven Days in May were shown on North Korean television on a daily basis.63

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These generous measures could not fully allay Soviet suspicions. For instance, most of the Soviet films shown on North Korean television in December 1978 were movies made in the Stalin era, rather than newer, less dogmatic productions. As the Hungarian diplomats noted, “these are ‘acceptable’ for the local viewers, they are more compatible with the films currently produced in the DPRK, and are in accordance with the DPRK’s policies. [By showing] these movies, they also suggest that in those days, things were all right in the Soviet Union, whereas now there are problems.”64 Still, the Kremlin at least partly appreciated Pyongyang’s efforts, not the least because in 1978−1979 the North Koreans adopted a similarly cooperative stance during their commercial negotiations with the Soviet Union. Despite their well-deserved reputation as notorious defaulters, on this occasion they even repaid a part of the credit they had earlier received from Moscow.65 Kim Il Sung’s unexpected cooperativeness toward the Soviet Union seems to have been rooted in his increasing distrust of China. In 1978, Sino-Japanese rapprochement culminated in the conclusion and ratification of a peace treaty in August and October, respectively. From Pyongyang’s perspective, ChineseJapanese reconciliation was a potentially adverse development, because once Beijing managed to normalize its relations with Tokyo, it was no longer interested in supporting the DPRK to an extent that would have alienated Japan. Remarkably, in October, the month in which the Sino-Japanese treaty was ratified, Sino−North Korean relations started to deteriorate, whereas the SovietDPRK relationship, as described above, underwent a sudden improvement, at least in certain spheres.66 Since the debate over the Vietnamese-Kampuchean conflict prevented any far-reaching diplomatic cooperation between Moscow and Pyongyang, the KWP leaders probably regarded cultural and economic cooperation as a partial substitute of political normalization. “They Almost Met the Criteria of Racism”: The Seoul Olympiad and North Korea’s Cultural Offensive In the mid-1980s, cultural cooperation between Pyongyang and Moscow underwent further intensification. While previously only Kim Il Sung University and Lomonosov University had cooperated with each other, in 1985−1986 several additional North Korean colleges established contacts with Soviet institutes of higher education.67 A higher number of foreign literary works were published in the DPRK than before, though the books in question mostly belonged to the category of “politically harmless” juvenile literature. In 1985, North Korean television showed foreign (mostly Soviet) films on a weekly basis, whereas previously only on foreign national holidays had such films been shown in the DPRK. As the Hungarian embassy reported,

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In the DPRK, there is also a generally increasing interest in the art of the socialist countries . . . They repeatedly emphasized that they want to study [our] music and art of dancing. There is already some sign of a change in this field, too. The repertoire of the Mansudae Ensemble splendidly combines traditional Korean dances with the more discreet elements of modern disco or jazz.68

The Soviet diplomats were quick to note that these positive tendencies in North Korean cultural and educational policies started after Kim Il Sung visited the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe in May-June 1984.69 This visit, an event of great diplomatic significance, brought substantial economic benefits for the DPRK. Among others, the CPSU leaders promised him that the Soviet Union would build a nuclear power plant in the DPRK.70 In February 1985, a Soviet planning delegation visited Pyongyang and reached a preliminary agreement on the construction of nuclear reactors.71 No wonder that in this year, North Korea started to adopt a friendlier attitude toward the Soviet Union. But North Korea’s increasing cultural flexibility had other dimensions as well. “Recently, the number of revolutionary operas and films has undergone a decrease,” a Hungarian diplomat reported in February 1986. The movies produced by Shin Sang Ok (a famous South Korean director whom the North Korean authorities had abducted in 1978) depicted North Korea’s social problems, such as food shortages and the difficulties which young people encountered in starting out on their careers, in a relatively open, colorful, and critical way. Shin’s films, some of which even earned prizes abroad, also sought to draw attention to the issue of national unification.72 It seems that in this period, the KWP leaders, doing their best to persuade the International Olympic Committee (IOC) to let Pyongyang stage some of the events of the 1988 Seoul Olympiad, made great efforts to make a good impression on foreign observers, including South Korean public opinion. From October 1985 to July 1987, four inter-Korean meetings took place in Lausanne under the auspices of the IOC, during which the North Koreans persistently demanded that as many as eight full sports programs be allocated to the DPRK.73 To boost their cause, the northern leaders repeatedly declared their readiness to solve the problems of the Korean Peninsula by peaceful means.74 By 1988, however, Kim Il Sung must have reached the conclusion that his moderate policies had failed to yield the desired diplomatic results. In 1987, both the Soviet Union and China showed increasing readiness to normalize their relations with South Korea. In October, the Soviet ambassador told his Hungarian counterpart that “on the long run it is unsustainable not to recognize an existing state structure in any form.”75 In December, direct presidential elections were held in the ROK, resulting in the victory of the government

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candidate Roh Tae Woo, whom North Korean propagandists had denounced as a fascist. Roh’s victory was welcomed not only by the United States and Japan but also by the Chinese leaders.76 Worse still, Pyongyang’s attempts to cohost the Olympics on its own terms ended in a failure, and North Korean complicity in the destruction of a South Korean civilian airplane in November 1987 further tarnished the DPRK’s image.77 Unable to catch up with South Korea’s “economic miracle,” the KWP leaders had few cards left to demonstrate that the DPRK, at least in certain fields, was still superior over the ROK. One such card was cultural nationalism. North Korean propaganda consistently accused the southern government of neglecting Korean national culture in favor of American mass culture. As Radio Pyongyang put it in 1985, “the South Korean flunkeyist traitors . . . opened the gates of the South so that the Yankee pig, covered with dirt, can rush in and run wildly about at will in the beautiful and noble flower garden of our national culture.”78 Anxious to show that the DPRK, unlike the ROK, was proud of Korea’s rich cultural heritage, in January 1988 the KWP CC called upon its cadres to make efforts “to prove the superiority of the Korean nation.”79 This focus on cultural nationalism also reflected the regime’s dissatisfaction with the policies of its putative allies, its stubborn “go-it-alone” approach, and its feeling of isolation. It was under these circumstances that the North Korean Academy of Social Sciences held an international conference on Korean studies from May 11 to May 13, 1988. The organizers made no secret of their intention to offset South Korea’s influence in international Korean studies. As the Hungarian embassy reported, It was conspicuous that [the North Koreans] strove to prove the distinctiveness of Korean culture from [the culture of ] the neighboring countries and the region. Then they attempted to prove that Korea had been the cultural cradle of the region, that its neighbors must trace back their culture to this place. Without sufficient historical basis and factual evidence, they traced back the origins of the united Korean nation and state to the era of tribal communities. They laid great emphasis on the homogeneous character of the [Korean] nation, and on the disclamation of the possibility of a historical amalgamation with other peoples. The head of the Soviet delegation underlined that they almost met the criteria of racism in asserting the historical and contemporary superiority of the Korean nation [emphasis in the original].80

Predictably, this attitude found little appreciation among the foreign scholars present. Debates between the hosts and the foreign delegations were particularly frequent in the panel dealing with economics and economic

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history, since the guests disagreed with the idea that the South Korean economy was in a grave crisis for which national unification was the only possible solution. The Chinese participant went so far as to refute Kim Il Sung’s theses on economic development one by one.81 These disagreements mirrored the increasing divergence between North Korea’s unrealizable diplomatic objectives and the pragmatic goals of the Soviet Union, China, and the East European countries.

Conclusion As recent events showed, North Korea is still using cultural policies to further its diplomatic aims. For instance, in February 2008, the leadership allowed the first-ever American musicians—the New York Philharmonic—to enter the DPRK. Foreign observers were quick to realize that the invitation was motivated by Kim Jong Il’s intention to create a favorable atmosphere for the talks about the dismantling of Pyongyang’s nuclear weapons program. To quote Stephen Bosworth, former U.S. ambassador to South Korea, “It’s not because he personally just can’t wait to hear the New York Philharmonic. He did it because I think he’s trying to send a signal.” All in all, the North Korean leaders, despite their reputation for inflexibility and cultural dogmatism, seem to have pursued a relatively sophisticated cultural diplomacy throughout the post−Korean War decades. Having realized the importance of mobilizing the “soft power” of culture against their domestic and South Korean opponents, they also utilized it vis-à-vis their Communist allies, most notably the Soviet Union. In the multilayered system of party and state organizations through which the regime sought to influence the policies of other countries, cultural institutions constituted a sphere that was as strictly controlled and as arbitrarily managed as the ministries of defense, foreign affairs, and external trade, but whose actions did not necessarily duplicate the measures of any of the latter apparatuses. The frequency of sudden shifts in Kim Il Sung’s cultural policies revealed that the cultural sphere lacked any real autonomy. Had North Korean writers and artists enjoyed more freedom to decide what to write and paint, the abrupt changes from traditionalism to antitraditionalism, or from extremism to moderation, would have hardly taken place. While some of these changes may have been partly stimulated by genuine intellectual debates, such debates would not have produced several successive voltefaces within a two- or three-year period, let alone within a single year (as it happened in 1954−1955, 1956, 1957−1958, 1965−1966, 1972−1974, 1978, 1986−1988, and so on).

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It is somewhat surprising how changeable and inconsistent the leadership’s own cultural guidelines were (at least in the works that were made accessible for foreigners). Beyond the all-important and permanent aim of keeping culture under strict control and a somewhat vague commitment to “realism” (as opposed to “formalism”), there was no constant and fixed standpoint on the content and national/nonnational style of the works to be produced. Although the overpoliticization of artistic themes proved all too common, it happened more than once that the regime intentionally shifted emphasis from military and revolutionary topics to landscapes and the depiction of everyday life. Even cultural nationalism and Kim Il Sung’s personality cult, both of which were supposedly central and inviolable tenets of North Korean cultural policy, could be temporarily downplayed (see, for instance, the events of 1955−1956, 1965−1966, and 1973−1974). These inconsistencies manifested themselves in not only a diachronic but also a synchronic way. Firstly, the cultivation of national cultural traditions was not always equally intense in every sphere of cultural life. Secondly, there were numerous discrepancies between the cultural, economic, diplomatic, and military steps taken by the regime. Hard-line or confrontational measures taken in one sphere often coincided with “soft” measures in another. In some cases, there were analogous tendencies in two spheres (for instance, economy and culture) but a markedly different trend reigned in a third one (as it happened in December 1955 and the end of 1978). The frequent coincidence of cultural shifts with diplomatic turns suggests that the aforesaid inconsistencies and abrupt volte-faces were at least partly rooted in the effect that the twists and turns of North Korean foreign policy produced on the country’s domestic sphere. After all, the tectonic motions of Sino-Soviet, Soviet-American, and U.S.-Chinese relations were beyond the control of the KWP leaders, who nevertheless sought to retain their independence. They often had to adapt their policies to the changing international circumstances, but, due to both their own stubborn nationalism and the obstacles created by the Sino-Soviet rift, this adaptation usually remained partial and selective. Cooperation with one Communist giant in a particular field was frequently counterbalanced with collaboration with the other colossus in another sphere. In this elaborate game, cultural diplomacy played an important role. Nevertheless, Kim Il Sung’s efforts to achieve rapprochement with a country through cultural cooperation were rarely, if ever, able to neutralize the negative effect caused by his earlier hostile political acts. In the last analysis, the “soft power” of culture seems to have lost out to the “hard power” of diplomatic and military interests.

CHAPTER 10

From Yaowaraj to Plabplachai: The Thai State and Ethnic Chinese in Thailand during the Cold War Wasana Wongsurawat, Chulalongkorn University

Introduction After the conclusion of the Second World War, two incidents that may be categorized as “race riots” took place in Bangkok’s Chinatown. The first was the Yaowaraj Incident of September 1945. The second was known as the Plabplachai Incident of July 1974. The precipitating causes of the two incidents were quite different. The Yaowaraj Incident began as a clash between overseas Chinese demonstrators preparing for the Double-Ten anniversary of the establishment of the Republic of China, and the Thai police, who demanded that the demonstrators display the Thai national flag along with the national flag of the Republic of China. On the other hand, the Plabplachai Incident was triggered when two police officers attempted to arrest a taxi driver for parking illegally in Chinatown. The taxi driver’s loud protests of police brutality stirred indignant passersby, and a threatening crowd soon appeared before the Plabplachai police station. Though they began differently, both incidents ended in a similar fashion: the Thai government declared a state of emergency; the Chinatown area was cordoned off, and heavily armed military and police units entered the area. Attempts to deal with the unrest turned into a massacre of rioters and innocent bystanders, with a few police casualties. Subsequently, both occasions were forgotten by the general public. Neither event was recorded in the commonly used, state-sanctioned history books.

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The timing of the Yaowaraj and Plabplachai riots must surely tease the curiosity of anyone browsing this period of Thai history. The first uprising, the Yaowaraj Incident, occurred right after the conclusion of the Second World War. The second uprising, the Plabplachai Incident, took place at a time close to a very important turning point in the Cold War in peninsular Southeast Asia—the decided victory of the Communists in the Vietnam War (1975). There is no denying that Cold War politics contributed to the tensions behind these riots and prompted Thai authorities to respond in the manner they did in both cases. After the Second World War, the meaning and understanding of nation and nationalism in Southeast Asia had been significantly challenged and restructured. During the course of three decades of the Cold War in Southeast Asia, the position and influence of the United States, the Soviet Union, and China developed and changed in unprecedented ways. Consequently, the position and the policies of a minor client state like Thailand were inevitably affected. As a transnational community located right in the middle of the ongoing nationalist struggles of the Cold War era, the overseas Chinese in Thailand came under tremendous political pressure from all parties involved. Conventional historiography of the Cold War in Southeast Asia tends to categorize Thailand as being squarely in the camp of the United States. Earlier works, such as Sean Randolph’s The United States and Thailand: Alliance Dynamics, 1950−19851 and Donald Nuechterlein’s Thailand and the Struggle for Southeast Asia,2 view the U.S.-Thai alliance during the Cold War as a case of matching necessities on both sides. That is, the United States viewed Thailand as strategically crucial for its military success in the Cold War on peninsular Southeast Asia. At the same time, Thailand depended on the United States for military and financial support that would in turn save its ruling classes from the possibility of a socialist revolution and ideological civil war that was, at the time, raging in neighboring countries. Daniel Fineman’s A Special Relationship: The United States and Military Government in Thailand, 1947−19583 strongly refutes Randolph and Nuechterlein’s view that Thailand entered the U.S. camp under pressure from political instability in its neighboring countries. Yet his argument that domestic politics in Thailand heavily influenced its U.S.-leaning policies during the Cold War years continues the conventional historiographical trend of putting U.S.-Thai relations at the center stage of the Cold War history of Thailand. More recent works concerning the Cold War on peninsular Southeast Asia, most outstanding among them Chris Goscha’s Thailand and the Southeast Asian Networks of Vietnamese Revolution, 1885−1954,4 employ more recently available socialist sources to argue for a far more complex

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network of Communist activities and a much higher level of influence from the socialist camp in this area of the Cold War than previously assumed. The intention of this chapter is to further explore the dynamics of the Cold War in Thailand according to this more recently available direction. By investigating the drastic transformation of the Thai state’s propaganda and public opinion concerning the overseas Chinese community in Thailand, I hope to clearly demonstrate that the United States, despite being of great importance, was far from being the only dominating influence in Thailand’s Cold War politics. China and the overseas Chinese, on the other hand, have been continuously present and highly influential in Thai politics and Thai government policies, both domestic and international, throughout the modern period. The Cold War era, which saw China politically split into the Communist People’s Republic of China, the Nationalist Republic of China (Taiwan), and colonial Hong Kong, hardly diminished the presence and influence of China and the overseas Chinese in Thailand. On the contrary, this era of ideological division in China accentuated the complexity of Sino-Thai relations as well as the complicated nature of the Thai state’s perspective and policies toward the overseas Chinese community. Among the postcolonial nations of Southeast Asia, Thailand has often been cited for its success story in racial assimilation, particularly as regards its ethnic minority of overseas Chinese, a group singled out for varying degrees of discrimination and racial violence in many parts of Southeast Asia. Unfortunately, it is also true that the history of the overseas Chinese community in Thailand, the largest in this region, has also been disproportionately less studied than similar communities in neighboring states. This oversight has been due in part to the Thai state’s continuing attempt to minimize any awkward differences between its overseas Chinese citizenry— the nation’s largest ethnic minority—and the rest of the population. That the memory of both the Yaowaraj and Plabplachai Incidents has been consigned to oblivion in the popular imagination suggests a number of things about the Thai government’s attitude toward the overseas Chinese population, and about the position of overseas Chinese within postcolonial Thai nationalist historiography as a whole. This chapter studies the changing policy and behavior of the Thai state toward the overseas Chinese community during the Cold War years. Most of the analyses here are based on official policies and statements by authorities and on the public responses expressed by various major Thai, English, and Chinese newspapers circulating in Thailand during the Cold War years. Archival records of communications between the Thai government and the foreign governments involved in each incident also shed some light on the degree of outside influence on the Thai government’s policies

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toward the overseas Chinese during that period. Finally, interviews with individuals involved in the Plabplachai Incident provide more personal interpretations of the events that took place through the perspective of people who experienced them firsthand. A careful study of the negotiations of the Thai state with this particular transnational community, one which had long been established as an ethnic and cultural other of the Thai people, helps clarify the Thais’ understanding of their own national identity, and their nationalist ideology in the Cold War era. The Yaowaraj Incident—September 20−21, 1945 Late September of 1945 was not an easy moment in Thailand in international politics. The former Thai minister to Washington and leader of the Free Thai Movement M. R. Seni Pramoj had only just taken office as prime minister on September 17. A peace agreement had yet to be signed by all the leading Allied Powers. The wartime prime minister, Field Marshal Pibulsongkram, had officially signed a Treaty of Alliance with Japan in 1941. He had also promulgated a long list of anti-Chinese laws and policies. Seni, who had led the Thai underground, anti-Japanese movement, now faced the daunting task of convincing the world that Thailand was a victim of Japanese imperialism, not a defeated Axis Power. By a strange turn of fate, of all the major leaders of the Allied Forces, Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek was the first and the most willing to acknowledge the work of the Free Thai Movement, and to urge that Thailand be allowed to remain sovereign and independent after the conclusion of the Second World War.5 Ironically, in light of the Generalissimo’s stand (though not surprisingly), there was a great deal of lingering resentment toward the Thai state apparatus among members of the overseas Chinese community in Thailand, and among their families and relations back in China. Suggestions had even been made by several leading academics in the Republic of China that Chinese troops be stationed in Thailand to protect the well-being of the overseas Chinese and to make sure that the Thai government carried out its promise to abolish all the anti-Chinese laws and regulations promulgated during the Pibulsongkram era.6 Although these suggestions were not taken up for serious discussion by any of the Allied leaders, they encouraged a pleasing sense of restored pride among the overseas Chinese in Thailand. The Thai ruling classes were only too well aware of the political circumstances. At the same time, however, they resented the pride in their ethnic roots being expressed by the local Chinese community. The Yaowaraj Incident of September 1945 was the violent outcome of a deadly combination of overly enthusiastic expressions of Chinese national

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pride and a severe sense of insecurity on the part of the Thai government. The incident began on Yaowaraj Road in Bangkok’s Chinatown at around 7:00 p.m. in the evening of September 20, 1945, when local police interrupted a group of overseas Chinese who were rehearsing for the celebration of the Chinese National Day due to take place on October 10. The police first informed the group that Thai law did not permit the public display of a foreign national flag without the mandatory accompaniment of the Thai national flag as well. When the group failed to produce a Thai national flag, the police attempted to remove Chinese national flags from the scene of the rehearsal, at which point the dispute took a violent turn. After failing to overpower the crowd of demonstrators, the police called for reinforcements. Chinatown was then completely cordoned off, and by 10:00 p.m. Yaowaraj Road was the scene of a full-scale shoot-out between police, military forces, and members of the Chinese community.7 According to Thai official reports, it was the overseas Chinese who fired the first bullets. The government then had no alternative but to declare a state of emergency and to deploy military forces to pacify the situation. The police claimed that the upper floors and roofs of the shop buildings on both sides of Yaowaraj Road were employed as pillboxes by Chinese snipers who fired at police and military personnel. Consequently, all shop buildings on Yaowaraj Road were subjected to a thorough search in attempts to capture these gunmen. According to official reports, the shooters were endangering the general public, who, in that particular area, were mostly ethnic Chinese rather than native Thai.8 Not surprisingly, the Yaowaraj Incident was portrayed in a completely different manner in newspapers back in China. Chinese news sources reported that the violence had been instigated by Thai police bullying a group of overseas Chinese who were peacefully rehearsing for the DoubleTen anniversary of the Chinese Republic. They criticized Thai authorities for employing draconian methods to suppress the unrest, and provided a more detailed report of the fighting. Thai authorities had managed to stop the gun battle between Chinese snipers and police in the early hours of September 21, but morning did not bring an end to the chaos. The police search of all shop buildings on Yaowaraj Road led to several waves of robbing, looting, and vandalism of overseas Chinese properties. Thai officials on the scene had turned a blind eye to robbers and looters, and certain military officers took advantage of the situation and engaged in these appalling criminal activities as well. Consequently, shop owners and their clerks on Yaowaraj Road and other nearby streets in Chinatown were forced to lock their premises and refrain from conducting business throughout the following week.9

