Why should I mourn the death of Nguyen Phu Trong? – The Diplomat

A few weeks ago, shortly after the death of Nguyen Phu Trong, the late General Secretary of the Communist Party of Vietnam (CPV), on July 19, I wrote an op-ed about Trong for Radio Free Asia. In it, I argued that Trong's legacy makes the party increasingly vulnerable to a dictatorial takeover due to the weakened state in which he left the institution. I do not normally answer correspondence, but this time I noticed a significant number of emails and social media posts condemning me for daring to write critically so soon after his death. Some asked how I could speak ill of the dead man so soon. Others asked how a foreigner could have the audacity to comment on the death of their leader.

Mai Truong wrote an excellent essay here in the Diplomat a few days ago about the moral pressure that the Vietnamese are putting on each other to mourn his death. correct.

I had never met Trong personally, nor had any desire to. By all accounts, he was a humble man who maintained his mantra of pursuing an “honorable life over wealth and money.” I have never suggested that Trong was motivated by selfish motives or a desire for power. In fact, I have always portrayed him as a deeply moral, if misguided and destructive, figure.

However, when I first heard of Trong's death, my thoughts were not with him or his family. Rather, my thoughts were with the many Vietnamese I have met over the years who are now living underground, in exile, or in prison—or worse—because of the regime he led. I thought of those who cannot marry, have children, see their parents before they die, or attend their funerals because they languish in prison cells or are forced to live abroad simply because they dared to speak out against the regime Trong had established to gain power. In fact, under Trong's leadership, the CPV became even more repressive and censored. Human Rights Watch reports that “there are currently more than 160 political prisoners imprisoned simply for exercising their basic rights.”

In fact, my thoughts were with some of these people: the journalist I knew who was sentenced to decades in prison, the environmentalists who are also wasting their best years behind bars, and the families I met who are now living in exile and will likely never return home for fear that their loved ones will be sentenced to life in prison if they ever set foot in Vietnam again. I thought of people like Do Cong Duong, a citizen journalist who died in prison in 2022.

I cannot claim to be a close friend of these people; I do not want to overstate my connection. Our contacts were brief, and took place during my many reporting trips to Vietnam over the past decade. With some I drank beer, others invited me to dinner, played football, or met for coffee in discreet places. With some I communicated only by email. But each was brave enough to talk to me, risking his own freedom. I do not try to speak on their behalf – although now that they are in prison or worse, they can no longer speak freely for themselves. Perhaps some were grieving Trong's death, perhaps not.

On social media, I heard voices that would normally oppose censorship of those who challenge the prevailing orthodoxies, strongly condemning anyone who suggested that Trong should be mourned in any way other than the most reverent of tones. But to pretend that an entire nation is mourning in unison is not only naive, but insulting. Vietnam is a one-party state in terms of political power; it is not a one-party state of thought.