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Much of what was reported in the Chinese press was not merely nationalist journalism. A report from the minister of interior to the prime minister outlines an investigation of allegations that police and military officers had engaged in robbery in the Chinatown area. This report clearly states that ten military officers from the Third Army Regiment were seen by a police officer—Police Lieutenant Put Buranasomphob—unlawfully arresting residents of the “An-Hiang-Lao” shop and illegally confiscating liquor and other valuables from showcases in the shop.10 According to Thai government documents, the situation was not brought completely under control until September 29. All Chinese stores in the Chinatown area were forced to lock up for the entire week following the violence on the night of September 20. Many Chinese stores throughout the country also ceased to operate during that period, either to protest the violence against the Chinese community, or out of fear of rising antiChinese sentiments among the general population. On September 24, a committee of personnel from the ministry of agriculture and the ministry of trade was established in order to cope with the mounting shortages throughout the country. By September 26, native Thai vendors and service providers, with the support of experts from the two ministries, had taken over the commercial spaces that had been operated by local overseas Chinese for many centuries.11 Prime Minister Seni had been in office for only three days when the incident occurred, and had to navigate through the crisis on a tightrope. Anti-Chinese sentiments among the general public had been fanned to such a degree during Pibulsongkram’s wartime regime that it made the postwar government’s task of promoting ethnic tolerance extremely difficult. At the same time, there was a great need to promote Sino-Thai relations and to ensure that China would support Thailand’s claim to a place among the victorious nations of the Second World War as well as her request for membership in the United Nations. Thai authorities who had carried out antiChinese policies all through the war years now experienced a grating sense of insecurity that is clearly expressed in this excerpt from a communiqué issued by the Department of Public Relations on September 24, 1945: “… The authorities wish to stress once more, so that the Chinese people may not be deceived about the sinful rumours of Siam being defeated in the war [and] that the persons who spread such rumours have impure intentions and desire only to cause public disorder and harmful happenings.”12

At the time of the Yaowaraj Incident, Thailand and China were still in the process of establishing formal diplomatic relations. Hence, the majority of

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communications between the two states were conducted through the Chinese Embassy and the Thai Legation in Washington, DC. After receiving complaints from the Chinese ambassador concerning the violence in Bangkok’s Chinatown, the Thai minister to Washington requested that the minister of foreign affairs issue a most urgent statement clarifying the situation and assuring the Chinese government that the Thai government had no intention of harassing or discriminating against overseas Chinese. The Thai Legation also published the article “Notable Achievements” in the local newspaper, Democracy, on September 30, 1945. In this article, the conflicts on Yaowaraj Road are described as already resolved, with everything returning to normal. It goes on to emphasize the growing mutual trust and understanding between Thailand and China, which, it was hoped, would lead to the successful establishment of formal diplomatic relations between the two countries.13 The Thai minister to Washington also notified the Chinese ambassador of the Thai government’s refusal to allow preferential treatment of Thai vendors who were trading and selling during the period when Chinese merchants were forced to lock up their shops. A report in the same set of documents states that, even though Thai vendors were encouraged to set up shop during the Chinese strike, the government had refused the Thai vendors’ request that the shop licenses of Chinese shopkeepers be revoked. This indicated the Thai government’s desire that Chinese traders return to business once circumstances were normal again.14 The Thai government also attempted to describe the casualties of the Yaowaraj Incident in relative terms in hopes of neutralizing the images of extreme ethnic violence that had been disseminated through international news coverage.15 While there is no way to refute the fact that the overseas Chinese in Thailand have been persecuted and discriminated against in various ways throughout most of the modern history of the country, it is also a fact that the degree of persecution and discrimination against overseas Chinese in Thailand remains much less severe in comparison to the situation in many of its neighboring countries. Eventually, the Chinese government sent a set of stern requests by way of the Chinese ambassador to Washington. They were delivered to the Thai minister on October 17, 1945: 1. The abuse of Chinese people in Thailand must come to an end as soon as possible. 2. The Chinese government has considered sending delegates to Bangkok to establish a better understanding [between China and Thailand] … This group of delegates could also help in the establishment of official diplomatic relations [between the two countries] in the future.”16

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The Thai government immediately accepted both requests put forward by the Chinese ambassador. The Thai minister to Washington, who had been meeting with the Chinese ambassador, relayed assurances of Prime Minister Seni Pramoj’s sincere desire to treat the overseas Chinese community fairly, reminding his Chinese counterpart that M. R. Seni had been known to be a true friend of China even when he was still serving as the Thai minister to Washington during the war years.17 The matter of who was truly responsible for instigating the violence that took place on Yaowaraj Road on the evening of September 20, 1945, has never been completely resolved. The Chinese government did deploy a group of delegates to join Thai authorities in investigating the incident. By early November of the same year, the Thai government published two articles related to the findings of the investigation in two local newspapers in the Washington, DC, area. The first was a propaganda piece, “Sino-Siamese Amity Promoted Further,” published in Liberty on November 2, 1945. It described further developments in Sino-Siamese relations after the alleged resolution of the Yaowaraj Incident. The second story was published in a smaller local newspaper three days later. It presented details of Seni’s press conference concerning the results of the investigation of what had become known as “the incident of the Chinese attacking Thai people.”18 The matter was then conveniently forgotten as the Thai government pressed forward for the establishment of formal diplomatic relations between China and Thailand—an attempt to ensure China’s support for Thailand’s application for membership in the United Nations. Xiong Jünling, the chairman of the Hakka Association of Thailand, was appointed the representative of all Chinese speech-group organizations in Thailand and of the prime minister himself. This representative was to request that the Chinese government in Chongqing enter into negotiations aimed at the establishment of formal diplomatic relations. The Siamese-Chinese Treaty of Amity, which provided for the exchange of diplomatic and consular representatives between the two nations, was signed on January 23, 1946.19 The Years Between and the Uprising of October 14, 1973 Much happened in Thai politics during the twenty-nine years that lay between the two biggest race riots in the history of modern Thailand. Among other things, the Cold War era forced Thailand into a key position in international politics. The United States, eager to retain its influence in the region, became deeply, and often inappropriately, involved in various domestic and political affairs of Thailand. In the course of fighting communism, Thailand descended into authoritarian dictatorship. One military

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dictator after another came to power with the blessings of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). The first and foremost was Field Marshal Pibulsongkram, who had declared war with the United States in 1941. At the conclusion of the Second World War, Pibul was charged with war crimes, only to return to office again in 1948. His second regime lasted nine years under the banner of anticommunism. In 1957, Pibulsongkram was ousted by another high-ranking soldier, his own chief lieutenant, Field Marshal Sarit Dhanarajata, who also swore allegiance to the United States and promised to protect Thailand from the rising tide of communism that was sweeping across East and Southeast Asia. Sarit ruled the nation with an iron hand up to his death in 1963. Along with abrogating the constitution, Sarit declared martial law, which remained the law of the land for the rest of his reign. The country functioned without a proper constitution for the following decade. Sarit’s was an era of rising neoconservativism. Severe censorship was imposed on all sorts of publications, especially the press. Many left-leaning politicians, academics, and journalists were arrested and imprisoned without trial. More than a few were executed by firing squad, under the notorious Article 17 of the Provisional Constitution of 1959, which allowed the prime minister to order the execution without trial of persons deemed to be grave threats to national security.20 For the overseas Chinese, Sarit’s ascension to power proved to be a mixed blessing. For those with inclinations toward left-wing politics, or with any degree of sympathy for the fledging Communist Party of Thailand, the times were difficult and dangerous. Sarit was keen on keeping the promise he had made with the declaration of martial law in 1958 that “measures more severe than have ever been used throughout the history of Thailand will be employed to suppress them [i.e. Communists and Communist sympathizers].”21 On the other hand, Chinese entrepreneurs quickly learned that a dictator’s patronage could be bought with hard cash, thereby bringing an end to the plague of political instability of the early postwar years. They were soon inviting powerful military personalities to join the board of directors of their companies. Respectable salaries and sizable commission fees for such intimate government liaisons assured that business would be free from the harassment of law enforcement. Such connections also cultivated a reliable flow of noncompetitive government contracts. When Sarit passed away in December 1963, he was succeeded by Field Marshal Thanom Kittikachorn, who had long been perceived as the heir apparent of Sarit’s dictatorship. This succession was peaceful and more or less without contest. But Thanom did not command the same absolute power as Sarit, and there were constant demands for a greater share of

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power by other members of the junta. Among the new power brokers in the military were Field Marshal Praphas Charusathien, Thanom’s brotherin-law, and Colonel Narong Kittikachorn, Thanom’s own son. Together, the triumvirate dominated the Thai political scene. Thanom remained the prime minister of Thailand for a full decade after Sarit’s passing. The history of Thai politics arrived at an important milestone in October of 1973. Protests broke out when the public caught the news that both Thanom and Praphas were making moves to extend their time in office beyond the official retirement age, which was approaching for both of them.22 Student demonstrations overflowed into the streets, with demands for a constitution and an end to military rule. The demonstrations turned violent when police and military officers in the area of the King’s residence at the Chitlada Palace started firing at the students on the morning of October 14. Thanom resigned that evening, and the King promptly broadcast a statement calling for an end to the violence. The monarch then appointed Sanya Dhammasak, a professor of law and rector of Thammasat University, as the caretaker prime minister. The violence subsided at daybreak on October 15 as rumors flew, and then, as public announcements by the government confirmed, that Thanom, Praphas, and Narong had fled the country. Thai politics has never been the same since the events of October 14, 1973. That uprising marked the end of the era of uncontested military dictatorship and the beginning of politically effective organizations of the educated middle class, especially university students. October 14 became the symbol of the people’s victory against what was, according to the popular imagination of the time, a corrupt and tyrannical regime. The Plabplachai Incident—July 3−7, 1974 The immediate aftermath of the October 14 Incident was the beginning of a hopeful-yet-short-lived era known as yook prachathippatai beng baan [The Era of Democracy in Full Bloom]. The new constitution was being drafted and was expected to come into effect within a year of the establishment of the October 1973 caretaker government. A democratic election was expected to take place within less than two years. It was supposed to be an era of openness, where trade unions found a voice and student organizations were allowed to engage fully in all sorts of liberal activism. In reality, however, all was not well underneath the façade of peace and harmony of Sanya’s caretaker regime. Much resentment remained among many groups closely connected to the old oligarchy within the military and civil service.

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The Plabplachai Incident took place less than a year after the October 14 Incident and was definitely the most damaging riot in the capital since the conclusion of the Second World War. While much of the violence was publicized in great detail in the Thai press, very little explanation is given concerning the actual causes of this devastating outburst of resentment toward the authorities. Although a special task force thoroughly investigated the incident, the government still failed to produce a logical description of what happened in the Bangkok Chinatown area during the violent days of July 1974. According to the major Thai-language newspapers of that era—Thairath, Daily News, and Chao Thai23—the Plabplachai Incident started as a simple case of a suspected traffic offender resisting arrest. A taxi driver, Poon Lamlueprasert, was ordered by two Plabplachai district police officers to remove his car, which was illegally parked at the bus stop in front of the Nakornluang Insurance Company. According to police reports, Poon refused to drive away. The police officers then attempted to arrest him and take him back to the station. At this point, Poon, who refused to leave his car, yelled out that the police were harassing him. There was a minor scuffle between the taxi driver and the police officers.24 By the time the police finally managed to drag their “suspect” away, they had attracted a large crowd of people, who followed them all the way from the initial scene on Charoenkrung Road back to the Plabplachai police station. The crowd grew larger, and people started to throw bricks, stones, and pieces of wood at the police station. Officers on duty attempted to appease the crowd by bringing out Poon and showing them that he was not being brutalized in the least. However, this did little to improve the situation. The crowds began vandalizing police vehicles parked in the vicinity and even attempted to crash some of the cars into the station. Police reinforcements were called in from every precinct across the capital to protect the Plabplachai station from the storming crowds. Slightly before midnight, the lights in the station went out. It appeared that someone had set fire to one side of the building close to where the electrical wiring junction was located. A mob attempted to storm the station again, hoping to free some prisoners who were jailed there. The police fired in response, and the crowd fell back. Several rioters were wounded by the first round of police fire, but no one was killed. At midnight, a fire engine was able to break through to put out the fire. The crowds vandalized more police vehicles and used gasoline from the tanks to set more fires. In the early hours of July 4, the police charged out of the Plabplachai station, firing at the crowd in an attempt to force them to disperse. The area in front of the station was successfully cleared, and the police took up positions at various intersections leading to the station. The crowd then fell

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back again, but continued to hold the wider area surrounding Plabplachai station under siege. At least seven people were killed by the police during the course of this first offensive wave.25 Poon was apparently released shortly after midnight in yet another attempt to calm the angry crowds that had congregated in front of the station. This, however, was to no avail. The violence continued until daybreak with sporadic attacks on police officers and public property continuing throughout the day. Violent clashes between police and rioters involving gunfire and Molotov cocktails continued during the night. Just before midnight, Prime Minister Sanya Dhammasak’s declaration of a state of emergency was broadcast on public television and radio. In his declaration, the prime minister announced in the very first sentence that the people who were causing disturbances in Bangkok were “mostly hooligans,” and that the government had already “attempted to provide protection in a calm and gentle manner, but the incident had not yet been pacified.” Therefore, it was “necessary to employ extreme measures in order to bring this situation, which could endanger people, under control.”26 The violence continued in similar fashion through the following days: that is, business as usual with sporadic acts of vandalism during the day and hardcore firearms combat at night. The situation was not brought completely under control until the evening of July 7. The official tally was twenty-four killed, 124 wounded.27 By July 6, Prime Minister Sanya was already naming two motorcycle gangs—the “Eagle Gang” and the “Dragon Gang”—as the main instigators of the riot. Both gangs were allegedly based in the Bangkok Chinatown area. According to Police General Prachuab Suntarangkura, the police director general, the Plabplachai riot was mostly carried out by juvenile delinquents and members of local criminal gangs.28 On July 8, the commander of the Southern Metropolitan Police Division, Major General Prakorb Veerapan, led a team of police to arrest Sutham Kuavigpai, or Di Peng (literally, “little brother” Peng), whom authorities identified as an important member of one of Chinatown’s most notorious criminal gangs and the ringleader of rioters in the Plabplachai Incident. Police reports on Di Peng were published eloquently in the afternoon papers of that same day: Mr. Sutham Kuavigpai or Di Peng has tattoos over almost all his body—a dashing tiger on his chest, an eagle on his abdomen, a dragon wrapped around his left arm, and a Spartacus knife on his right arm. On the night of July 3rd when the riots broke out, Mr. Sutham or “Di Peng” took off his shirt and jumped onto the roof of a car parked in front of Plabplachai police station. [He] announced that he was the leader of a gang of thugs operating in the Yaowaraj area. [He] had just been released from Laad-yao prison and wanted to lead the people in fighting the police.29

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The police director general Prachuab Suntarangkura was quick to conclude in a press conference that same day that there appeared to be no political motive behind the riots, that this was simply a case of criminals venting their anger against the police for having repeatedly arrested and imprisoned them for their crimes. Official statements published in the major Thai-language newspapers present the Plabplachai riots as the result of the familiar struggle between law enforcement agents and criminal gangs in Chinatown. Either Poon, the taxi driver, was set up by criminals who were hoping to provoke accusations of police brutality, or criminal elements took advantage of the situation by making a big deal out of a minor traffic altercation that probably occurred many times each day in such a bustling district. Public Opinion Concerning the Plabplachai Incident There were two major sociopolitical factors in the context of Plabplachai that seriously affected public opinion about the incident. First, the aftershocks of the October 14 Incident were still echoing through Thai society; and second, the anti-Chinese sentiment promoted by the ultranationalism of the Pibul regime, though somewhat abated, still lived on. The images of violence coming out of Plabplachai—young people defying the authorities, setting fire to public property, hijacking public buses, and crashing them into police barricades—bore an uncanny resemblance to the recent memories of October 14. Not surprisingly, the two incidents appeared somehow similar in the public imagination. The most common such comparison expressed in Thai-language newspaper articles during that time was that the rioters in Chinatown were not at all like the student heroes of October 14 because the students had fought for political ideals of freedom and democracy, but the rioters of Plabplachai were simply uncouth hooligans.30 Some were offended by certain student organizations that publicly questioned the legitimacy of using police action and military force to suppress the unrest in Plabplachai. Among the more conservative elements, there were deep concerns that the outcome of October 14 had compromised the authority of law and order, and that the younger generation was getting out of control. Heavy criticism was directed toward the student organizations that appeared to come out in support of the Plabplachai rioters: It is impossible to make the general public accept the actions of the numerous [student] organizations that have recently been established. Anything that is too large in quantity tends to lose its value. Moreover, democracy is not a toy or an experimental tool in the forming or clashing within and among various groups. As we have recently heard from the general public, everyone

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expressed the same feeling that [certain student organizations] are over-reacting. Sometimes they try in various ways to act as a “shadow-government.” This has caused much annoyance to the common people.31

Related to the concerns of the conservatives about the rising influence of student movements in the post−October 14 era was a deep fear of Communist ideological infiltration into Thai society. Many of those involved in the rioting in Plabplachai were members of the proletariat class, and the major left-leaning student organizations seemed to be lending their support to the rioters. A few columnists of the time questioned if there was any possibility that the Communist Party of Thailand might be involved in the outbreak of the Plabplachai riots. An article in the Daily News suggested that the incident could have been instigated by the Communists in an attempt to discredit the current government and to convince Thai people that the existing political system was incapable of safeguarding peace and harmony in the country.32 It is not difficult to comprehend the Thai public’s anxiety about possible Communist threats in Thailand, considering the circumstances of the Cold War in Southeast Asia at that time. The United States was about to lose the war in Vietnam, and Pathet Lao Communist forces were gaining the upper hand in the civil war in Laos. Interestingly, there was another conspiracy theory concerning the political motivation of the Plabplachai Incident, which explained the phenomenon in the exact opposite direction as well. In this view, the riots were precipitated because several prominent student organizations in Bangkok had planned a major demonstration against the U.S. military presence in Thailand on July 4—the U.S. Independence Day. Their initial plan had been to gather at the Phramane Ground (Sanam Luang) in front of Thammasat University, and then to march to the U.S. Embassy on Wireless Road to demand that all U.S. armed forces be withdrawn from Thailand. The rally did in fact start out at the Phramane Ground, as planned. However, it soon fizzled out because not enough people showed up, and the march to Wireless Road did not take place. Many of the student organizers of the thwarted anti-American demonstration concluded that the Plabplachai Incident must have been staged by the CIA on the night of July 3 to divert attention from the demonstration on the following day.33 Although the U.S. ambassador to Bangkok firmly denied any involvement in the civil unrest centering on the Plabplachai police station, and no obvious links could be ascertained between the arrested rioters and the CIA, the recollection of the Plabplachai riot as instigated by American Cold War imperialist plotters remains alive among many Thai people, even to this day.

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Despite the numerous conspiracy theories competing for space within the Thai public’s imagination, the interpretations that are by far the most prevalent in the major Thai-language newspapers of that era reflect deeply rooted, Thai nationalist, anti-Chinese sentiments of the sort fanned by the wartime Pibulsongkram regime. The same rhetoric of fear and suspicion was repeated over and over again in every major Thai-language news publication. The Daily News suggested that the rioting “Chinese boys” were crazy and violent because of their “mixed blood.”34 According to Chao Thai, if the government did not deal with the Plabplachai rioters with a firm hand, “this young generation of foreign blood will come to dominate and control Thai people.”35 Finally, Siamrath pointed out that Poon, the taxi driver who started it all, was a Chinese citizen who had only recently adopted Thai citizenship.36 Most intriguing were the allusions made to the Yaowaraj Incident of September 1945. Such recollections and references began almost as soon as the news of the riots at the Plabplachai police station hit the press: Think back to when the World War had just ended. The Chinese in Bangkok caused a riot with a hope, which could not be understood in any way, aside from their lack of awareness of His Majesty’s abundant compassion, and [their] desire to rule our land. The Chinese who caused the riots this time round reside in the same area as the Chinese who caused the riots back then.37

Anxiety concerning Cold War developments in Southeast Asia, together with the rising influence of the Communist Party of Thailand, especially within the various student organizations, created an overarching atmosphere of suspicion. The overseas Chinese community was perceived as one of many leftist threats to the political stability of Thailand’s authoritarian, right-wing, pro-U.S. regime. Images of the ferocious Red Guards raising havoc during the height of the Cultural Revolution in China fed into the fearful image of the “Chinese boys,” setting Bangkok’s Chinatown ablaze, “crazy and violent because they are of mixed blood.” At the same time, fearful memories of the Yaowaraj Incident of 1945 also tended to associate the overseas Chinese community with the Kuomintang’s nationalist republicanism. Finally, in their conclusions regarding the causes of the Plabplachai riots, the government cited reactionary and racketeering Chinese secret societies, better known in Thailand as the Ang-Yee (hong zi or hong men in Mandarin Chinese),38 which had dominated Bangkok’s Chinatown in the nineteenth century. The government’s claim, despite lack of evidence, that the Eagle and Dragon gangs were behind the Plabplachai Incident, drew its

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credibility from the public’s memory of a time when criminal gangs in Chinatown were so notorious that a special law barring their names39 had to be promulgated to aid in their suppression. Logically speaking, these three fearful images projected upon the local overseas Chinese community—the Kuomintang republicans, the Communist Red Guards, and the Chinese secret societies—represent three completely conflicting sets of political ideology. How was it possible for the Thai press of 1974 to call for the purge of the overseas Chinese, who were republicans, Communists, and apolitical, superstitious criminal gangs all at the same time? Reality through the Grapevine: Expressions and Interpretations of the Plabplachai Incident in the Foreign-Language press and Eyewitness Accounts English and Chinese-language newspapers40 in Thailand have a much smaller readership than the major Thai-language papers, and, therefore, have never been as tightly reined in by local censors. In this case, they provide a much more objective description of the turn of events and a more nuanced explanation of the possible causes and effects of what happened in Plabplachai. The most crucial question was posed repeatedly by Suthichai Yoon, editor of The Nation, one of the two leading English-language newspapers. Suthichai strongly called into question the legitimacy of the high level of violence employed in suppressing the riots: There is incontrovertible proof—“the camera does not lie”—in every newspaper office in the city in the form of huge stacks of photographs that some policemen used unnecessary violence in their somewhat emotional response to the riots of Chinatown last week.41

Suthichai many times demanded a thorough investigation of all police and military officers involved in the incident. He pointed out that Thai police lacked both the equipment and the training to handle situations like Plabplachai. The unfortunate fact is that less than a year after authorities had resorted to violence to suppress what was then the biggest social unrest in the history of modern Thailand (on October 14, 1973), the police again used gunfire to deal with the crowds during the Plabplachai unrest. The Nation also reported in detail the stories of those they deemed innocent victims of the senseless violence at Plabplachai: sixteen-year-old Vichit Petmorn, an onlooker, who was shot in the leg by police;42 sixteenyear-old Sunan Charutangtrong, who died from a bullet to the forehead

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while she was collecting clothes on the second-floor balcony of her house in Chinatown;43 Paisal Sricharatchanya, an editor for the Bangkok Post who was severely beaten by police after they mistook him for a rioter;44 and others. The case of Paisal Sricharatchanya is particularly interesting, as he suffered police brutality while covering the Plabplachai story for his newspaper. In an interview for this research, Paisal offered his own comprehensive and concise explanation about what lay behind the violence of that era. Answering every question clearly and without hesitation, Paisal insisted that there were no criminal gangs involved in the Plabplachai Incident. Nor was there any conspiracy on the part of the CIA. Paisal stated that almost all of the rioters identified in the incident were sons of overseas Chinese businessmen in Bangkok’s Chinatown. According to him, most of the overseas Chinese people residing in the area of the Plabplachai police station had been subjected to extortion by the police since time immemorial. They had always been docile and submissive to these demands until one day, a drunken taxi driver was unable to restrain his resentment, and refused to pay up according to the usual protocol. As the oppressed masses in the area witnessed the taxi driver’s rebellious behavior, there was “a spontaneous display of resentment against the police.”45 This was the spark that caused the wildfire of the Plabplachai riot. It is most intriguing that, while the Thai-language press was presenting mysterious Chinatown criminal gangs as the chief instigators of the incident, the English-language papers were publishing articles that described the cause of the riots as something everyone knew about—corrupt police officers continuously extorting money from the citizenry. In his regular column, “Soliloquies,” in The Nation, the famous columnist M. R. Ayumongkol Sonakul repeated what was commonplace knowledge: “It is no secret that police, in some areas at least, have been treating people of Chinese descent like dirt. Particularly, they have been victims of extortion: being moneyed but unhonoured.”46 As for Chinese-language newspapers, responses to the Plabplachai riots appeared to support the storyline presented in the English-language press, and corroborated Paisal’s eyewitness account. However, the information passed through the Chinese community in a rather coded fashion. Most interestingly, the Plabplachai story, which made headlines in almost all the Thai and English-language papers, was not accorded front-page space in the Chinese-language press. From simply browsing the newsstand, one might even have concluded that the Chinese papers had completely ignored the riots in Chinatown. In fact, detailed reports, graphic images of police brutality, and pictures of dead bodies littered across the streets of Chinatown were presented, but always on page four and five, for the duration of the

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incident. Shi Jie Ri Bao published an article on the role of the police in the rioting that suggests that there was bad blood between Thai authorities and the Chinese community in Chinatown.47 In a later report, this paper also confirmed that almost all those arrested on suspicion of taking part in the rioting were children of overseas Chinese merchants and businessmen operating in the Plabplachai area.48 An editorial comment in the Xin Xian Ri Bao stated that there were many innocent bystanders among the dead in Plabplachai.49 Jing Hua Ri Bao clearly stated that there appeared to be no political motives behind the riots in Chinatown.50 The stories and analyses received by the majority of Thai readers who subscribed to major Thai-language papers—Thairath, Daily News, and Chao Thai—were quite unlike what the minority group of expatriates and English-language readers were receiving in the Bangkok Post and Nation. The overseas Chinese population, the main consumers of Chinese-language papers, had to keep the story of their experience to themselves. The Transformation of the Relationship between the Thai State and the Overseas Chinese in the Cold War Era There is a striking change in the Thai government’s policy and behavior, as well as in the expressed public opinion toward the overseas Chinese community, judging from the responses to the Yaowaraj Incident in 1945 and the Plabplachai Incident of 1974. A significant part of the transformation was a result of Thailand’s position and its experience in the context of the first three decades of the Cold War in Asia. Firstly, Thailand’s position vis-à-vis China was transformed almost completely during the course of the first three decades of the Cold War. When violence broke out in Chinatown in September 1945, the Chinese government was not to be antagonized, as they held significant sway in deciding Thailand’s postwar status and Thailand’s application for membership in the United Nations as well. In the aftermath of the Yaowaraj Incident, there was a flurry of diplomatic correspondence between Chinese and Thai authorities, inquiring and explaining what had happened, with measures taken to resolve the crisis and to improve Sino-Thai relations through the overseas Chinese community. There was no such state-to-state consultation following the Plabplachai Incident of 1974. By 1971, the People’s Republic of China (PRC) had replaced the Republic of China in the United Nations Security Council. At the height of the Cold War, the United States was about to lose the war in Vietnam, and Thailand had yet to establish formal diplomatic relations with the PRC. Hence, there was some paranoia due to increased Communist

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activity across the region, especially in view of the relative success of the Communist Pathet Lao forces in the Laotian civil war just across the border. In the official rhetoric of 1974, the overseas Chinese rioters were characterized as thugs, gangsters, and drug runners and dealt with accordingly. The position of the United States vis-à-vis Thailand in the Cold War politics of Southeast Asia also affected the response of the government and the general public to the Plabplachai Incident. On the one hand, there was a serious need to maintain good relations with the United States, a powerful Cold War ally, upon whom Thailand was dependent for financial and political support. On the other hand, the government needed to defuse the increasingly anti-American stance of student activists. The government had to demonstrate its independence, despite the presence of U.S. military forces. The Plabplachai Incident provided a convenient release from this sticky problem. A widespread conspiracy theory at the time suggested that the riots in Plabplachai were instigated by the CIA in order to foil a planned anti-American demonstration by students on July 4. In quelling the riot, the government was able to show swiftness and firmness in dealing with the nation’s domestic affairs. At the same time, the violent suppression of the riots was acceptable to the many who believed Communists were involved. Finally, the changing responses of the Thai government and the expressed public opinion toward the overseas Chinese community surrounding the Yaowaraj and Plabplachai Incidents of 1945 and 1974, respectively, can also be attributed to the violent mood swings that were characteristic of Thai domestic politics during the Cold War era, especially during the 1970s. That is, after ten years of relative calm under Field Marshal Thanom Kittikachorn’s military dictatorship, Thai politics swung violently to the left with the outbreak of prodemocracy demonstrations that culminated in the October 14 upheavals. During the brief Era of Democracy in Full Bloom that followed October 14,51 a leftist movement sprang up, its ranks filled by journalists, students, and a budding Thai intelligentsia. Prime Minister Sanya Dhammasak, himself a professor of law and former rector of Thammasat University, maintained amicable ties with leaders of student organizations and student activists throughout his time in office. There was an illusion, therefore, that the people’s power, manifest in Thailand’s own October revolution, was the order of the day, and that military authoritarianism had been placed on a backburner. However, by mid-1974, the right-wing conservatives were already gathering force and preparing for a political comeback, as signaled by the tone and content of many articles and editorial comments in Thai-language newspapers in response to the events in Plabplachai. Prime Minister Sanya’s government, though it was born out of the political crisis of October 1973, neither

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controlled nor was fully supported by the military. Shortly after the Plabplachai incident, Sanya conceded to the press that the military were still “doing their own thing,” and that he had limited knowledge about and no control over the various “secret missions” carried out by soldiers in the name of national security.52 In both urban and rural areas, vigilante groups of civilians were, in fact, receiving training and organizational support from the military, and financial support from village landowners, manufacturers, and various local politicians with ultraconservative leanings.53 The generally positive public response to the government’s handling of the Plabplachai outbreak and the storm of public condemnation of student activists who had spoken out in support of the Chinese community and against police brutality turned out to be significant indicators that Thai politics was shifting back to the right. In retrospect, it appears that the widespread public approval of the state’s use of violence against the Plabplachai rioters foreshadowed the tragedy of October 6, 1976, in which civilian vigilante groups actively assisted state authorities in violently suppressing student demonstrations at Thammasat University. Conclusion Much of what was involved in Thai state propaganda concerning the Yaowaraj and Plabplachai Incidents had to do with the politics of remembering and forgetting. The state-sanctioned version of these events was allowed to remain in the popular imagination through nationwide coverage in leading Thai-language newspapers. Dissenting voices and alternative narratives were allowed only in foreign-language news sources with only a limited readership of foreign expatriates and the fledging local intelligentsia. In August 1974, after a highly publicized show trial in which testimony was given by over 200 witnesses, the state-appointed investigating committee declared that no undue violence had been employed by authorities to suppress the Plabplachai riots,54 that there had been no police brutality involved in the initial arrest of Poon the taxi driver,55 and that the riots had been instigated by local hooligans who resented the police for hampering their criminal activities.56 The story of Plabplachai was then abandoned and left to erode from the popular imagination. After the October 6, 1976, massacre of students at Thammasat University, the state’s meticulous attempts to enforce the forgetting of this incident, as well, virtually wiped away any national awareness of the Plabplachai Incident. The wide discrepancies between the information provided in major Thai-language newspapers and news publications in other languages reflects the differing realities perceived by the masses of Thai-language readers and

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readers of the foreign-language press. This may be one of the many factors contributing to the drastic difference in the political opinion of voters in the capital and in the countryside, a growing polarization that has become an important characteristic of Thai politics in recent decades. A preference for forgetting is signaled by the election by Thai voters of a prime minister who recently declared to the world that only one person was killed in the October 6 Incident.

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Notes

Chapter 1 1. I thank Jamie Davidson, Anthony Reid, Geoff Wade, Wasana Wongsurawat, and a reviewer for their helpful comments. Wasana assisted in writing the third section of this chapter. Research assistance provided by Debasis Bhattacharya is gratefully acknowledged. 2. See Vietnam’s efforts to export revolution to Laos in Christopher Goscha, “Vietnam and the World Outside: The Case of Vietnamese Communist Advisers in Laos (1948–62),” South East Asia Research 12, no. 2 (2004): 141–85. 3. For an extended treatment of the topic, see Tuong Vu, “From Cheering to Volunteering: Vietnamese Communists and the Arrival of the Cold War 1940–1951,” in Connecting Histories: The Cold War and Decolonization in Asia (1945 –1962), ed. Christopher Goscha and Christian Ostermann (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, forthcoming). 4. Truong Chinh, “Tich cuc cam cu va chuan bi tong phan cong” (“Zealously holding off the enemy and preparing for the general attack phase”), January 14, 1949, Dang Cong San Viet Nam (Vietnamese Communist Party), Van Kien Dang Toan Tap 10 (Collected Party Documents), (Hanoi: Chinh Tri Quoc Gia, 2002), 29–30. 5. Stalin laughed upon hearing Ho’s verbal request. See Ilya Gaiduk, Confronting Vietnam: Soviet Policy toward the Indochina Conflict, 1954–1963 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center, 2003), 1–11. 6. An example is Odd Arne Westad, ed., Reviewing the Cold War: Approaches, Interpretations, Theory (London: Frank Cass Publishers, 2000). 7. Geir Lundestad, “Empire by Invitation? The United States and Western Europe, 1945–1952,” Journal of Peace Research 23 (September 1986): 263−77; Odd Arne Westad, “Introduction,” in Westad, Reviewing the Cold War, 1–23; and John Gaddis, ‘“On Starting All Over Again: A Naïve Approach to the Study of the Cold War,” in Westad, Reviewing the Cold War, 27–42. 8. Odd Arne Westad, “The New International History of the Cold War: Three (Possible) Paradigms,” Diplomatic History 24, no. 4 (Fall 2000): 556. 9. See, for example, Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold War: Third World Interventions and the Making of Our Times (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and Tony Smith, “New Bottles for New Wine: A Pericentric

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Framework for the Study of the Cold War,” Diplomatic History 24, no. 4 (Fall 2000): 567–91. Ibid. Also, Westad, “The New International History of the Cold War,” 563. Westad, The Global Cold War, chapters 1 and 2. Notable examples include Vladislav Zubok and Constantine Pleshakov, Inside the Kremlin’s Cold War: From Stalin to Khrushchev (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996); John Gaddis, We Now Know: Rethinking Cold War History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Scott Lucas, Freedom’s War : The US Crusade against the Soviet Union, 1945–56 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999); David Seed, American Science Fiction and the Cold War (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999); Christian Appy, Cold War Constructions: The Political Culture of United States Imperialism (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2000); John Fousek, To Lead the Free World: American Nationalism and the Cultural Roots of the Cold War (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); Mark Carroll, Music and Ideology in Cold War Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Rana Mitter and Patrick Major, eds., Across the Blocs: Cold War Cultural and Social History (London: Frank Cass, 2004); and Tony Shaw, Hollywood’s Cold War (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts, 2007). Examples include Mary Dudziak, Cold War Civil Rights: Race and the Image of American Democracy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000); Thomas Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line: American Race Relations in the Global Arena (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001); Christina Klein, Cold War Orientalism: Asia in the Middlebrow Imagination, 1945–1961 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2003); Merilyn Thomas, Communicating with the Enemy : Covert Operation , Christianity , and Cold War Politics in Britain and the GDR (Bern: Peter Lang, 2005); and Jeff Woods, Black Struggle, Red Scare: Segregation and Anti-Communism in the South, 1948–1968 (Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University, 2004). Chen Jian, China’s Road to the Korean War (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994); Chen Jian, “The Myth of America’s Lost Chance in China,” Diplomatic History 21, no. 1 (Winter 1997); Michael Sheng, Battling Western Imperialism: Mao, Stalin, and the United States (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997); and Vu, “From Cheering to Volunteering.” Notable examples include Christopher Goscha, Vietnam or Indochina? Contesting Concepts of Space in Vietnamese Nationalism, 1887–1954 (Copenhagen: NIAS Books, 1995); Goscha, Thailand and the Southeast Asian Networks of the Vietnamese Revolution, 1885–1954 (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 1999); Daniel Fineman, A Special Relationship: The United States and Military Government in Thailand, 1947–1958 (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1997); Stephen Morris, Why Vietnam Invaded Cambodia: Political Culture and the Causes of War (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); Armstrong, The North Korean Revolution, 1945 –1950 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003); Philip Catton, Diem’s Final Failure: Prelude to America’s War in Vietnam

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18. 19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

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(Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 2002); Matthew Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in Southeast Asia, 1961–1965: Britain, the United States and the Creation of Malaysia (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Edward Miller, “Vision, Power and Agency: The Ascent of Ngo Dinh Diem, 1945– 1954,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 35 (2004); and Vatthana Pholsena, Post-War Laos: The Politics of Culture, History, and Identity (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). Notable exceptions are Smith, “New Bottles for New Wine,” and Westad, Global Cold War. Ann Lane, “Introduction: The Cold War as History,” in The Cold War : The Essential Readings, ed. Klaus Larres and Ann Lane (London: Blackwell, 2001), 1−16. Ibid. Ibid., 1. Douglas Macdonald, ‘“Formal Ideologies in the Cold War: Toward a Framework for Empirical Analysis,” in Reviewing the Cold War : Approaches, Interpretations, Theory. Gaddis, “On Starting All Over Again;” and Tony Smith, ‘“New Bottles for New Wine.” Tuong Vu, “State Formation and the Origins of Developmental States in South Korea and Indonesia,” Studies in Comparative International Development 41, no. 4 (Winter 2007): 27–56. See articles by Karl Hack, Geoffrey Wade, Tuong Vu, Larisa Efimova, and Harry Poèze in the October 2009 issue of Journal of Southeast Asian Studies. Odd Westad, Cold War and Revolution (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993); Vu, “From Cheering to Volunteering.” Sjafruddin Prawiranegara, Islam dalam Pergolakan Dunia [Islam in a Tumbling World ] (Bandung, Indonesia: Al Maarif, 1950). Examples include Robert McMahon, The Limits of Empire: The United States and Southeast Asia since World War II (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999); Andrew Rotter, The Path to Vietnam: Origins of the American Commitment to Southeast Asia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1987); Douglas Macdonald, Adventures in Chaos: American Intervention for Reform in the Third World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992); Walter Hixson, ed., The Roots of the Vietnam War (New York: Garland, 2000); Mark Bradley, Imagining Vietnam & America: The Making of Postcolonial Vietnam 1919–1950 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); Mark Berger, The Battle for Asia: From Decolonization to Globalization (New York: Routledge, 2004); and Richard Stubbs, Rethinking Asia’s Economic Miracle, The Political Economy of War, Prosperity and Crisis (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). Stephen Jin-Woo Kim, Master of Manipulation: Syngman Rhee and the SeoulWashington Alliance, 1953−1960 (Seoul: Yonsei University Press, 2001); Miller, “Vision, Power and Agency”; Matthew Masur, “Exhibiting Signs of Resistance:

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30. 31.

32. 33.

34. 35.

36. 37.

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South Vietnam’s Struggle for Legitimacy, 1954–1960,” Diplomatic History 33, no. 2 (April 2009): 293–313; on Sukarno’s manipulation of the Soviet Union, see Ragna Boden, “Cold War Economics: Soviet Aid to Indonesia,” Journal of Cold War Studies 10, no. 3 (Summer 2008): 110–28. Berger, Battle for Asia. Akira Iriye, Cultural Internationalism and World Order (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997); Yale Ferguson and Rey Koslowski, “Culture, International Relations Theory, and Cold War History,” in Reviewing the Cold War: Approaches, Interpretations, Theory; Andrew Rotter, Comrades at Odds: The United States and India, 1947–1964 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000); and Patrick Major and Rana Mitter, ‘“East is East and West is West?’ Towards a Comparative Socio-Cultural History of the Cold War,” in Across the Blocs. Akira Iriye, “Culture,” Journal of American History 77, no. 1 (June 1990): 99–107. Some, such as Steven Levine, define the first category as “informal ideologies” and the second category as “formal ideologies.” See Levine, “Perception and Ideology in Chinese Foreign Policy,” in Chinese Foreign Policy: Theory and Practice, ed. Thomas Robinson and David Shambaugh (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994). In his Why Vietnam Invaded Cambodia, Stephen Morris also uses “informal” and “formal” adjectives to define “political culture.” Here I use “ideologies” in the sense of formal ideologies. Ted Hopf assumes the existence of a “social cognitive structure” that “establishes the boundaries of discourse within a society, including how individuals think about themselves and others.” Hopf ’s concept of “identity,” which is derived from this social cognitive structure, incorporates both categories in my scheme. See Hopf, Social Construction of International Politics: Identities and Foreign Policies, Moscow, 1955 & 1999 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002), 6. Harold Isaacs, Scratches on Our Minds: American Images of China and India (New York: John Day, 1958). Isaacs, Scratches on Our Minds; Akira Iriye, Mutual Images: Essays in AmericanJapanese Relations (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975); Liao Kuang-Sheng, Antiforeignism and Modernization in China (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1990); Jonathan Goldstein et al., America Views China (London: Associated University Press, 1991); Li Hongshan and Hong Zhaohui, eds., Image, Perception, and the Making of U.S.-China Relations (New York: University Press of America, 1999); and Rotter, Comrades at Odds. Liao, Antiforeignism and Modernization. Simei Qing, From Allies to Enemies: Visions of Modernity, Identity, and U.S.China Diplomacy, 1945–1960 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007). Iriye, Cultural Internationalism and World Order. For thoughtful analyses of the two disciplines and possibilities for collaboration, see Colin Elman and Miriam Elma, eds., Bridges and Boundaries: Historians, Political Scientists, and the Study of International Relations (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001).

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38. Allen Whiting, China Eyes Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 39. Iriye, Mutual Images. 40. Iriye, Cultural Internationalism and World Order, 15–16. 41. Bradley, Imagining Vietnam & America; Qing, From Allies to Enemies. 42. Bradley is thin on internationalist thinking among Vietnamese communists, and Qing underestimates the importance of Marxist-Leninist doctrine to Chinese communists. On these issues, see Vu, “From Cheering to Volunteering,” and Sheng, Battling Western Imperialism. 43. Takashi Shiraishi, An Age in Motion: Popular Radicalism in Java, 1912–1926 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990); Goscha, Vietnam or Indochina?; Shawn McHale, Print and Power: Confucianism, Communism, and Buddhism in the Making of Modern Vietnam (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2004); and Tuong Vu, Paths to Development in Asia: South Korea, Vietnam, China, and Indonesia (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), chapters 8 and 9. 44. Tuong Vu, “Dreams of Paradise: The Making of a Soviet Outpost in Vietnam,” Ab Imperio, no. 2 (2008): 255–85. 45. Goscha, Vietnam or Indochina? 46. Deliar Noer, The Modernist Muslim Movement in Indonesia 1900–1942 (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1973). 47. Sheng, Battling Western Imperialism, 188; Joseph Esherick, ‘“How the Qing Became China,” in Empire to Nation: Historical Perspectives on the Making of the Modern World, ed. Joseph Esherick et al. (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2006). 48. Sheng, Battling Western Imperialism, 188. 49. See Westad, Global Cold War, chapter 8. 50. See Tuong Vu, “Vietnamese Political Studies and Debates on Vietnamese Nationalism,” Journal of Vietnamese Studies 2, no. 2 (Summer 2007): 187–230.

Chapter 2 1. George McT. Kahin, Intervention: How America Became Involved in Vietnam (New York: Anchor Books, 1987) is a rare major study with the entry “anticommunism” in the index. But it refers exclusively to American anticommunism. See p. 539. 2. Robert Brigham, ARVN: Life and Death in the South Vietnamese Army (Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 2006), 120. 3. Gerard J. DeGroot, A Noble Cause? America and the Vietnam War (Harlow: Longman, 2000), 84–5. This book is similar to other general histories in having an American-centric focus. However, it diverges from them in its view of the Vietnamese revolution. As described in a historiographic essay, DeGroot views the communist-led revolution as having “relied as much upon indoctrination and terror in its pursuit of power as it did upon the political dividends from its association with national liberation and the redistribution of land.” Seen in this way, the United States “could not be expected to remain entirely sanguine when

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confronted, as it was in the early 1960s, by a concerted communist challenge to its credibility across the Third World.” Although DeGroot qualifies this by saying that the weakness of the South Vietnamese anticommunists “made the country an inappropriate theatre” for U.S. intervention, the book is notable for giving nuances to the long-standing view that the intervention was unnecessary and shortsighted in the first place. See Kendrick Oliver, “Towards a New Moral History of the Vietnam War,” Historical Journal 47, no. 3 (September 2004): 761. See, for example, Neil L. Jamieson, Understanding Vietnam (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), esp. 100–233. For example, Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). See also chapters by Tuong Vu and Bernd Schaefer in this volume. Almost uniformly, recent Diem-centered scholarship utilizes South Vietnamese as well as Western sources. See Philip E. Catton, Diem’s Final Failure: Prelude to America’s War in Vietnam (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2002); Edward Miller, “Vision, Power, and Agency: The Ascent of Ngo Dinh Diem, 1945–1954,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 35, no. 3 (October 2004): 433–58; Jessica M. Chapman, “Staging Democracy: South Vietnam’s 1955 Referendum to Depose Bao Dai,” Diplomatic History 30, no. 4 (September 2006): 671–703; and Matthew Masur, “Exhibiting Signs of Resistance: South Vietnam’s Struggle for Legitimacy, 1954–1960,” Diplomatic History 32, no. 2 (April 2009): 293–313. An important work that does not use Vietnamese sources is Kathryn Statler, Replacing France: The Origins of American Intervention in Vietnam (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 2007). An example is Nghiem Xuan Thien, publisher of the daily Thoi Luan and author of one anticommunist tract and editor of another that are cited in this article. According to Nguyen Duy Hinh and Tran Dinh Tho, The South Vietnamese Society (Washington, DC: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1980), 131, in the March 15, 1958, issue of Thoi Luan, Thien “alerted the public to the threat posed by Diem’s policies that alienated the people. Mr. Diem, irate, ordered him sentenced to ten months in prison, seized the offending newspaper issue, and suspended its publication.” It should be noted, however, that the relationship between the regime and other anticommunist groups was a lot more complex than the above scenario. One example is the retention of members from several Dai Viet political parties during the regime’s consolidation of power in the period 1955–1956. While some members were sent to prison, others were kept in “centers” that allowed for more fluid interactions. At the Bien Hoa Center in 1956, for instance, Dai Viet leaders persuaded the government to let them organize “anticommunist training.” Among lecturers in training were Thai Lang Nghiem and To Van, who, after release, published three of the anticommunist tracts cited in this article. In particular, the government’s “Department of Communication bought many copies” of To Van’s tract and “sent them to various localities to be used for political education.” See Quang Minh, Cach Mang Viet Nam Thoi Can Kim: Dai Viet Quoc

Notes

8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

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Dan Dang 1938–1995 [Revolutionary Vietnam in Modern Time: The Great Viet Nationalist Party 1938–1995], 2nd ed. (Westminster, CA: Van Nghe, 2000), 264. Vo Phien, Literature in South Vietnam, 1954–1975 (Melbourne: Vietnamese Language and Culture Publications, 1992), 124. The large non-Catholic presence of the northern émigrés could be spotted in Nhan Vat Viet Nam [Who’s Who of Vietnam] (Saigon: Viet Nam Thong Tan Xa, 1973), whose individual profiles usually include religious backgrounds. Among major cultural émigré figures listed in this Who’s Who are the journalist Tam Lang; the actress Kieu Chinh; the film director Doan Chau Mau; the publisher Nguyen Dinh Vuong; the musicians Pham Duy and Pham Dinh Chuong; the photographers Tran Cao Linh and Nguyen Cao Dam; the novelists Nhat Tien and Duyen Anh; the poets Cung Tram Tuong and Vu Hoang Chuong; and the scholars Toan Anh, Nguyen Dang Thuc, Nghiem Tham, and Pham Cong Thien. None of them were Catholic. The same was true of many other émigrés listed to have held important political, military, and economic positions in South Vietnam. Nghiem Xuan Hong, Lich Trinh Dien Tien cua Phong Trao Quoc Gia Viet Nam [Chronological Development of the Vietnamese Nationalist Movement] (Saigon: Quan Diem, 1958), 124. Hong was considered a leading South Vietnamese theorist on noncommunist nationalism. Nhi Hung, Thanh Nien Quoc Gia duoi Ach Viet Cong [Nationalist Youths under Communist Yokes] (Saigon: 1956); this book won a prize in the 1956 national contest sponsored by the Office of Culture under the Department of Communication in the Diem government. Thai Lang Nghiem, Doan Ket Luan [Essay on Unity] (Saigon: Kinh Duong, 1957), and Ban ve Thong Nhat Dat Nuoc [Discussion on National Reunion] (Saigon: Kinh Duong, 1959). Phan Van Thu, Chu Nghia Cong San voi Xa Hoi Viet Nam [Communism and the Vietnamese Society] (Saigon: 1954), 5; Thai Lang Nghiem, Doan Ket Luan, 69; and Nguyen Kien Trung, Viet Minh, Nguoi Di Dau? [Viet Minh, Where Have You Gone?] (Saigon: 1957), iii and 7. Nguyen Kien Trung was a pen name of Nguyen Manh Con. Hung Thanh, Vao Nam (Vi Sao Toi Di Cu?) [Going South: Why did I Migrate?] (Saigon: Tia Nang, 1954), 8. Hoang Van Chi, The Fate of the Last Viets (Saigon: Hoa Mai, 1956), 7–8 and 30. Hoang Van Chi, “Phat Roi Le” [“Weeping Buddha”], Van Nghe Tap San [ Journal of the Arts] 6 (October 1955): 110–111. Because some of his writings were published in English, Chi was probably the best-known early South Vietnamese anticommunist writer in the West. He dedicated The Fate of the Last Viets to his imprisoned brother, his sister-in-law, and their children. Nguyen Ngoc Thanh, Truyen Nguoi Vuot Tuyen [Tales of Escapees] (Saigon: 1959). Thanh Thao, Tu Nguc va Thoat Ly [Prisons and Escapes] (Saigon: 1957).

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18. To Quang Son, Tai Sao Toi Chon Mien Nam Thanh Tri Nhan Vi [Why Did I Choose the South, the Fort of Personalism] (Saigon: Phan Thanh Gian, 1963); Nguyen Dinh Lang, “The Horrid Fate of Prisoners-of-War in Viet Cong Hands,” in Blood On Their Hands: A Collection of True Stories, Stories of Actual Happenings, Compiled by “La Gazette de Saigon” (September−December 1955), ed. Nghiem Xuan Thien (Saigon: Thoi Luan, 1956), 62–65; and Thanh Thao, Tu Nguc va Thoat Ly, 90. 19. The communist-colonialist parallel could be seen in other examples of South Vietnamese anticommunist discourse, such as on the Geneva Conference. Anticommunists consistently contended that it was a decision made by the French and the Viet Minh without regard to other Vietnamese voices. 20. Nghiem Xuan Hong, Lich Trinh Dien Tien cua Phong Trao Quoc Gia Viet Nam, 70. On Viet Minh violence, see François Guilletmot, “Au coeur de la fracture vietnamienne: L’élimination de l’opposition nationaliste et anticolonialiste dans le Nord du Vietnam (1945–1956),” in Naissance d’un ÉtatParti: Le Viêt Nam depuis 1945 / The Birth of a Party-State: Vietnam since 1945, ed. Christopher E. Goscha and Benoît De Trégodé (Paris: Les Indes Savantes, 2004), 175–216. See also Shawn McHale, “Freedom, Violence, and the Struggle over the Public Arena in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, 1945–1958” in the same volume, 81–99; and David G. Marr, Vietnam 1945: The Quest for Power (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 232–7. 21. Nguyen Kien Trung, Dem Tam Tinh Viet Lich Su, 31 and 33; and Nghiem Ke To, Viet Nam Mau Lua [Vietnam in Bloodshed ] (Saigon: Mai Linh, 1954), 35. 22. To Van, Sach Luoc Ba Giai Doan cua Cong San [Communist Strategy in Three Phases] (Saigon: Chong Cong, 1956), 27 and 31. 23. Nguyen Kien Trung, Dem Tam Tinh Viet Lich Su, 66; and To Van, Sach Luoc Ba Giai Doan cua Cong San, 10–11 and 37. 24. Nguyen Kien Trung, Dem Tam Tinh Viet Lich Su, 61–62; and Nghiem Ke To, Viet Nam Mau Lua, 49. 25. Thai Lang Nghiem, Doan Ket Luan, 90–91; and Nghiem Xuan Hong, Lich Trinh Dien Tien cua Phong Trao Quoc Gia Viet Nam, 77. 26. To Van, Sach Luoc Ba Giai Doan cua Cong San, 42–43. 27. On land reform, see Edwin E. Moise, Land Reform in China and North Vietnam: Consolidating the Revolution at the Village Level (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1983); and Balazs Szalontai, “Political and Economic Crisis in North Vietnam, 1955–56,” Cold War History 5, no. 4 (November 2005): 395–426. 28. Nguyen Van Lang, Nhung Hien Tuong Dau Tranh Giai Cap ngoai Vi Tuyen 17 [Phenomena of Class Struggle above the Seventeenth Parallel ] (Saigon: Thu Lam An Thu Quan, 1958), 44; Nguyen Kien Trung, Viet Minh Nguoi Di Dau, 75; and Nghiem Xuan Hong, Lich Trinh Dien Tien cua Phong Trao Quoc Gia Viet Nam, 75. 29. It has been suggested that the Viet Minh’s rapid shift from downplaying to active promotion of class warfare had to do with the Viet Minh’s initial

Notes

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32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37.

38.

39.

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difficulties in getting support from the Soviet Union. During most of the 1940s, Stalin was deeply concerned with Tito’s orientation and had serious doubts about Ho Chi Minh’s loyalty to international communism. Even in early 1950, the Viet Minh’s prospects for Soviet recognition remained dim, and it was only with critical backing from Mao and the Chinese communists that the Viet Minh obtained the desired recognition. In return, it enthusiastically sped up socialist political and economic measures to prove allegiance to the international line. See Christopher E. Goscha, “Courting Diplomatic Disaster? The Difficult Integration of Vietnam into the Internationalist Communist Movement (1945–1950),” Journal of Vietnamese Studies 1, nos. 1–2 (Fall 2006): 59–103. Phan Van Thu, Chu Nghia Cong San voi Xa Hoi Viet Nam, 8 and 38. Nguyen Tran, Che Do Cong San [The Communist Regime] (Saigon: Dong Nam A, 1958), 24; and Nguyen Van Lang, Nhung Hien Tuong Dau Tranh Giai Cap ngoai Vi Tuyen 17, 23–4. Nguyen Ngoc Thanh, Truyen Nguoi Vuot Tuyen, 15–42. Nguyen Van Lang, Nhung Hien Tuong Dau Tranh Giai Cap ngoai Vi Tuyen 17, 62. Vu Dinh Vinh, Ben Kia Buc Man Tre [On the Other Side of the Bamboo Curtain] (Saigon: Phuong Hoang, 1956), 22–4. Phan Van Thu, Chu Nghia Cong San voi Xa Hoi Viet Nam, 28. Nguyen Dang Thuc, “Van nghe dan toc hay van nghe giai cap?” [“A Nationalist or a Class-based Culture?”] Van Nghe Tap San 5 (September 1955): 1–7. On the Affair, see Kim N. B. Ninh, A World Transformed: The Politics of Culture in Revolutionary Vietnam, 1945–1967 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 121–63; Shawn McHale, “Vietnamese Marxism, Dissent, and the Politics of Postcolonial Memory: Tran Duc Thao, 1946– 1993,” The Journal of Asian Studies 61, no. 1 (February 2002): 7–31; and Tuan Ngoc Nguyen, “Socialist Realism in Vietnamese Literature: An Analysis of the Relationship between Literature and Politics” (PhD diss., Victoria University, 2004), 216–53. For examples, Tram Hoa Dua No tren Dat Bac [Hundreds of Blooming Flowers in the North] (Saigon: Mat Tran Bao Ve Tu Do Van Hoa, 1959); and So Phan Tri Thuc Mien Bac (qua Vu Tran Duc Thao) [The Fate of the Northern Intelligentsia (through the Case of Tran Duc Thao)] (Saigon: Van Huu A Chau, 1959); Nguyen Van An, Vu An Dau Tranh Tu Tuong o Mien Bac [The Case of Ideological Struggle in the North] (Saigon: Nguyen Van An, 1960); and Nguyen Van An, Phan Khoi va Cuoc Dau Tranh Tu Tuong o Mien Bac [Phan Khoi and the Ideological Struggle in the North] (Saigon: Uy Ban Trung Uong Chong Chinh Sach No Dich Van Hoa o Mien Bac, 1961). Responsible for the last publication was the organization Central Committee against Ideological Repression in the North. Tram Hoa Dua No tren Dat Bac, 20–2.

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40. Quoc Bao, Phong Trao Khao Duyet lai Mac-Xit [Movement for Marxist Revisionism] (Place not known: 1959). 41. Nghiem Xuan Thien, Phong Trao Quoc Gia Viet Nam [The Vietnamese Nationalist Movement] (Saigon: An Quan Vo Van Van, 1955), 184–5.

Chapter 3 1. Tuong Vu, ‘“From Cheering to Volunteering’: Vietnamese Communists and the Arrival of the Cold War,” in Connecting Histories: The Cold War and Decolonization in Asia (1945–1962), ed. Christopher Goscha and Christian Ostermann (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009). 2. George Kahin, Intervention: How America Became Involved in Vietnam (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1986); Marilyn Young, The Vietnam Wars, 1945–1990 (New York: Harper Perennial, 1990); Mark Bradley, Imagining Vietnam & America: The Making of Postcolonial Vietnam 1919–1950 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); and George Herring, America’s Longest War, 4th ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2002). 3. W. R. Smyser, Independent Vietnamese: Vietnamese Communism between Russia and China, 1956–1969 (Athens, OH: Ohio University Center for International Studies, 1980). 4. Martin Grossheim, “Revisionism in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam: New Evidence from the East German Archives,” Cold War History 5, no. 4 (November 2005): 451–77; and Sophie Quinn-Judge, “The Ideological Debate in the DRV and the Significance of the Anti-Party Affair, 1967–68,” Cold War History 5, no. 4 (November 2005): 479–500. 5. Pierre Asselin, “Choosing Peace: Hanoi and the Geneva Agreement on Vietnam, 1954–1955,” Journal of Cold War Studies 9, no. 2 (Spring 2007): 95–126. 6. Dali Yang, Calamity and Reform in China (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996). 7. “Ve tinh hinh truoc mat va nhiem vu cai cach ruong dat” [“On the situation and our task of land reform”], January 25, 1953, Dang Cong San Viet Nam (Vietnamese Communist Party), Van Kien Dang Toan Tap v. 14 [Collection of Party Documents, hereafter VKDTT]: 18. 8. Ibid., 14–9. 9. “Bao cao cua Tong Bi Thu Truong Chinh” [“Report by Secretary General Truong Chinh”], VKDTT 14: 32. 10. Ibid., 32–4. 11. For discussion of Stalin’s ideas in this book, see John Gaddis, We Now Know: Rethinking Cold War History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). 12. Ibid., 52–3. 13. Ibid., 53–4. 14. Tuong Vu, Paths to Development in Asia: South Korea, Vietnam, China, and Indonesia (New York: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming), Chapter 5.

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15. Nguyen Vu Tung, “Coping with the United States: Hanoi’s search for an effective strategy,” in The Vietnam War, ed. Peter Lowe (London: Macmillan, 1998), 39. 16. “Thong tri cua Ban Bi Thu ve loi tuyen bo cua Ho Chu tich voi nha bao Thuy Dien” [“Party Secretariat’s Circulation on Chairman Ho’s talk with Swedish journalist”], December 27, 1953, VKDTT 14: 555. 17. See, for example, Ty Tuyen Truyen Van Nghe Yen Bai [Yen Bai Art Propaganda Department], Chuc Tho Mao Chu Tich Sau Muoi Tuoi [Celebrate Chairman Mao’s sixtieth birthday] (Yen Bai, 1953). 18. See Dang Xa Hoi Viet Nam [Socialist Party], Thang Huu Nghi Viet-Trung-Xo voi nguoi tri thuc Vietnam [Vietnamese intellectuals and Vietnamese-Chinese-Soviet Friendship Month] (Viet Bac, 1954). 19. For example, see Hoang Quoc Viet, Chung toi da thay gi o nuoc Trung hoa vi dai [What we have seen in Great China] (Hoi Huu Nghi Viet-Trung Lien Khu, 1953), 5. 20. C. B., “147 tuoi ma van thanh nien” [“Still a young man despite being 147 years old”], Nhan Dan, October 17, 1965, reprinted in C. B. (Ho Chi Minh), Lien Xo Vi Dai [The Great Soviet Union] (Hanoi: Nhan Dan, 1956): 26–7. 21. D. X., “Mo cha khong khoc, khoc mo moi” [“They care about strangers but not their own people; literally, they cried not at their father’s grave but at a pile of dirt”], Cuu Quoc, October 12, 1951. Reprinted in C. B. et al. (Ho Chi Minh), Noi Chuyen My … [Talking about America] (Hanoi: Quan Doi Nhan Dan, 1972), 31. (This is a collection of articles written by Ho Chi Minh under various pennames such as C. B. and D. X.). 22. Ho apparently read the news story in the French media. 23. C. B. (Ho Chi Minh), “My ma: Phong khong thuan, tuc khong my” [“America: Coarse and ugly customs”], Nhan Dan, September 1, 1954. 24. C. B., “Mot ‘gia dinh guong mau’ cua My” [“A model family of America”], Nhan Dan, February 16, 1956. 25. See “English ‘colonization’” (1923), “Lynching, a little known aspect of American civilization” (1924), and “The Ku-Klux-Klan” (1924), reprinted in Ho Chi Minh, Selected Works, v. 1 (1922–1926) (Hanoi: Foreign Language Publishing House, 1960). 26. D. X., “My la xau” [“America means ugliness”], Cuu Quoc, November 3, 1951. Reprinted in C. B. et al, Noi Chuyen My, 30. 27. C. B., “Dao duc cua My”[“American morality”], Nhan Dan, June 14, 1951. Reprinted in C. B. et al., Noi Chuyen My, 97. 28. Ho Chi Minh, “Bao cao tai Hoi nghi lan thu sau” [“Report at the Sixth Central Committee Plenum”], July 15, 1954, VKDTT 15: 165. 29. This refers to the Manila conference (September 3, 1954), the Paris Agreement (October 23, 1954), and the U.S.-Taiwan Relations Act (December 2, 1954). 30. “Ket luan cuoc thao luan o Hoi nghi Trung uong lan thu bay” [“Conclusions to the discussion at the Seventh Plenum”], March 3–12, 1955, VKDTT 16: 177.

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31. “Tinh hinh hien tai va nhiem vu truoc mat” [“Current situation and upcoming tasks”], Truong Chinh’s report at the Seventh plenum (March 3–12, 1955), VKDTT 16: 97, 128. 32. Ibid., 184. 33. “Loi khai mac cua Ho chu tich” [“Chairman Ho’s opening remarks”], March 3, 1954, VKDTT 16: 92. 34. “Tinh hinh hien tai va nhiem vu truoc mat,” VKDTT 16: 100. 35. Ibid., 166. 36. “Loi be mac cua Ho chu tich” [“Closing speech of Chairman Ho”], March 12, 1955, VKDTT 16: 222. 37. “Tinh hinh hien tai va nhiem vu truoc mat,” VKDTT 16: 100. Chinh mentioned these events in his speech; Ho did not. 38. Ibid., 178. See also Hoang Quoc Viet, “Dau tranh de thong nhat nuoc nha tren co so doc lap va dan chu, bang phuong phap hoa binh” [“Struggle to unify the country based on independence and (socialist) democracy by peaceful means”], Hoc Tap (December 1955): 41–3. 39. “Tinh hinh hien tai va nhiem vu truoc mat,” VKDTT 16: 159. 40. To be sure, there were times when indoctrination campaigns were used to intimidate dissidents within the Party. See Grossheim, “Revisionism in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.” 41. “Bai phong, da thuc, diet cong” (“Oppose feudalism, fight colonialism, and destroy communism”). 42. “Thong tri cua Ban Bi Thu so 48-TT/TW” [“Party Secretariat’s Circulation”], July 21, 1955, VKDTT 16: 459. 43. Ibid., 460–1. 44. Hoang Quoc Viet, “Dau tranh de thong nhat nuoc nha”: 40. 45. “Bao cao cua dong chi Truong Chinh” [“Comrade Truong Chinh’s report”], VKDTT 16: 524. 46. “Nghi quyet Hoi nghi Trung uong lan thu 8” [“Resolution of the Eighth Central Committee Plenum”], August 1955, VKDTT 16: 577. 47. “Bao cao cua Bo Chinh Tri” [“Politburo’s Report at the Ninth Central Committee Plenum”], April 19–24, 1956, VKDTT 17: 158–62. 48. Ibid., 165–6. 49. “Nghi quyet cua Hoi nghi Ban chap hanh Trung Uong lan thu chin mo rong” [“Resolution of the expanded Ninth Central Committee Plenum”], VKDTT 17: 169. 50. “De cuong bao cao cua Bo Chinh tri tai Hoi nghi Trung uong lan thu 10” [“Draft report of the Politburo at the Tenth Plenum”], August 25–October 5, 1956, VKDTT 17: 418–9. 51. Le Duan, “Duong loi cach mang mien Nam” [“Our revolutionary line in the South”], August 1956, VKDTT 17: 783–825. 52. Ibid., 787–8. 53. At the Tenth Plenum, which met without Duan who was still in the South, the Politburo claimed that the idea of revolution in the South was not new to them

Notes

54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

61.

62. 63. 64.

65. 66. 67. 68.

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although they admitted to failure in clarifying the idea, in researching the southern situation, and in pursuing a corresponding policy. “De cuong bao cao cua Bo Chinh tri tai Hoi nghi Trung uong lan thu 10,” VKDTT 17: 423. “Duong loi cach mang mien Nam,” VKDTT 17: 805–6. The implementation of communism was referred to indirectly as Le Duan vowed that victory would eventually come for the causes of unification, independence, and communism. Ibid., 806–22. “De cuong bao cao cua Bo Chinh tri tai Hoi nghi Trung uong lan thu 10,” VKDTT 17: 449. Ibid., 480–2. Ibid., 486–98. Ibid., 496. Le Duan, “Thong nhat tu tuong, doan ket toan Dang day manh hoan thanh nhiem vu cong tac truoc mat” [“Unite our thoughts and all Party’s actions to fulfill our upcoming responsibilities”], report at the Thirteenth Plenum, December 1957, VKDTT 18: 762–3. Also, Le Duan, “Nhung nhiem vu lich su cua phong trao Cong san quoc te” [“The historical responsibilities of the international communist movement”], Hoc Tap (December 1957). Minh Nghia, “Tang cuong doan ket va hop tac trong phe Xa hoi chu nghia” [“Increase solidarity and collaboration in the socialist camp”], Hoc Tap (March 1957): 26–32. Le Duan, “Nhung nhiem vu lich su cua phong trao Cong san quoc te”: 19. Minh Nghia, “Tang cuong doan ket va hop tac trong phe Xa hoi chu nghia”: 32. Smyser, Independent Vietnamese; Ilya Gaiduk, The Soviet Union and the Vietnam War (Chicago: Ivan Dee, 1996); Gaiduk, Confronting Vietnam: Soviet Policy toward the Indochina Conflict, 1954–1963 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center, 2003); Zhai Qiang, China & the Vietnam Wars, 1950–1975 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); Ang Cheng Guan, Vietnamese Communists’ Relations with China and the Second Indochina Conflict, 1956–1962 (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1997); Ang Cheng Guan, “The Vietnam War, 1962–64: The Vietnamese Communist Perspective,” Journal of Contemporary History 35, no. 4 (October 2000): 601–18. Smyser, Independent Vietnamese: 44. Smyser, Independent Vietnamese: 12. Ibid. Mark Pittaway, “The Education of Dissent: The Reception of the Voice of Free Hungary, 1951–1956,” in Across the Blocs: Cold War Cultural and Social History, ed. Rana Mitter and Patrick Major (London: Frank Cass, 2004). For U.S. clandestine political warfare in Eastern Europe, including the impact of Radio Free Europe on the Hungarian event, see Kenneth Osgood, “Hearts and Minds: The Unconventional Cold War,” Journal of Cold War Studies 4, no. 2 (Spring 2002): 85–107.

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70. Smyser, Independent Vietnamese, 123. 71. Le Duan, “Thong nhat tu tuong, doan ket toan Dang day manh hoan thanh nhiem vu cong tac truoc mat,” VKDTT 18: 769–71. 72. Smyser, Independent Vietnamese: 11. 73. Ibid., 669–70. 74. An example is To Huu’s report on thought work [cong tac tu tuong] at the Tenth Plenum in August 1956, VKDTT 17: 495–7. 75. Hoang Xuan Nhi, “Boi duong chu nghia yeu nuoc, tang cuong chu nghia quoc te vo san trong nhan dan ta [“Inculcating patriotism and strengthening proletarian internationalism in our people”], Hoc Tap (January 1957): 34–45. 76. High-ranking cadres studied “Marxist-Leninist theories,” whereas lower ranking cadres studied basic concepts in historical materialism. See Nguyen Hoi, “Ket qua cua dot hoc tap duy vat lich su vua qua” [“Results of the study sessions in historical materialism”], Hoc Tap (March 1958): 53–62. 77. These events included mistakes in the land reform, rural unrest, the surge of intellectual dissent, Khrushchev’s denunciation of Stalin, and Hungarian and Polish revolts. 78. Ibid., 59. 79. A later variant of this formulation is “yeu nuoc la yeu chu nghia xa hoi” [“to love your country means to love socialism”]. 80. Pham Van Dong, “Chu nghia yeu nuoc va chu nghia xa hoi” [“Patriotism and Socialism”], Hoc Tap (August 1958): 6–17. 81. Ibid., 9. 82. Ibid., 14. 83. In their internal discourse, Vietnamese communists talked far more about socialism than about patriotism. 84. Vu, Paths to Development in Asia, Chapter 8. 85. Le Duc Tho, “Viec sua doi Dieu le Dang,” [“Revising the Party Constitution”], Hoc Tap (May 1960): 23. 86. The Party leadership discussed and decided to proclaim in the new national Constitution that the North would take the path of socialism. See “De cuong bao cao ve Hien phap sua doi” [“Draft report about the revised Constitution”], VKDTT 21: 834–7. 87. These points were also the low points in terms of their military situation, although I do not suggest a necessary correlation.

Chapter 4 1. Among original notes on the history of Guided Democracy foreign policy, Bunnell’s account in 1966 was probably the earliest one. See Frederick P. Bunnell, “Guided Democracy Foreign Policy: 1960−1965,” Indonesia II (1966). 2. Bandung was a well-planned modern colonial city built by the Dutch. It grew as an example of modern urban experimentation filled with modern art deco and modern tropical architecture. According to Widodo, Sukarno’s intention to

Notes

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4.

5.

6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

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hold an “anticolonialism” conference in a former colonial city was considered to be a deliberate communication of an anticolonial foreign policy that utilized architecture. See Johannes Widodo, “Conflicts, Contestation, and Dominations of the City: The Story of Colonization⎯Decolonization of Bandung” (paper presented at the “Decolonizing Societies: The Reorientation of Asian and African Livelihoods under Changing Regimes” conference, Doelenzaal, Universiteit van Amsterdam, Holland, 2003). He supported and helped win the bid for the 1962 Asian Games in Jakarta, and went further by setting up Games of the New Emerging Forces (GANEFO) in 1962 as a counter to the Olympic Games. After making Jakarta a special territory headed by a governor (in 1960), Sukarno appointed Henk Ngantung (1921−1991), a well-known painter, as the deputy of the governor of Jakarta. Then Ngantung held the position of governor from 1964 until he was dismissed by Sukarno’s fall in 1965. Ngantung’s main challenge was to transform Jakarta artistically into a representative international venue and Indonesia’s modern capital. See Jacques Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse: A Search for Meaning in the Monuments and Great Works of Sukarno’s Jakarta, 1960−1966,” in Urban Symbolism, ed. Peter Nas (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993), 38−58. A term developed by Clifford Geertz, used by Kusno for the subject. See Abidin Kusno, “Modern Beacon and Traditional Polity: Jakarta in the Time of Sukarno,” Journal of Southeast Asian Architecture 2, no. 1 (November 1997): 30−38. Abidin Kusno, “Di Bawah Bayangan Bung Karno: Arsitektur Modernis dan Sejarah Kita,” [“Under the Shadow of Bung Karno: Modernist Architecture and Our Own History”], in Tegang Bentang: Seratus Tahun Perspektif Arsitektur di Indonesia, ed. Amir Sidharta (forthcoming, 2008). Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse,” 41. Ibid., 46−47. Farabi Fakih, Membayangkan Ibu Kota: Jakarta di Bawah Sukarno (Yogyakarta: Ombak, 2005), 152−157. A large percentage of the funding goes to the Trikora Steel Factory in Cilegon and to shipping projects. See Fakih, Membayangkan Ibu Kota, 153. Ibid., 154. Ibid., 157. Abidin Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial: Architecture, Urban Space and Political Cultures in Indonesia (London: Routledge, 2000), 52. Ibid. Lai Chee Kien, “Tropical Tropes: The Architectural Politics of Building in Hot and Humid Climates” (paper presented at the “(Un)bounding Tradition: The Tension of Borders and Regions” Internal Association for The Study of Traditional Environments (IASTE) Conference, Hongkong, December 12−15, 2002). For a comparative study on the motives and strategies of building modern capitals and governmental buildings, see Lawrence J. Vale, Architecture, Power, and National Identity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992).

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17. Kusno, “Modern Beacon and Traditional Polity.” 18. Kusno, “Di Bawah Bayangan Bung Karno.” 19. Kusno claimed that Brasilia was built as a “blueprint” of CIAM urban planning. CIAM stands for Congres International d’Architecture Moderne, established in 1928 to formalize ideas and ideals brought up by modernist architects and planners. See Kusno, “Di Bawah Bayangan Bung Karno.” 20. Cited in Kusno, “Modern Beacon and Traditional Polity,” 38; and Vale, Architecture, Power, and National Identity, 127. 21. Niemeyer was a devoted communist throughout his lifetime. See Jonathan Glancey, “Jonathan Glancey interviews Oscar Niemeyer, ‘I pick up my pen. A building appears,’” Guardian, August 1, 2007. Also see Oscar Niemeyer, The Curves of Time: The Memoirs of Oscar Niemeyer (London: Phaidon, 2000). 22. Vale, Architecture, Power, and National Identity, 126−7. 23. Glancey, “I pick up my pen.” 24. See Kusno, “Di Bawah Bayangan Bung Karno”; and Mohammad Nanda Widyarta, Mencari Arsitektur Sebuah Bangsa: Sebuah Kisah Indonesia (Surabaya: Wastu Lanas Grafika, 2007). 25. Wijanarka, Sukarno dan Desain Rencana Ibu Kota RI di Palangkaraya (Yogyakarta: Ombak, 2006). 26. Ibid., 78−9. 27. Widyarta, Mencari Arsitektur Sebuah Bangsa. 28. Marco Kusumawijaya, “Jakarta, Sang Metropolis,” Kalam 19 (2002): 26−7. 29. Widyarta, Mencari Arsitektur Sebuah Bangsa, 36. 30. Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial, 50. 31. Pierre Labrousse, “The Second Life of Bung Karno: Analysis of the Myth (1978−1981),” Indonesia/Archipel, no. 57 (April 1993): 175−96. 32. Benedict Anderson, “Bung Karno and the Fossilization of Soekarno’s Thought,” Indonesia 74 (October 2002): 5. 33. Yuke Ardhiati, Bung Karno Sang Arsitek: Kajian Artistik Karya Arsitektur, Tata Ruang Kota, Interior, Kria, Simbol, Mode Busana, dan Teks Pidato 1927−1965 (Jakarta: Komunitas Bambu, 2005), 158−71. 34. Charles P. Wolff Schoemaker, one of Sukarno’s professors, was a famous architect based in Bandung during the late colonial era. Schoemaker was considered one of the most important architects responsible for the discussion of and active search for a local identity in modern architecture during the 1920s. Schoemaker was deeply inspired by the famous American architect Frank Lloyd Wright. 35. Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse,” 41−2. 36. Ibid., 42−4. 37. Benedict Anderson, “Notes on Contemporary Indonesian Political Communication,” Indonesia 16 (October 1973): 39−80. 38. Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse,” 40−4. 39. Karsten won the 1937 competition during the implementation of Dutch “ethical policy.” Karsten was remembered by Indonesian architects and planners

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40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53.

54.

55. 56.

57. 58.

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as the “Father” of modern Indonesian city planning as he laid out conceptual ideas on many Indonesian cities during the first half of the twentieth century. Karsten was known best for his revolutionary social-economic zoning as opposed to colonial racial zoning. Kusno, “Modern Beacon and Traditional Polity,” 28−9; and Marco Kusumawijaya, “Jakarta, Sang Metropolis,” Kalam 19 (2002): 31. Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse,” 38. Anderson, “Notes on Contemporary Indonesian Political Communication,” 63. Ibid. Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse,” 42. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., based on personal communication with Soedarsono. Silaban, an untitled unpublished handwritten manuscript (1965), 20. Leclerc, “Mirrors and the Lighthouse,” 44. Anderson, “Notes on Contemporary Indonesian Political Communication,” 63. Hendrik Petrus Berlage (1856−1934) was an influential figure in modern Dutch architecture. Berlage had visited the Dutch East Indies and influenced modern architectural practice and education in the colony. Frank Lloyd Wright (1867−1959), probably the most influential American architect ever. Wright was best known for his “organic” designs that employed rich craftsmanship detailing in straightforward building compositions. Willem M. Dudok (1884−1974) is a Dutch architect well known for his designing of the Hilversum Town Hall, the Netherlands, 1928−1931. There is a copy of Dudok’s monograph (published in 1954) in Silaban’s studio in Bogor given by a close friend on October 14, 1954. An ethnic group from North Sumatra. Batak communities are predominantly Christian. Silaban studied “building science” or bouwkunde at the Royal Wilhelmina School (Koningin Wilhelmina School, K. W. S. in Jakarta) and graduated in 1931. On becoming an architect, Silaban did not have access to formal architectural training. He relied on his practical experience as a draftsman. He spent a year in the Netherlands to attend lectures and take examinations at Academie voor Bouwkunts in 1950. See Rumah Silaban / Silaban’s House (Jakarta: mAAN Indonesia Publishing & Tarumanagara University, 2008), 28. Sukarno studied civil engineering and architecture in this school. See Cor Passchier, “Mencari Arsitektur Indonesia yang Utama pada Masa Akhir Kolonial,” in Tegang Bentang, 100 Tahun Perspektif Arsitektur Modern Indonesia, ed. Amir Sidharta (forthcoming, 2009). For the late colonial and modern architectural development in Indonesia, see Huib Akihary, Architectuur & Stedebouw in Indonesie 1870−1970 (Zutphen, The Netherlands: De Walburg, 1988).

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60. Silaban, “Architectural Idealism and Its Reality in Indonesia” (paper presented at the Second National Congress of Indonesian Institute of Architects, Yogyakarta, December 3, 1982), in Menuju Arsitektur Indonesia, ed. Eko Budihardjo (Bandung: Penerbit Alumni, 1996). 61. Bahasa Indonesia is a modern language developed from Malay as the lingua franca and the language of commerce in the archipelago. 62. This statement is hypothetical. The way we interpret Silaban’s approach might vaguely be comparable to Geoffrey Bawa’s design for Sri Lanka’s island parliament project. See Vale, Architecture, Power, and National Identity, 190−208. 63. Rumah Silaban/Silaban’s House, 46−50. 64. Setiadi Sopandi, “Tropicality and Identity: Silaban’s Ideas on Indonesian Architecture” (paper submitted at the international conference, “Tropical Architecture within Tradition⎯Globalization” on August 17, 1945, Universitas Surabaya, 2007). 65. Sukarno’s speech, cited by Kusno (1997), 38, from Hugh O’Neill, “Alternative Concepts of Modernity in Twentieth Century Urban Design,” a paper presented at the Fifteenth Biennial Conference of the Asian Studies Association of Australia, June 29–July 2, 2004, Canberra. See “Islamic Architecture under the New Order,” in Culture and Society in New Order Indonesia, ed. Virginia M. Hooker (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1993), 157−8. 66. Kusno, “Di Bawah Bayangan Bung Karno.” 67. The site was seen by Indonesians as a deliberate colonial symbol. 68. Silaban consulted engineers from West Germany for the dome design in 1970. The structure was originally intended as a concrete dome. Engineers from Darmstadt University suggested a combination of concrete and polyhedron structural systems. The polyhedron skeleton was manufactured in the Mero Factory, Wurzburg. The system, then, was still at an experimental stage. 69. The observation of a series of important commissions by Silaban during the period 1955−1965 shows that Silaban only retained the hipped-roof construction for particular projects: the Bank Indonesia building in Jakarta (1955), the Bank Nasional Indonesia 1946 building in Medan (1959), and the BLLD Apartment in Jakarta (1958). 70. Silaban proposed six variants of the memorial in front of the Gedung Pola. 71. Silaban, “Laporan Singkat Perdjalanan F. Silaban ke India untuk menindjau dan mempeladjari seni-bangunan seperti dimaksudkan dalam Surat Putusan Menteri Pendidikan, Pengadjaran dan Kebudajaan R.I. Tanggal 28 Djanuari 1954 no. 9417/Kab” (unpublished official report, August 19, 1954), 35. 72. Ibid. 73. Le Corbusier is probably the most influential modern architect of the twentieth century. During the prewar period, he was well known for his insistence that modern architecture embodies socialist ideals. Le Corbusier was invited to plan the new capital and civic buildings of Punjab by Nehru in the 1950s. Among his best-known works in India were the High Court building, the Secretariat building, and the National Assembly building. Le Corbusier’s buildings in India use extensive sunshading elements made of bare concrete.

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74. Silaban, “Laporan Singkat Perdjalanan F. Silaban ke India untuk menindjau dan mempeladjari seni-bangunan seperti dimaksudkan dalam Surat Putusan Menteri Pendidikan, Pengadjaran dan Kebudajaan R.I. Tanggal 28 Djanuari 1954 no. 9417/Kab,” (unpublished report, August 19, 1954). 75. Ibid., 22.

Chapter 5 1. Gearóid Ó’Tuathail, Critical Geopolitics: The Politics of Writing Global Space (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 7, 60–2. 2. John Agnew, Geopolitics: Re-Visioning World Politic (London: Routledge, 1998), 112–13. 3. There are two English translations of the lecture, one by Jay Miskowiec [Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” trans. Jay Miskowiec, Diacritics 16, no. 1 (1986): 22–7] and the other by Robert Hurley [Michel Foucault, “Different Spaces,” trans. Robert Hurley, Aesthetics, Method, and Epistemology, vol. 2 of Essential Works of Foucault, 1954−1984, ed. James D. Faubion (New York: The New Press, 1998), 175–85]. As with any translation, problems arise with the selection of English equivalents of the original concepts. In the case of this work, Foucault’s use of “emplacement” has led to a confusing use of English alternatives like “site” and “space” [see Peter Johnson, “Unravelling Foucault’s ‘Different Spaces,’” History of the Human Sciences 19, no. 4 (2006): 75–90] in Miskowiec’s translation. Hurley, however, retains the term “emplacement” since Foucault’s original usage connoted the importance of “placing” (ibid.). In this essay, Hurley’s translation and this term are used. 4. Foucault, “Different Spaces,” 178. 5. C. V. Devan Nair, ed., Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976). 6. This date was provided by Devan Nair [C. V. Devan Nair, “Statement on Behalf of the People’s Action Party of Singapore Made at the Meeting of the Bureau of the Socialist International Held in London on 28–29 May 1976,” in Socialism That Works . . . The Singapore Way, ed. C. V. Devan Nair (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976), 143] and since there are very few sources that mention the PAP’s becoming a member of the Socialist International, there is not much evidence to corroborate this. Ironically, in the same year, Singapore’s entrance into the Socialist International coincided with the expulsion of the Malaysian Labor Party from the same organization, under charges that the Party was harboring communists. The Party alleged that the PAP had a part in instigating this (Straits Times, May 8, 1966), but what is notable is the PAP’s own expulsion one decade later. 7. Singapore People’s Action Party, People’s Action Party, 1954−1979 (Singapore: Central Executive Committee, People’s Action Party, 1979); Singapore People’s Action Party, People’s Action Party 1954−1984 (Singapore: Central Executive Committee, People’s Action Party, 1984); Singapore People’s Action Party, For

206

8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

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People by Action Through Party (Singapore: People’s Action Party, 1999); and Leong Ching, PAP 50: Five Decades of the People’s Action Party (Singapore: People’s Action Party, 2004). Thomas J. Bellows, The People’s Action Party of Singapore: Emergence of a Dominant Party System (New Haven, CT: Yale University Southeast Asia Studies, 1970). Pang Cheng Lian, Singapore’s People’s Action Party: Its History, Organization and Leadership (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1971). Fong Sip Chee, The PAP Story: The Pioneering Years (November 1954–April 1968): A Diary of Events of the People’s Action Party Reminiscences of an Old Cadre (Singapore: Time Periodicals, 1979). Apart from Nair [“Statement on Behalf of the People’s Action Party”], there is very little official PAP recognition of its disassociation with the Socialist International. Neither its entry nor exit from the organization is listed in the chronologies included in the PAP anniversary publications. Most writings in this regard have generally been more academic treatments of the subject. “Aims and Tasks of Democratic Socialism: Declaration of the Socialist International Adopted at Its First Congress Held in Frankfurt-on-Main on 30 June−3 July, 1951,” Socialist International (accessed on April 13, 2009). Ibid. Netherlands Labour Party, “Memorandum Recommending Expulsion of the People’s Action Party of Singapore from the Socialist International,” in Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way, ed. C. V. Devan Nair (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976), 250. Ibid., 255–7. Ibid., 257–61. Nair, “Statement on Behalf of the People’s Action Party,” 142–3. Tan Teng Lang, “The Evolving PAP Ideology: Beyond Democratic Socialism” (thesis, National University of Singapore, 1983). Saw Beng, “Democratic Socialism: Its Problems and Prospects” (thesis, National University of Singapore, 1981); Albert Lau Khoong Hwa, “Pragmatism: A History of the Ideas of Socialism of the People’s Action Party (1954–1976)” (thesis, National University of Singapore, 1981). S. Rajaratnam, “An Epistle to the Synod of the Socialist Orthodox Church,” in Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way, ed. C. V. Devan Nair (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976), 3–11; Lau Teik Soon, “The New Left View of Southeast Asian Development,” in Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way, ed. C. V. Devan Nair (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976), 70–6. Kathleen M. Kirby, Indifferent Boundaries: Spatial Concepts of Human Subjectivity (New York: Guilford Press, 1996), 11–34. Agnew, 1. Gearóid Ó’Tuathail, “Introduction to Part Two,” The Geopolitics Reader, 2nd ed., ed. Gearóid Ó’Tuathail, Simon Dalby, and Paul Routledge (London: Routledge, 2006), 60.

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24. Klaus Dodd, “Taking the Cold War to the Third World,” The American Century: Consensus and Coercion in the Projection of American Power, ed. David Slater and Peter J. Taylor (Oxford and Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1999), 175. 25. See Derek Gregory, Geographical Imaginations (Cambridge: Blackwell, 1994). 26. Foucault, “Different Spaces,” 178. 27. Johnson, 81. 28. Johnson, 81. 29. Foucault, “Different Spaces,” 180. 30. Johnson, 86–7. 31. Foucault, “Different Spaces,” 177–8. 32. A large number of Lee Kuan Yew’s speeches to socialist fora were reprinted and annotated by the Singapore Ministry of Culture in pamphlet form. Annotations such as these were uncredited but I shall assume these to be the same ministry in cases like these. 33. Singapore Ministry of Culture, 100 Years of Socialism (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1964), 2. 34. Lee Kuan Yew, speech, Socialist International Conference Council, Brussels, September 3, 1964, in 100 Years of Socialism (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1964), 19–24; and Lee Kuan Yew, speech, Socialist International Congress, Brussels, September 5, 1964, in 100 Years of Socialism (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1964), 29–32. 35. Lee Kuan Yew, speech, “A More Equal and Just Society for Asia,” Young Asian Socialists’ Conference, Bombay, May 6, 1965, in Socialist Solution for Asia: A Report on the 1965 Asian Socialists’ Conference in Bombay (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1965), 1–12. 36. Philippe Regnier, Singapore: City-State in South-East Asia, trans. Christopher Hurst (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1991), 141. 37. See for example Lee, speech, September 3, 1964, 19–24; Lee Kuan Yew, speech, Special Conference of the Socialist International Congress, Uppsala, April 27, 1966, in Socialism and Reconstruction in Asia (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1966), 1–2. 38. Singapore People’s Action Party, “Singapore’s Concept of Socialism: People’s Action Party Policy Paper Tabled at the Conference,” Asia Pacific Socialism, ed. Alex Josey (Singapore: Asia Pacific Press, 1973), 92–3. 39. Chua Sian Chin, “Communism⎯A Real Threat,” Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way, ed. C. V. Devan Nair (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976), 20. 40. Lee Kuan Yew, press conference, n.d., in Socialist Solution for Asia: A Report on the 1965 Asian Socialists’ Conference in Bombay (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1965), 28–9. 41. Ibid., 25. 42. Singapore People’s Action Party, “Singapore’s Concept of Socialism,” 91–104. 43. Lee, speech, September 3, 1964, 19. 44. C. J. W.-L. Wee, “From Universal to Local Culture: The State, Ethnic Identity, and Capitalism in Singapore,” in Local Cultures and the “New Asia,” ed. C. J. W.-L. Wee (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2002), 139.

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45. Lau, “The New Left View of Southeast Asian Development,” 70–5. 46. Rajaratnam, “An Epistle to the Synod of the Socialist Orthodox Church,” 8–10. 47. Ibid., 9. 48. Nair, “Statement on Behalf of the People’s Action Party,’ 135–6. 49. Michael Hill, “‘Asian Values’ as Reverse Orientalism: The Case of Singapore,” Department of Sociology Working Paper no. 150 (Singapore: Department of Sociology, National University of Singapore, 2000). 50. Chua Beng Huat, “‘Asian-Values’ Discourse and the Resurrection of the Social,” Positions: East Asia Cultures Critique 7, no. 2 (1999): 573. 51. Lee, “A More Equal and Just Society for Asia,” 1. 52. C. V. Devan Nair, “Trade Unions in Singapore” in Socialism That Works … The Singapore Way, ed. C. V. Devan Nair (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1976), 98. 53. Ibid. 54. Lee, “A More Equal and Just Society for Asia,” 6. 55. Singapore People’s Action Party, “Singapore’s Concept of Socialism,” 102. 56. C. J. W.-L. Wee, “‘Asian Values,’ Singapore, and the Third Way: Re-Working Individualism and Collectivism,” Sojourn 14, no. 2 (1999): 335–9. 57. Ibid., 350. 58. Italics in source. See Rajaratnam, “An Epistle to the Synod of the Socialist Orthodox Church,” 10. 59. On imperialism, see Hans Morgenthau’s dismissal of it as a valid “academic” subject of inquiry in his classic Politics among Nations. 60. Robert J. Fitrakis, The Idea of Democratic Socialism in America and the Decline of the Socialist Party (New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1993), 3−29. 61. S. Rajaratnam, Asia’s Unfinished Revolution (Singapore: Ministry of Culture, 1966).

Chapter 6 1. Information and publication dates taken from Duiwai wenhua lianluoju, ed., Renmin minzhu guojia fanyi chuban zhi wo guo shuji (No place: Duiwai wenhua lianluoju, 1955). 2. The terms “socialist world” and “pan-socialist” in the title refer to the nations of the East bloc governed by Communist and socialist parties during the Cold War. The discussion in this chapter does not include the Socialist International and the international socialist movements outside the East bloc (see Leong Yew’s contribution to this volume). 3. Nicolai Volland, “Translating the Socialist State: Cultural Exchange, National Identity, and the Socialist World in the Early PRC,” Twentieth-Century China 33, no. 2 (2008): 51−72. 4. See Herman Ermolaev, Soviet Literary Theories, 1917−1934: The Genesis of Socialist Realism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963).

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5. The prize committee never stuck closely to the rules. As Alla Latynina points out, various exceptions were made to honor older works as well, mostly on the personal intervention of Stalin. See “The Stalin Prizes in Literature as the Quintessence of Socialist Realism,” in In the Party Spirit: Socialist Realism and Literary Practice in the Soviet Union, East Germany and China, ed. Hilary Chung (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1996), 106−28. The article contains a list of Stalin Prize winners in literature; unfortunately, this list does not include foreign recipients of the prize. For an extensive collection of documents related to the prize, see V. F. Svinin and K. A. Oseev, eds., Stalinskie premii: dve storony odnoi medali: sbornik dokumentov i khudozhestvenno-peblitsisticheskikh materialov (Novosibirsk: Svinin i synovia, 2007). 6. For a report on this first award, see “1941 Stalin Prize-Winners in the U.S.S.R.,” in Science, New Series 95.2475 (June 1942): 569−70. U.S.S.R. is the abbreviation used for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics or the Soviet Union. 7. Latynina, “Stalin Prizes in Literature,” 120. 8. See Great Soviet Encyclopedia: A Translation of the Third Edition (New York: Macmillan, 1973), 7: 682f. 9. See “Stalinkie premii: prazdnik sovetskogo iskusstva” [“The Stalin Prize: A Festival of Soviet Arts”], in Literaturnaia gazeta 5.2268 (January 1946): 1. Quoted after Latynina, “The Stalin Prizes in Literature,” 108. 10. Ibid., 119f. 11. I have been unable to establish the exact date for the Stalin Prize Committee’s decision to include foreigners in the list of awardees. 12. See for example Hu Qitao, ed., Xin mingci cidian (Shanghai: Chunming chubanshe, 1949), 7084. 13. See Volland, “Translating the Socialist State,” 59−69. 14. “Sulian pinfa 1951 nian Sidalin jiang, jiangli zhuoyue de kexuejia, gexinzhe he wenxue yishujia, wo guo zuojia Ding Ling, Zhou Libo deng de zuopin guangrong huo jiang,” Renmin ribao, March 18, 1952. For a picture of Ding Ling’s Stalin Prize medal, see Li Xiangdong and Wang Zengru, eds., Ding Ling nianpu changbian, 1904−1986 (Tianjin: Tianjin renmin chubanshe, 2005), vol. 1, frontispiece. 15. “Ding Ling jiu ronghuo Sidalin jiangjin fabiao tanhua, ganxie Sulian renmin he Zhongguo zuojia he renmin de guli he bangzhu,” Renmin ribao, March 18, 1951. 16. On the CCP’s development strategy in the early years of the PRC, see William C. Kirby, “China’s Internationalization in the Early People’s Republic: Dreams of a Socialist World Economy,” The China Quarterly 188 (2006): 870−90; Li Hua-Yu, Mao and the Economic Stalinization of China, 1948−1953 (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2006); and Deborah A. Kaple, Dream of a Red Factory: The Legacy of High Stalinism in China (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). 17. Quoted after Herman Ermolaev, Censorship in Soviet Literature: 1917−1991 (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 1997), 53.

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18. See Karen A. McCauley, “Production Literature and the Industrial Imagination,” The Slavic and East European Journal 42, no. 3 (1998): 444−66. 19. For a discussion of Cement and its impact, see Robert L. Busch, “Gladkov’s Cement: The Making of a Soviet Classic,” The Slavic and East European Journal 22, no. 3 (1978): 348−61. 20. Olga Halpern, trans., Zement (Vienna: Verlag für Literatur und Politik, 1927). 21. A. S. Arthur and C. Ashleigh, trans., Cement (New York: International Publishers, 1929). 22. Dong Shaoming and Cai Yongshang, trans., Shimintu (Shanghai: Qizhi shuju, 1929). The book was reprinted by Xin shengming shuju in 1932. 23. Information on the two translations and various editions taken from Chen Jianhua, Ershi shiji Zhong-E wenxue guanxi (Beijing: Gaodeng jiaoyu chubanshe, 2002), 327, and verified with help of the OPAC system of the National Library in Beijing. 24. Qiu Shuwen, ed., Shuimenting (Beijing: Kaiming shudian, 1951). This edition was published as part of the Soviet literature popular series (Tongsu ben Sulian wenxue congshu). 25. Xiaoshuo Shimintu zhi tu (Shanghai: Sanxian shuju, 1930). The preface can be found in vol. 7 of Lu Xun quanji (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2005), 381−83. 26. The most prominent example, beyond Sun and Hurricane, are the short stories and novels by Zhao Shuli, in particular his Lijiazhuang de bianqian (1945). 27. On Cao Ming’s biography, see Yu Renkai et al., eds., Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao (Beijing: Shiyue wenyi chubanshe, 1991), 3−150. 28. Among the works she published in the 1930s, the one best remembered is her novella Lüdi (Shanghai: Liangyou tushu chuban gongsi, 1937), with its depiction of Shanghai’s industrial milieu. 29. Bonnie S. McDougall, Mao Zedong’s “Talks at the Yan’an Conference on Literature and Art”: A Translation of the 1943 Text with Commentary (Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1980). 30. This paragraph relies heavily on Cao Ming’s own account, as presented in “Xie Yuandongli de jingguo,” Renmin wenxue 2, no. 6 (1950), reprinted in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 183−9. 31. Chinese sources differ regarding the exact publication date of Yuandongli. The earliest edition I could find is Harbin: Dongbei shudian, 1948.9. Quotations on the following pages are based on n.p. [Tianjin]: Xinhua shudian, 1949.5 (hereafter YDL). The English translation was published as The Moving Force in Beijing: Cultural Press, 1950 (translator unknown; hereafter MF). 32. See Mao’s article “Guomin geming yu nongmin yundong,” in Mao Zedong wenji (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1993), vol. 1, 37−41. 33. YDL, 16; MF, 27 (translation modified). 34. YDL, 22; MF, 37. My italics; translation of the sentence in italics is mine. 35. YDL, 23; MF, 38. 36. YDL, 146; MF, 211 (translation modified).

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37. See McCauley, “Production Literature and the Industrial Imagination;” and Mary A. Nicholas, “Building a Better Metaphor: Architecture and Russian Production Novels,” Mosaic 35 (2002): 51−68. 38. YDL, 141; MF, 204f. 39. YDL, 80; MF, 116f. (with minor corrections). 40. “Letter to Cao Ming,” repr. in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 227. 41. Ibid. 42. “Letter to Cao Ming,” repr. in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 228f., here 228. 43. See “Cao Ming yanjiu wenzhang mulu suoyin,” in ibid., 433−43, here 433f. 44. Wang Liaoying, “Du Yuandongli,” Hebei wenyi 5 (1949), repr. in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 229−40, here 239f. 45. Xu Shuren, “Shehui de yuandongli he chuangzuo de yuandongli,” Dongbei ribao, December 13, 1949, repr. in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 240−48. While he concedes Cao Ming’s first achievement in this new terrain, this reviewer wants to see even more stress on the processes of industrial production in the fictional medium. He feels that Cao Ming is still too ambiguous in her treatment of the working class and industry, where the future of the new republic lies. 46. Li Yunlong, “Du Cao Ming de Yuandongl,i” Guangming ribao, January 16, 1950, repr. in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 249−56. 47. Wang Liaoying, “Du Yuandongli,” 230. 48. As usual in the socialist world, the Chinese side did not produce translations into Russian or other East bloc languages, but rather recommended titles meriting translation through the channels of friendship associations and cultural cooperation agreements. Proactive translation efforts were in general limited to the languages of the capitalist nations, such as English, French, or Spanish. In such cases, the state-owned Foreign Languages Press (FLP) took the lead. The English translation of The Moving Force (published by the Cultural Press, a predecessor of FLP, which was formally established in July 1952) is thus the only translation of Cao Ming’s work produced in China. All other translations were executed by local translators, often via the Russian translation. 49. Aofuqinnikefu, “Sulian renmin re’ai Zhongguo wenxue yishu,” Renmin ribao, December 4, 1952. 50. L. Aitelin (transcription), “Ping Cao Ming de Yuandongli,” Guangming ribao, February 10, 1951; originally published in Sulian wenxue 12 (1950), trans. Zhang Yinhuai, repr. in Cao Ming Ge Qin yanjiu ziliao, ed. Yu Renkai, 256−61. 51. Ibid., 261. 52. It is interesting to see that Aitelin in turn invokes the endorsement of authoritative Chinese critics such as Mao Dun, Zhou Yang, and Zhou Erfu, to support his point. See ibid., 260. 53. I have yet to gain access to the archival records of the Sino-Soviet Friendship Association and other bureaucracies involved in the transnational promotion of national cultures.

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54. Latynina, “Stalin Prizes in Literature,” 108. 55. See Volland, “Translating the Socialist State.” On the competition among the Asian members of the socialist world, see also Bernd Schaeffer’s paper in this volume. 56. See Yang Lan, “‘Socialist Realism’ versus ‘Revolutionary Realism plus Revolutionary Romanticism,’” in In the Party Spirit, ed. Hilary Chung, 88−105. 57. The best known of these include Zhou Libo’s Shanxiang jubian (1958), Liu Qing’s Chuangye shi (1959), and Haoran’s Yanyang tian (1966).

Chapter 7 1. Bernd Schaefer et al., The GDR in German Archives: A New Resource Guide (Washington, DC: German Historical Institute, 2002). 2. Memcon, July 9, 1971, 4:35 p.m.−11:20 p.m., 41, National Archives and Record Administration (NARA) College Park, Nixon Presidential Materials Project (NPMP), National Security Council (NSC), China HAK [Henry Alfred Kissinger] Memcons, July 1971, Box 1033. 3. John Prados, “Peripheral War: A Recipe for Disaster? The United States in Vietnam and Japan in China,” in America, the Vietnam War, and the World. Comparative and International Perspectives, ed. Andreas W. Daum et al. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 89−103. 4. Working Material of GDR Delegation for World Congress of Peace Forces, Moscow, October 25−31, 1973, Foundation Archive of GDR Parties and Mass Organizations in the German Federal Archives Berlin (SAPMO-BA), DY 30, IV B 2/2.028/54. 5. Helga Picht, Asien: Wege zu Marx und Lenin [Asia: Paths leading to Marx and Lenin] (Berlin, GDR: Dietz, 1984). 6. Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold War. Third World Interventions and the Making of Our Times (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 7. Baik Bong, Kim Il Sung: Biography, Vol. III (Pyongyang/New York: Guardian, 1970), 555−617. 8. Embassy of the GDR in the DPRK, “Information on the KWP Delegates’ Conference from 5 to 12 October 1966 in Pyongyang and on the 14th Plenary Session of the KWP Central Committee on 12 October1966. 3 November 1966,” Political Archive of the German Foreign Ministry (PolA AA), GDR Ministry for Foreign Affairs (MfAA), C 153/75. 9. GDR Ambassador Brie, Pyongyang, to GDR Foreign Ministry, Deputy Minister Hegen, December 12, 1966, PolA AA, MfAA, G-A, 316. 10. Embassy of the GDR in the DPRK, “Information on Some New Aspects of the KWP’s Attitude on Internal and External Matters,” August 18, 1967, PolA AA, MfAA, C 153/75. See also the richly detailed embassy report on May 1 celebrations in Pyongyang in 1967: PolA AA, MfAA, C 1088/70.

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11. Bernd Schaefer, North Korean “Adventurism” and China’s Long Shadow, 1966−1972, CWIHP Working Paper # 44, Washington, DC, 2004; Richard A. Mobley, Flash Point North Korea: The Pueblo and EC−121 Crises (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2003); and Mitchell B. Lerner, The Pueblo Incident: A Spy Ship and the Failure of American Foreign Policy (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2002). 12. Embassy of the GDR in the DPRK, “Memorandum on a Conversation with Vietnamese Ambassador Hoang Muoi on 19 May 1967,” PolA AA, MfAA, G-A 347. 13. This paragraph draws on various memoranda by the East German embassy to the DPRK regarding conversations between GDR diplomats and representatives of DRV and NLF between 1966 and 1969 in Pyongyang. See PolA AA, MfAA. 14. Embassy of the GDR in the DPRK, “Information about the Visit by a Government and Friendship Delegation from the Republic of Cuba to the DPRK between 23 July and 7 August 1968,” PolA AA, MfAA, C 1023/73. 15. GDR Embassy Pyongyang, “Note on Conversation with GDR Ambassador Le Dong on 25 October 1973,” PolA AA, MfAA, G-A 352. 16. Memo, Richard Solomon to Henry Kissinger, “An Evaluation of Kim Il-song’s Visit to Peking, 29 April 1975,” Gerald Ford Presidential Library (GFPL), National Security Affairs (NSA), NSC East Asian and Pacific Affairs Staff Files, Box 13. 17. GDR Embassy Pyongyang, “Note on conversation between Ambassador Dietrich Jarck and SRV Ambassador Le Trung Nam, 13 September 1978,” PolA AA, MfAA, C 5464. 18. Renmin Ribao, 19 April 1975; GDR Foreign Ministry, “On Kim Il Sung’s Visit to the PRC 18−26 April 1975,” April 29, 1975, PolA MfAA, C 300/78. 19. GDR Foreign Ministry, “On Kim Il Sung’s Visit to the PRC 18−26 April 1975,” April 29, 1975, PolA MfAA, C 300/78. 20. CWIHP, E-Dossier No. 14, The History of North Korean Attitudes toward Nuclear Weapons and Efforts to Acquire Nuclear Capability, May 17, 2005, Document 18 (Hungarian report based on information by DRV Ambassador Le Dong); and Chin O. Chung, Pyongyang between Peking and Moscow: North Korea’s Involvement in the Sino-Soviet Dispute, 1958−1975 (Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 1978), 145−7. 21. Mao Zedong and Le Duan, Beijing, May 11, 1970, 77 Conversations Between Chinese and Foreign Leaders on the Wars in Indochina, 1964−77, ed. Odd Arne Westad et al., CWIHP Working Paper # 22, Document # 47, Washington DC: 1998. 22. Memcon Erich Honecker and Pham Van Dong, October 25, 1973, 19 SAPMO-BA, DY 30, J IV 2/201/1132; Memcon Le Duan and SED Central Committee Delegation, December 23, 1974, 3 SAPMO-BA, IV B 2/20/169. 23. “Information Report by ADN Correspondent Gerhard Feldbauer in Hanoi,” February 6, 1969, PolA AA, MfAA, C 1083/73. 24. GDR Foreign Ministry, “Report on GDR Visit by DRV Government Delegation from 5 to 13 October 1969, 4,” October 20, 1969, PolA AA, MfAA, C 1086/73.

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25. “Information Report by ADN Correspondent Anne-Katrein Becker in Hanoi,” August 26, 1971, PolA AA, MfAA, C 1083/73. 26. GDR Embassy Hanoi, “Final Communique DRV-PRC,” Translation from the VWP newspaper Nhan Dan, March 11, 1971, PolA AA, MfAA, C 988/76. 27. GDR Embassy Hanoi, “Analysis of the VWP,” February/March 1971, 38, 44−48, 50−51, SAPMO-BA, DY 30, 3667. 28. “Note on Conversation with CPSU Central Committee International Department Deputy Head Oleg B. Rachmanin on 28 February 1973 in Moscow,” SAPMO-BA, DY 30, IV 2/2.035/55. 29. Memcon Le Duan and SED Central Committee Delegation, December 23, 1974, SAPMO-BA, IV B 2/20/169. 30. Institute for Marxism-Leninism (IML) at SED Central Committee, “Note on Conversation Truong Chinh, Member of VWP Politburo, Director of VWP Committee on Party History, with IML Delegation on 12 January 1975 in VWP Central Committee,” SAPMO-BA, DY 30, IV B 2/20/169. 31. “Transcript of Meeting Erich Honecker and Le Duan in Berlin on 15 October 1975,” 4, 11−3, SAPMO-BA, DY 30, IV B 2/20/169. 32. GDR Ambassador Doering to SED Central Committee, International Relations, Comrade Markowski, December 2, 1975, SAPMO-BA, DY 30, IV B 2/20/168. 33. Philip Short, Pol Pot. Anatomy of a Nightmare (New York: Henry Holt, 2004), 342. 34. Ben Kiernan, How Pol Pot came to Power. Colonialism, Nationalism, and Communism in Cambodia, 1930−1975, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004), 232. 35. “Information on Some Aspects of Developments in South Vietnam and Cambodia,” May 26, 1975, BStU, ZA, HVA 115, Part 1−2, 21−23. 36. Henri Locard, Pol Pot’s Little Red Book, The Sayings of Angkar (Chian Mai, Thailand: Silkworm Books, 2004), 175−81. 37. “Author’s Interview with Dieter Doering, GDR Ambassador to the DRV 1972−1978,” Berlin, February 13, 2006. 38. “Joint Communique (Draft),” GFPL, NSA, Kissinger Reports, Box 2, China. 39. Short, Pol Pot, 298−300; Mao Zedong and Pol Pot, Beijing, June 21, 1975, 77 Conversations, Document #73; Qiang Zhai, “China and the Cambodian Conflict,” in Behind the Bamboo Curtain: China, Vietnam, and the World beyond Asia, ed. Priscilla Roberts (Washington DC / Stanford: Woodrow Wilson Center Press / Stanford University Press, 2006), 392−3. 40. Siegfried Bock et al., DDR-Außenpolitik im Rückspiegel: Diplomaten im Gespräch [GDR Foreign Policy in Retrospect. Diplomats’ Roundtable] (Münster: LIT, 2004), 10−1; Xiaoyuan Liu and Vojtech Mastny, eds., China and Eastern Europe 1960s to 1980s (Zurich: Center for Security Studies, 2004).

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Chapter 8 ∗

1. 2.

3. 4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

I wish to acknowledge the research fellowship grant from the Endeavour Award that gave me an opportunity to be with the Philippines Australia Studies Centre (PASC), School of Social Sciences, La Trobe University, Melbourne, where the congenial atmosphere enabled me to write an early draft of this chapter. I also thank the Department of Malay Studies, National University of Singapore, Singapore, for the working environment favorable for revising the chapter and for sponsoring the seminar from which I received valuable feedback on my paper from the participants. Christian Appy, ed., Cold War Constructions: Political Culture of United States Imperialism, 1945−1966 (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2000), 3. Rockefeller Brothers Fund (RBF) is one of the numerous charitable nonprofit organizations under the Rockefeller umbrella. It was founded in 1940 by five Rockefeller brothers—later joined by the lone sister. Its primary concerns are conservation, population, cultural development, economic development, and international relations. See Harold Keele and Joseph Kiger, eds. Foundations (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1984), 361. While the Magsaysay Foundation is formally administered by a group of Filipinos, the bulk of the funds come from the RBF. Initially, the RBF provided a contribution of U.S. $500,000. On a land bequest by the Philippine Congress, and with an additional grant of U.S. $1 million and a loan of U.S. $2 million from the RBF, the foundation built an eighteen-storey building, the Magsaysay Center, on a prime lot along the scenic Roxas Boulevard. See Section 18, Ramon Magsaysay Award Foundation, Ramon Magsaysay Award Code of Procedure (hereafter called the Code of Procedure), http://www.rmaf.org.ph/index.php?task=32 (accessed on March 12, 2008). The rentals for the use of office spaces help defray the cost of the operation. Individuals and organizations in the Philippines and abroad (mainly the United States) also provide funding support. In 2000, for instance, the Ford Foundation gave U.S. $1.5 million primarily to finance a new category, the Emergent Leadership (Section 19, Code of Procedure). Ramon Magsaysay Award Foundation (RMAF), The Ramon Magsaysay Award (Manila: RMAF), no page nos. This figure covers awardees up to 2008. See the Code of Procedure. Section 24 of the Magsaysay Award’s Code of Procedure lists the following as possible nominators: past awardees, former members of the Board of Trustees, faculties from reputable universities, leaders of specialized institutes, officers of bureaus and commissions, and noted individuals and practitioners. The cash prize was initially U.S. $10,000. It was raised in 1977 to U.S. $20,000 and to U.S. $30,000 a decade later. Since 1993, it has become U.S. $50,000 (see Code of Procedure, Section 18). For a nonexhaustive list, see the foundation’s Web site, www.rmaf.org.ph/index. php?task = 74.

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9. Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 13. 10. Therese Richardson and Donald Fisher, “Introduction: The Social Sciences and Their Philanthropic Mentors,” in The Development of the Social Sciences in the United States and Canada: The Role of Philanthropy, ed. Therese Richardson and Donald Fisher (Stamford, CT: Ablex Publishing Corporation, 1999), 7. 11. Christian Appy, “Introduction,” in Cold War Constructions, 1−10; Edward Berman, The Influence of the Carnegie, Ford and Rockefeller Foundations on American Foreign Policy: The Ideology of Philanthropy (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1983); and David Engerman et al., Staging Growth: Modernization, Development and the Global Cold War (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003). 12. Edward Lindeman, Wealth and Culture (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1936), 160, as cited in Therese Richardson and Donald Fisher, “Introduction,” 8. 13. His mother was a schoolteacher and his father was a blue-collar worker. 14. He dropped out from the University of the Philippines, College of Engineering, and later completed a bachelor’s degree in commerce at Jose Rizal College. 15. He worked as an automobile mechanic, and later as a supervisor in a bus company. 16. Jonathan Nashel, Edward Lansdale’s Cold War (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2005). 17. Carlos Quirino, Magsaysay of the Philippines (Manila: Ramon Magsaysay Memorial Society, 1958); Jose Abueva, Ramon Magsaysay (Manila: Solidaridad Publication, 1971); and Manuel Martinez, Magsaysay: The People’s President (Makati City: RMJ Development Corporation, 2005). 18. Ibid. 19. Renato Constantino and Letizia Constantino, The Philippines: A Continuing Past, vol. 2, (Quezon City: Foundation for Nationalist Studies, 1978), 215−301. 20. Sonia Zaide with Gregorio Zaide, The Philippines: A Unique Nation (Quezon City: All Nations Publishing Co., 1999), 359−60; and Constantino and Constantino, The Philippines. 21. Jonathan Nashel, Edward Lansdale’s Cold War (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2005). 22. Ibid. 23. It covers awardees of the period 1958−2007. It does not include the most recent batches, the 2008 and 2009 awardees. 24. Jonathan Nashel, “The Road to Vietnam: Modernization Theory in Fact and Fiction,” in Christian Appy, ed., Cold War Constructions, 134. 25. Michael Latham, “Introduction; Modernization: International History, and the Cold War World,” in Staging Growth: Modernization, Development and the Global Cold War, ed. David Engerman (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003), 2. 26. Nils Gilman, “Modernization Theory, the Highest Stage of American Intellectual History,” in Staging Growth: Modernization, Development and the Global Cold War, 47−80.

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27. See Richardson and Fisher (1999); Gilman (2003); and Berman (1983). 28. Donald Fisher, Fundamental Development of the Social Sciences: Rockefeller Philanthropy and the United States Social Science Research Council (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1993). 29. Richardson and Fisher, “Introduction,” 8−9. 30. Only one government official in the Marcos government (Arturo Alcaraz, GS 1982) and only two in Lee Kuan Yew’s government (Goh Kheng Swee, GS 1972 and Lim Kim San, CL 1965) were recognized. 31. Please note that for this chapter, I limit my database to the citations for awardees from South and Southeast Asia. Awardees from China, Japan, Korea, and Taiwan, who total about 60, are not covered. 32. Berman, The Influence of the Carnegie, Ford and Rockefeller Foundations on American Foreign Policy. 33. The assessments of the impact of the Green Revolution are mixed (see Perkins 1997, for example), but the fact that there were cases when it clearly worked for the benefit of many served as a potent image of what science can do to address rural poverty. 34. Michael Adas, “Modernization Theory and the American Revival of the Scientific and Technological Standards of Social Achievement and Human Worth,” in Staging Growth: Modernization, Development and the Global Cold War, 40. 35. Raymond Williams, Culture (London: Fontana, 1981), 12−13. 36. Giles Scott-Smith, The Politics of Apolitical Culture: The Congress of Cultural Freedom, the CIA and the Post-War American Hegemony (New York: Routledge, 2002), 5. 37. Such recognition caused a stir when former awardees such as Mochtar Lubis (Indonesia, JLACC 1958) and Francisco Sionil Jose (Philippines, JLACC 1980) returned their awards in protest. For them Pramoedya’s allegedly shady relationship with the Communist Party−affiliated organization Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat (LEKRA, Institute of People’s Culture) made him undeserving of such a lofty recognition, and they could not take the supposed indignity of being lumped together with him as fellow Magsaysay awardees.

Chapter 9 1. See, among others, Frederick C. Barghoorn, The Soviet Cultural Offensive: The Role of Cultural Diplomacy in Soviet Foreign Policy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1960); and William E. Ratliff, “Chinese Communist Cultural Diplomacy toward Latin America, 1949−1960,” The Hispanic American Historical Review 49, no. 1 (February 1969): 53−79. On the cultural diplomacy pursued by the Hungarian Communist leadership, the research activity of the Hungarian scholar Anikó Macher deserves special mention. 2. Charles Armstrong, “The Cultural Cold War in Korea, 1945−1950,” The Journal of Asian Studies 62, no. 1 (February 2003): 71−99.

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3. Hungarian Legation to the DPRK [henceforth HL-DPRK], Report, June 7, 1952, Hungarian National Archives [Magyar Országos Levéltár, MOL], XIX-J1-k Korea 1945−1964, Administrative Documents [henceforth KA], 9. doboz, 18/d, 02754/3/1952. 4. Hungarian Embassy to the DPRK [henceforth HE-DPRK], Annual Report, February 26, 1955, MOL, XIX-J-1-j Korea 1945−1964, Top Secret Documents [henceforth KTS], 4. doboz, 5/a, 004076/1955. 5. Andrei Lankov, Crisis in North Korea. The Failure of De-Stalinization, 1956 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 36−44. 6. Balázs Szalontai, Kim Il Sung in the Khrushchev Era: Soviet-DPRK Relations and the Roots of North Korean Despotism, 1953−1964 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Press; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005), 41, 67, 78−9. 7. Szalontai, Kim Il Sung, 47−51, 62−9. 8. Ibid., 78−79. 9. HE-DPRK, Report, December 28, 1955, KA, 9. doboz, 18/b, 0025/25/3− 15/1955. 10. Lankov, Crisis in North Korea, 30−32, 36, 39. 11. Szalontai, Kim Il Sung, 72−4. 12. Ibid., 88−90. 13. Lankov, Crisis in North Korea, 74−142. 14. HE-DPRK, Annual Report, May 28, 1957, KTS, 4. doboz, 5/a, 002749/ 1957. 15. HE-DPRK, Annual Report, February 24, 1959, KTS, 4. doboz, 5/a, 002242/ 1959. 16. Szalontai, Kim Il Sung, 114−5. 17. Ibid., 119−121. 18. HE-DPRK, January 24, 1959, KTS, 7. doboz, 5/f, 001702/1959. 19. HE-DPRK, Report, February 10, 1960, KA, 9. doboz, 18/b, 001709/1960. 20. HE-DPRK, Report, June 9, 1958, KTS, 6. doboz, 5/e, 002246/1958. 21. Stephen Jin-Woo Kim, Master of Manipulation. Syngman Rhee and the SeoulWashington Alliance, 1953−1960 (Seoul: Yonsei University Press, 2001), 272. 22. Szalontai, Kim Il Sung, 157−60. 23. Ibid., 165. 24. Ibid., 161−165. 25. Ibid., 165−168. 26. Ibid., 176. 27. HE-DPRK, Report, December 16, 1963, KA, 9. doboz, 18/d, 001779/1964. 28. Szalontai, Kim Il Sung, 180. 29. Ibid., 181. 30. Hungarian Foreign Ministry [henceforth HFM], Memorandum, May 13, 1966, KTS, 1966, 74. doboz, IV–10 (no reference number)/1966. 31. HE-DPRK, Report, January 26, 1966, KTS, 1966, 74. doboz, IV−71, 001500/1966. 32. HFM, Memorandum (no date), KTS, 74. doboz, 1966, IV–109, 002542/5/1966.

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33. HE-DPRK, Report, August 17, 1965, KTS, 1965, 73. doboz, IV−100, 001819/1965. 34. HE-DPRK, Report, January 26, 1966, KTS, 1966, 74. doboz, IV−71, 001500/1966. 35. HE-DPRK, Report, October 13, 1966, KA, 1966, 27. doboz, IV−765, 1/23−1/1966. 36. HE-DPRK, Report, November 18, 1966, KTS, 1966, 74. doboz, IV−250, 005007/3/1966. 37. HE-DPRK, Report, October 31, 1967, KTS, 1967, 61. doboz, 1, 004433/ 1967. 38. HE-DPRK, Report, July 14, 1966, KTS, 1966, 74. doboz, IV−18, 004069/1966. 39. HE-DPRK, Report, May 2, 1973, KA, 1973, 31. doboz, 5389−1/1973; Hungarian Ministry of Culture, Report, June 14, 1973, KA, 1973, 31. doboz, 5389−2/1973. 40. HE-DPRK, Report, November 10, 1973, KA, 1973, 31. doboz, 8340−1/ 1973. 41. Hungarian Institute of Cultural Contacts, Report, October 11, 1974, KTS, 1974, 66. doboz, 81−71, 003388/2/1974. 42. Hungarian Ministry of Education, Report, December 15, 1975, KA, 1976, 38. doboz, 1258/1976. 43. HFM, Memorandum, January 28, 1972, KTS, 1972, 60. doboz, 20, 001066/1/1972; HE-DPRK, Report, February 25, 1972, KTS, 1972, 58. doboz, 10, 00958/6/1972. 44. See, among others, Myung Soo Lee, Living Together on the Korean Peninsula: Legal Problems and Approaches Facing a Divided Nation (Seoul: Korea University, Asiatic Research Center, 1994), 69−70. 45. HE-DPRK, Report, July 17, 1974, KTS, 1974, 67. doboz, 81−80, 001524/2/1974. 46. HFM, Memorandum, April 17, 1970, KTS, 1970, 54. doboz, 81, 00843/1/1970. 47. HE-DPRK, Report, October 26, 1971, KTS, 1971, 66. doboz, 81−10, 001555/6/1971. 48. HFM, Memorandum, May 24, 1972, XIX-J-1-j China, Top Secret Documents [henceforth CTS], 1972, 56. doboz, 78−10, 00696/1/1972. 49. Hungarian Embassy to the Soviet Union [henceforth HE−USSR], Report, March 6, 1972, KA, 1972, 31. doboz, 625−9/1972. 50. HE-DPRK, Telegram, June 7, 1972, CTS, 1972, 56. doboz, 78−10, 00696/2/1972. 51. HE-USSR, Report, March 6, 1972, KA, 1972, 31. doboz, 625−9/1972. 52. HE-DPRK, Report, May 6, 1976, KTS, 1976, 83. doboz, 7, 003198/1976; HE-DPRK, Report, June 17, 1976, KTS, 1976, 83. doboz, 7, 003198/2/ 1976.

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53. HE-DPRK, Telegram, June 8, 1976, KTS, 1976, 83. doboz, 7, 003198/1/1976; HE-DPRK, Report, June 17, 1976, KTS, 1976, 83. doboz, 7, 003198/2/ 1976. 54. HE-DPRK, Telegram, March 11, 1976, KTS, 1976, 82. doboz, 2, 001291/6/1976. 55. HE-USSR, Telegram, January 20, 1977, KTS, 1977, 78. doboz, 81−1, 00334/3/1977. 56. HE-DPRK, Report, May 6, 1976, KTS, 1976, 83. doboz, 7, 003198/1976. 57. Andrei Lankov, From Stalin to Kim Il Sung. The Formation of North Korea 1945−1960 (London: Hurst & Company, 2002), 57−8. 58. Charles K. Armstrong, The North Korean Revolution, 1945−1950 (Ithaca, NY, and London: Cornell University Press, 2003), 186−7. 59. Bruce Cumings, The Origins of the Korean War II. The Roaring of the Cataract (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 347. 60. HE-DPRK, Report, June 17, 1976, KTS, 1976, 83. doboz, 7, 003198/2/ 1976. 61. Bruce Cumings, Korea’s Place in the Sun. A Modern History (New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1997), 460−1. 62. HE-USSR, Telegram, August 23, 1978, KTS, 1978, 80. doboz, 81−1, 001703/19/1978; HE-USSR, Report, January 23, 1979, KTS, 1979, 80. doboz, 81−1, 00868/1979; HE-DPRK, Telegram, July 12, 1979, XIX-J-1-j Vietnam, Top Secret Documents, 1979, 135. doboz, 162−1, 004182/1/1979. 63. HE-DPRK, Telegram, October 31, 1978, KTS, 1978, 80. doboz, 81−1, 002084/3/1978; HE-DPRK, Telegram, October 31, 1978, KTS, 1978, 80. doboz, 81−1, 002084/4/1978. 64. HE-DPRK, Telegram, December 20, 1978, KTS, 1978, 80. doboz, 81−1, 002084/5/1978. 65. HE-DPRK, Ciphered Telegram, April 26, 1979, KTS, 1979, 81. doboz, 81−5, 003141/1979. 66. HE-DPRK, Telegram, December 14, 1978, CTS, 1978, 78. doboz, 78−1, 005753/4/1978. 67. HE-DPRK, Report, April 15, 1986, KA, 1986, 60. doboz, 81−7, 13925/1986. 68. HE-DPRK, Report, February 24, 1986, KA, 1986, 60. doboz, 81−7, 12153/1986. 69. Ibid. 70. HFM, Memorandum, June 12, 1984, KTS, 1984, 86. doboz, 81−13, 003512/1/1984. 71. Balázs Szalontai and Sergey Radchenko, “North Korea’s Efforts to Acquire Nuclear Technology and Nuclear Weapons: Evidence from Russian and Hungarian Archives,” Cold War International History Project Working Paper no. 53 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, August 2006), 5−21. 72. HE-DPRK, Report, February 24, 1986, KA, 1986, 60. doboz, 81−7, 12153/1986.

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73. Lee, Living Together on the Korean Peninsula, 76−80. 74. HFM, Memorandum, August 1986, KA, 1986, 60. doboz, 81−1, 10903−4/1986. 75. HE-DPRK, Telegram, October 23, 1987, XIX-J-1-j South Korea, 1987, 82. doboz, 82−232, 004914/1987. 76. HE-DPRK, Telegram, July 15, 1987, SKTS, 1987, 82. doboz, 82−10, 003183/1987. 77. Adrian Buzo, The Guerilla Dynasty. Politics and Leadership in North Korea (London and New York: I. B. Tauris, 1999), 176−177, 186−7. 78. Ibid., 272. 79. HE-DPRK, Report, May 26, 1988, KA, 1988, 58. doboz, 81−1, 5653/1988. 80. Ibid. 81. Ibid.

Chapter 10 1. R. Sean Randolph, The United States and Thailand: Alliance and Dynamics, 1950−1985 (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley, 1986). 2. Donald E. Nuechterlein, Thailand and the Struggle for Southeast Asia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1965). 3. Daniel Fineman, A Special Relationship: The United States and Military Government in Thailand, 1947−1958 (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1997). 4. Christopher E. Goscha, Thailand and the Southeast Asian Networks of the Vietnamese Revolution, 1885−1954 (Richmond, VA: Curzon, 1999). 5. This was expressed through Chiang Kai-shek’s historical radio broadcast to Thailand in February 1943. See Academia Historica: Foreign Affairs; 172−1/0703(4)012, “Report from the 32nd Meeting of the Sino-Thai Problem Discussion,” in Discussions of Sino-Thai Problems, April 5, 1943; see also, Public Record Office: Foreign Office; 371/35983, Chiang Kai-shek’s Broadcast to Siam, 1943. 6. G. William Skinner, Chinese Society in Thailand (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1957), 281−2. 7. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Report to the Prime Minister Concerning the Unrest on the Night of September 20 2488 B.E., September 22, 1945. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Letter from Minister of Interior to the Prime Minister Concerning Allegations of a Robbery Committed by Military and Police Officers, November 15, 1945. 11. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Minutes of Meeting on Supplying and Selling Food to the General Public due to Mass Closing Down of Chinese Food Stores, September 25, 1945.

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12. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Communiqué from Department of Publicity, September 24, 1945. 13. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Letter from Minister of Interior to the Prime Minister Concerning Sino-Thai Conflict in Bangkok Chinatown, October 30, 1945. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid. 16. Academia Historica: Foreign Affairs; 172−1/0656, Siam Persecutes the Overseas Chinese, 1945. 17. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Letter from Minister of Interior to the Prime Minister Concerning Sino-Thai Conflict in Bangkok Chinatown, October 30, 1945. 18. National Archives of Thailand: [2] Office of the Prime Minister 0201.77/16, Letter from Minister of Interior to the Prime Minister Concerning Sino-Thai Conflict in Bangkok Chinatown, November 22, 1945. 19. G. William Skinner, Chinese Society in Thailand (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1957), 282. 20. Donald F. Cooper, Thailand: Dictatorship or Democracy? (London: Minerva Press, 1995), 186−7. 21. Thak Chaloemtiarana, The Sarit Regime (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1974), 528. 22. Under normal circumstances, Thai military personnel, as well as government civil servants, must retire at the age of sixty. 23. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, News Clips from Thairath, Daily News, and Chao Thai Newspapers Concerning the Plabplachai Incident, July 4−8, 1974. 24. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, Daily News, July 5, 1974. 25. Ibid. 26. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, Thairath Newspaper, July 5, 1974. 27. Nation, Monday morning, July 8, 1974. 28. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, Daily News, July 6, 1974. 29. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 2, Siamrath Newspaper, July 8, 1974. 30. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, “Step on the Law and Then Step on Our Heads,” in Chao Thai Newspaper, July 8, 1974. 31. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 2, “Be Careful of the Second Drop of Honey,” in Daily News, July 9, 1974. 32. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 2, “Observations Concerning This Riot in Bangkok,” Siamrath Newspaper, July 9, 1974. 33. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 3, “Not Sure If There Is a Conspiracy behind the Riots,” in Thairath Newspaper, July 5, 1974.

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34. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, “What Is the Cause of the Riots ?,” in Daily News, July 6, 1974. 35. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, “Step on the Law and Then Step on Our Heads,” in Chao Thai Newspaper, July 8, 1974. 36. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 2, “Observations Concerning This Riot in Bangkok,” Siamrath Newspaper, July 9, 1974. 37. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, “Mix-Match by Sathien Phantharangsri,” in Chao Thai Newspaper, July 8, 1974. 38. Ang-yee was the name of one of the most popular Chinese secret societies. The word itself does not mean “secret society.” Its literal meaning is “sons of the Emperor Hongwu,” the first emperor of the Ming dynasty. 39. This refers to the Prevention and Suppression of Ang-yee Activities Act promulgated in 1898. 40. For this paper, the author draws heavily upon materials from two English-language newspapers—Nation and Bangkok Post—and three Chinese-language newspapers—Xin Xian Ri Bao, Shi Jie Ri Bao, and Jing Hua Ri Bao. 41. Nation, Monday morning, July 9, 1974. 42. Nation, Monday morning, July 5, 1974. 43. Nation, Monday morning, July 6, 1974. 44. Ibid. 45. From an interview with Paisal Sricharatchanya on December 7, 2007, at the Polo Club, Bangkok. 46. Nation, Monday morning, July 7, 1974. 47. Shi Jie Ri Bao, July 8, 1974. 48. Shi Jie Ri Bao, July 10, 1974. 49. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 1, “Chinese Newspapers Express Opinions,” in Thairath Newspaper, July 7, 1974. 50. Jing Hua Ri Bao, July 6, 1974. 51. The term Era of Democracy in Full Bloom is the translation of a term that was widely used in the Thai press after the October 14 Incident, but no individual has claimed credit for being the inventor of this term. 52. Nation, Saturday morning, July 20, 1974. 53. Donald F. Cooper, Thailand: Dictatorship or Democracy? (London: Minerva Press, 1995), 244. 54. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 3, “Conclusion of Plabplachai Investigation: Police Did Not Overact,” in Chao Thai Newspaper, August 14, 1974. 55. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 3, “No Evidence That Officers Harassed Taxi Driver,” in Daily News, August 13, 1974. 56. National Archives of Thailand: news case 7 /2517/ 4, folder 3, “Concluded: Police Did Not Employ Undue Violence,” in Daily News, August 16, 1974.

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Index

Abdul Rahman, Tunku 138 Abdul Razak 137 Acharya Vinoba Bhave 137 Afghan war 12 Africa 119, 122, 125 Afro-Asian movement. See Non-Aligned Movement (NAM) Afro-Asian solidarity 84 “age of high mass consumption” 135, 142 agriculture, modernization of 132–33 All Union Congress of Soviet Writers 94, 98 An Mak 149–50 Ang-yee. See overseas Chinese gangs antihegemonism 115, 124 anti-imperialism 115–16, 119, 122–23, 125 anti-U.S. protests 9 Appy, Christian 215 Ariyaratne, A. T. 139 Armstrong, Charles 146 Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) 9 Asia agency 6–7 civil wars 8 decolonization 7–8 interstate wars 8–9 nationalist movements 6–7 regionalism 12 rise of middle classes 9 Asian Games 55

Asian values 74, 84, 87–89 avant-garde 57 Bandung Conference 54 Bangladesh 128, 133, 138 Magsaysay awards for 128 Batavia 55, 58, 60 Nieuw Batavia 58 Nieuw Gondangdia 58 Bengzon, Alfred 137 Bhatt, Ela Ramesh 139 Bosworth, Stephen 163 Brasilia 56–58 British Labour Party (BLP). See Labour Party, Great Britain Cambodia (or Kampuchea) 114, 120–21, 123, 125 Communist Party of Kampuchea (CPK) 113, 123–25 conflict with Vietnam 159–60 Cao Ming 93, 99–100, 103–7, 109–10 capitalism 115–16 socialism, relationship with. See socialism variations in 87 Carnegie Foundation 129, 138 Case Study House 56 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) 130, 131, 173, 178, 181, 183 Chiang Kai-shek 168

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Index

China 130 anti-Manchurism 11 Chinese Communist Party (CCP) 115 Chinese revolution (1949) 122 Cultural Revolution 113, 115, 117–18, 153–54, 156–57 Great Leap Forward 110–11 land reform 35–36. Compare Vietnam: land reform learning from the Soviet Union 94–95, 97–98 Magsaysay awards for 128 nationalism 11 People’s Republic of China (PRC) 113–16, 117, 120, 121, 124 Red Guard 117 relations with the DPRK 153–54, 156, 159–61, 163 relations with Japan 160 relations with the ROK 162–63 relations with the United States 157 relations with Vietnam 159 working class 101–4 Chinatown, Bangkok 165, 169–71, 175–77, 179–82 Cho Ki-ch’on 157–58 Chong Yong-su 157 Christian evangelism 12 Chu Chae-yul 154, 156 Cold War 127, 129–31, 135, 139, 141, 143 Cold War studies, new trends 3–5 conventional views 74–75 geographical evolution 5–7 space, concept of 73–76, 79–81 See also culture: cultural turn in Cold War history Communist Bloc 55 Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). See Soviet Union Communist Party of Kampuchea (CPK). See Cambodia

Confucianism 140, 155 critical geopolitics 75–76, 80–81 Cuba 119, 122 cultural diplomacy 93, 95, 110–11 cultural exchanges 94, 110 Cultural Revolution. See China culture cultural turn in Cold War history 10 cultural zones 11 definitions 9 Cumings, Bruce 158 Dai Viet (or Great Viet), political party 32, 192 Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK). See Korea Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV / North Vietnam). See Vietnam Deshmukh, Chintaman Dwarkanath 138 de-Stalinization 115, 117 Deutscher Werkbund 56 dialectical materialism 138 Ding Ling 93, 97 Dragon Gang. See overseas Chinese gangs Dutch East Indies 53, 58 Dutch Labour Party (PvdA). See Labour Party, Netherlands Eagle Gang. See overseas Chinese gangs Eastern Europe 123, 125, 145, 147, 149, 161 Encarnacion, Rosario 133, 136 Encarnacion, Silvino 133, 136 Engels, Friedrich 124–25 Filipinos 128, 130, 131, 136 Filipino nationalism 131 Fisher, Donald 129, 136 Ford Foundation 129, 138 Foucault, Michel “Des Espaces Autres” (Of Other Spaces) 75, 81–82

Index France 121 French Communist Party 122 Free Thai Movement. See Thailand free world 135–36 French Communist Party. See France functionalism 57, 66 futurism 103–4 Gandhi, Mahatma 139 Gandhian model 139 Garcia, Carlos 127 Garden City 58 Geertz, Clifford 9 German Democratic Republic. see Germany Germany German Democratic Republic (GDR / East Germany) 114–15, 122–23 West Germany (FRG/Federal Republic of Germany) 114 Ghana 119 Ghosh, Gour Kishore 138 Gladkov, Fyodor 98–99, 106–8 Goh Keng Swee 134 “greatness of human spirit” 127, 133, 138, 143 Green Revolution 139 Guinea 119 Han Sol-ya 150 Henk Ngantung 55 heterotopias. See Foucault, Michel: “Des Espaces Autres” hierarchical structures 110–11 Ho Chi Minh 1–2, 115, 117, 118, 123 anti-imperialism 35 criticism of American society and culture 39–41 different views from Truong Chinh 42 view of India and Indonesia 42 Hoang Muoi 118

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Hoang Quoc Viet 43 Hoang Van Chi 21–22 Hoang Xuan Nhi 49 Honecker, Erich 123 Hong Kong, Magsaysay awards for 128 hooligans. See overseas Chinese gangs Huk rebellion 130–31 Hungary 147 Hungarian diplomats and delegations in the DPRK 147, 152, 154–55, 160–61, 162 identity 94, 109–10 India 127, 137–39 Magsaysay awards for 127 Socialist Party of 138 Indochina 116, 120–21, 122–23 Indochinese Communist Party (ICP), 24–6. See also Viet Minh; Vietnamese Communist Party; Vietnamese Workers Party Indonesia 128, 133, 143 1945 Constitution 54 civil war, 6. Compare Vietnam: civil war communists 11 Guided Democracy 53–55 labor activists 11 national identity 56–57, 65 nationalists 6–7 War Reparation Project 55 Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia) 137 Indonesian Peasant Front (Barisan Tani Indonesia) 137 International Olympic Committee (IOC) 161 International Style 56, 58 internationalism 121, 122 Iriye, Akira 9 Isaacs, Harold 10 Islamic revival movement 12

228

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Index

Jakarta 53–60 Ancol Project 55 Bank Indonesia Headquarters 55, 67 Banteng Hotel 55 Bung Karno Tower 55 Conefo Building 55 Dirgantara Monument 55 Djakarta By-Pass Project 55 Gajah Mada–Hayam Wuruk segment 58 Gelora/Asian Games Stadium complex 55 Hotel Indonesia 55 Independence Square/Merdeka Park 55, 58 Istiqlal Mosque. See National Mosque Kebayoran Baru (or Kebajoran Baru) 55, 58 Kemayoran 55 Kota area 58 Molenveit. See Gajah Mada–Hayam Wuruk segment National Monument 55, 58–62, 64, 67–68, 72 National Mosque 55, 67–68 Nusantara Project 54 Pola Building (Gedung Pola) 55, 70–71 Sarinah Department Store 55 Selamat Datang (Welcome) Monument 55 Semanggi 58 Senayan 55 Slipi 55 Tanah Abang 58 Thamrin-Sudirman streets 55, 58 Tugu Nasional. See National Monument West Papua Liberation Monument 55 Wisma Nusantara Building 55 Japan 122 anti-Japanese struggle in Korea and Manchuria 150–53, 158

Magsaysay awards for 128 relations with China 160 relations with the Republic of Korea 162 Java 133, 137 Kampuchea. See Cambodia Keo Viphakone 135 Khmer People 124 Khrushchev, Nikita 44, 149, 151–52 Kim Ch’ang-man 149 Kim Ch’ang-sok 152 Kim Il Sung 115, 117–20 chuch’e idea 147, 151 criticism of the Soviet Koreans 147–48 criticism of the Soviet Union 150–52, 158–59 personality cult 148–49, 152, 153, 164 visits to the Soviet Union 151, 161 Kim Jong Il 163 Kim P’al-tong 150 Kissinger, Henry 115 Koningsplein 58–60, 64, 68 Korea Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) 120 Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK/North Korea) 113, 115–20, 125 antitraditionalism 147, 150, 152–57 cultural diplomacy 145–46, 149, 150–51, 152–53, 156–54 cultural nationalism 147–51, 152, 154, 155–56, 162–63, 164 dramas and operas 148, 149, 151, 153, 155, 161 economic nationalism 146–48 education 149, 155–56, 160–61 films 159–61 foreign relations. See China, Republic of Korea, Soviet Union, United States

Index historical research 151, 154 intra-party conflicts 147–50 literature 146–47, 149, 150, 152, 157–59, 160–61 museums 152, 154–55 music 149–50, 153, 155, 161, 163 paintings 148–49, 153 Soviet Koreans 147–48 Mongolian conflict 157–59 Korean communists 6–7 Korean reunification 120 Korean War 35, 130 Republic of Korea (ROK / South Korea) 117–18, 119–20 Magsaysay awards for 128 relations with the DPRK 150–51, 153, 155–56, 161–63 Seoul Olympiad 160–61 Korean Workers’ Party (KWP) 115, 148–49, 150–52, 154–58, 160–62, 164 disagreeing leaders of 149 Kosygin, Alexei, visit of 152 Kota Proklamasi (city where independence was proclaimed) 54–55 Kubitschek, Juscelino 57 Labour Party, Great Britain 77–78, 86, 91 Labour Party, Netherlands 77–78, 86, 91 Landsdale, Edward 130 Lao She 99 Laos 121 Latin America 119, 122 Le Duan 45, 120–23 Le Xuan Dong 122 Lee Kuan Yew 76–77, 84–88, 90–91, 137 Lenin, V. I. 123–25 counterweight of Modernization Theory to 135

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229

Liberal Democracy 54 Lin Biao, campaign against 156 Lindeman, Edward 129 linggam-yoni 59, 61–62 locality, expression of 56 lotus/padma, Buddhist symbol 59 Lu Xun 98 Macher, Anikó 217 Magsaysay, Ramon 129–31 Maha Sirindhorn 140 Majapahit 59 Malaysia 135–38, 141 Magsaysay awards for 128 Rubber Institute of 141 Mali 119 Mao Dun 99, 106 Mao Zedong 2, 34, 101, 115, 117–18, 120, 124–25 Maoism 114, 122, 124–25 Mao Zedong Thought 122, 124 “Remarks on Art and Literature” speech of 157 Maoists 138 Marcos, Ferdinand 137 Marx, Karl 124–25 Marxism-Leninism 113, 115, 121–22, 125 Meester 58 Menteng 58 Méray, Tibor 146 Mikoyan, Anastas 149 modern movement 56, 63 modern architecture 56–57 modernist 55–58, 62–63, 66, 68, 71–72 modernism 56, 58, 63 modernization 132–33, 139 Modernization Theory 135–40 Monroe, Marilyn 152 Moruo, Guo 105–6 Mother Teresa 140 Muhamad Alias 137

230

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Index

Narayan, Jayaprakash 138, 139 Narong Kittikachorn 174 Nashel, Jonathan 135 nation building 54 national flag 165, 169 national liberation movements 119, 122 nation-state building 8–9 Naxalites 138 Nehru, Jawaharlal 138, 139 New Left 78, 79, 81, 86, 89–91 Nghiem Ke To 24, 25 Nghiem Xuan Thien 192 Nghiem Xuan Hong 19, 26–27 Ngo Dinh Diem 9, 18, 43, 45, 131 relationship with anticommunists 18, 192, 194 Nguyen Dang Thuc 29 Nguyen Manh Con 20, 24–25, 27, 32 Nguyen Tran 27 Nhan Van Giai Pham Affair 29–31 Niemeyer, Oscar 56–57 Nixon, Richard 119–21, 157 visit to China 157 Nobel Prize 96, 127 Non-Aligned Movement (NAM) 54 North Korea. See Korea North Vietnam. See Vietnam O Chin-u 154 157 Oceania 122 overseas Chinese gangs Ang-yee 179 Dragon Gang 176, 179 Eagle Gang 176, 179 hooligans 176, 177, 184 secret societies 179–80 overseas Chinese 165–73, 179–83 Paisal Sricharatchanya 181 Pakistan, Magsaysay awards for 128 Palangkaraya 57 Palestine 122

Pan-Islamism 11 Park Chung Hee 156 PCF. See France: French Communist Party Peng, Dehuai 149 People’s Action Party (PAP, Singapore) communism, perceptions of 80–81, 89–90 communist parties, relations with 76 Europe, perceptions of, 150–52. See also socialism: Western variations of political opponents, detention of 77 pragmatism 70 socialist ideology 77–79 Socialist International, relations with 74–75, 77 People’s Republic of China. See China Pham Van Dong 50–51, 121 Philippines 128–31, 133, 135–37, 143 Magsaysay awards for 128 Phon Sangsing Kheo 136 Pibulsongkram. See Thai Prime Ministers Plabplachai Incident 165–68, 174–77 foreign language reports of 180–82 public opinion of 177–80 Pol Pot 124, 125, 159 political identities 11 Poon Lamlueprasert 175–77, 179, 184 postcolonial 56, 59 Pramoedya Ananta Toer 138, 143 Praphas Charusathien 176 prewar modernism 56 Quirino, Elpidio

129–30

Rahman, Matiur 138 Ramon Magsaysay Award 128–29, 138, 141, 142 Code of Procedure 128

Index community leadership category (CL) 127, 133, 136, 137, 138, 139, 143 emergent leadership category (EL) 127 government service category (GS) 127, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 141 journalism, literature, arts, and creative communication category (JLACC) 127, 138, 143 peace and international understanding category (PIU) 127, 133 public service category (PS) 127, 138 Ramon Magsaysay Award Foundation (RMAF) 128 realist 55, 62 Rhee, Syngman 6–9, 150 Rockefeller Brothers Fund (RBF) 127, 215 Rockefeller Foundation 129, 138 Rockefeller III, John D. 127 Roh Tae Woo 162 Roxas, Manuel 129 Russian Revolution, impact on architecture 56 Santiago-Defensor, Miriam 135 Sanya Dhammasak. See Thai Prime Ministers Sarit Dhanarajata. See Thai Prime Ministers secret societies. See overseas Chinese gangs Sekhar, Balachandra Chakkingal 141 Seni Pramoj. See Thai Prime Ministers Shahrum Bin Yub 136 Shin Sang Ok 161 Sholokov, Mikhail 95 Silaban, Friedrich 53, 55, 60–72 socialism 115, 121, 125, 137, 138

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231

Asian variations of 80, 83–85, 88–90 capitalism, relationship with 87 democratic socialism 75–77 in the United States 90–91 Western variations of 78–79, 88 Socialist International People’s Action Party (Singapore), relations with 74–75, 77 principles of 77 socialist realism 94–96, 97–98, 110–11 Socialism that Works … The Singapore Way (1976) 75–76, 78–79, 84 Soedarsono 55, 61 Soedjarwo, Anton 133 Soesilo, Mohammad 58 South Korea. See Korea South Vietnam. See Vietnam Southeast Asia 122 Southeast Asian Treaty Organization (SEATO) 8 Soviet Union 55, 66, 93, 95–96, 107, 108, 110, 114–16, 121–25 Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) 114 cultural relations with the DPRK 149, 150–51, 152, 157, 158–61 de-Stalinization 149–52 economic relations with the DPRK 147–48, 150, 158, 160–62 relations with China 150 relations with the ROK 161 Soviet model 138 See also USSR Soviet-Vietnamese Mutual Defense Treaty 2 Spartan work ethic 134 Sri Lanka 139 Magsaysay awards for 128 Stalin, Josef 94–95, 98, 109–10, 124–25

232

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Index

influence on Vietnam 35–37 Khrushchev’s denunciation of 151 Khrushchev’s speech on 149 policies 146–47 Stalinism 113, 125 Stalin Prize 93–97, 106–7, 109–10 Sujudi 55 Sukarno 53–59, 62, 66–68, 70–71, 138 Nefos (New Emerging Forces) 54 Oldefos (Old Established Forces) 54 Sun Yat-sen 11 Suthichai Yoon 180 Taiwan, Magsaysay awards for 128 Tan Sri Ahmad Noordin 135 Tapia, Pablo 133 Thai Lang Nghiem 20, 26, 194 Thai Prime Ministers Pibulsongkram 168, 170, 173, 177, 179 Sanya Dhammasak 174, 176, 183–84 Sarit Dhanarajata 173–74 Seni Pramoj 168, 170, 172 Thanom Kittikachorn 173–74, 183 Thailand 122–23, 136, 140 and the Cold War 165–68, 172, 178–79, 182–83 communism/communist 166–67, 172–73, 178–80, 182–83 constitution 173–77 democracy 171, 174, 177, 183 dictator/dictatorship 172–74, 183 Free Thai Movement 168 Magsaysay awards for 128 membership in the United Nations 170, 172, 182 October 6th/October 1976 184–85 October 14th/October 1973 172, 174–75, 177–78, 180, 183 police brutality 165, 177, 181, 184 riots 165–66, 172, 175–84 state of emergency 165, 169, 176

socialist revolution 166 Thammasat University 174, 178, 183–84 Thanom Kittikachorn. See Thai Prime Ministers Third World 125 Third World states 4 “three worlds” model 74 Timm, Richard William 133 To Van 25, 26, 192, 194 Ton That Thien 140 translation into Chinese 98, 108 of Chinese novels 93–94, 107, 109 of Stalin Prize–winning novels 96 Truong Chinh 1–2, 122 difference with Ho Chi Minh 42 report at the Fourth Central Committee Plenum 36–38 view of India and Burma 42 view of land reform and class struggle 43–45 view of nationalism and class struggle 37–38 See also Vietnamese Communist Party: class struggle policy Tsedenbal, Yumyaagin 118 Tugu 59–62, 70 United Nations 121 Thai membership in 170, 172, 182 United States 114–16, 118–23, 125 Cold War designs and Cold War interests of 130–31 relations with Western Europe and Japan 4 welcome of Roh’s victory 162 USS Pueblo 118 USSR, 114–15. See also Soviet Union vernacular 57, 64, 66, 68 Viet Minh critique of 24–27 escape from 21–22

Index imprisonment by 22–23 See also Indochinese Communist Party; Vietnamese Communist Party; Vietnamese Workers Party Vietnam 159 Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV/North Vietnam) 113–17, 119, 121–25 civil war, 8. Compare Indonesia: civil war land reform, 37–38, 43–45. Compare China: land reform mass indoctrination 42, 45, 49–50 propaganda war 38–41 Geneva Agreements 35, 41–42 Paris Agreement (1973) 122 Republic of Vietnam (RVN/South Vietnam) 117–19, 131 anticommunist publications in 18–19. See also Ngo Dinh Diem: relationship with anticommunists army of 17 Buddhism 11 National Liberation Front (NLF) 119 northern e´migre´s to 19 See also DRV / North Vietnam Tet Offensive 118 Vietnamese Communist Party. See also Indochinese Communist Party; Vietnamese Workers Party; Viet Minh alliance with the Soviet Union 33–34 antirevisionism 46–47 attitude about conflict within the Soviet bloc 47 class struggle policy 43, 48 defense of communism 42–43 defense of Stalin 48

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233

Eighth Central Committee Plenum 41–42 Fourth Central Committee Plenum 35–36 policy of socialist construction 43, 51 policy toward South Vietnam 44–46 propaganda war 38–41 response to Khrushchev’s policies 44, 48 response to the Cold War 1–2, 6–7 Tenth Central Committee Plenum 44–46 Thirteenth Central Committee Plenum 46–47 view of Bandung conference 42 view of patriotism and internationalism 45, 49, 50–51 view of the Hungarian revolt 47–48 view on Non-Aligned Movement and neutralism 42, 49–50 worldview 11, 33–34, 44, 46–47 Vietnamese Workers Party (VWP) 115, 120, 122 critique of 26–32 Vo Nguyen Giap 121 Vo Phien 19 Warsaw Pact 114, 124 Weber, Max 9 Weissenhofsiedlung 56 Weltevreden 58 West Germany. See Germany West Papua 54–55 Westad, Odd Arne 4 Western Bloc 55 Western Europe 122, 124 White, Hayden 128 Williams, Raymond 141 World War II 122

234

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Index

Yaowaraj Incident 165–170, 179, 184 cause of 172 compared with Plabplachai Incident 179 changes in Thai government after 182–83 description of 171

Zahlah Hanum 136 Zhdanov, Andre 95–96 Zhou Enlai 115, 122, 156 Zhou Libo 93, 97