War and Shadows: The Haunting of Vietnam 9780801458699

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WAR AND SHADOWS

WAR AND SHADOWS The Haunting of Vietnam

Mai Lan Gustafsson

Cornell University Press ITHACA AND LONDON

Copyright © 2009 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. First published 2009 by Cornell University Press First printing, Cornell Paperbacks, 2009 Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gustafsson, Mai Lan, 1969– War and shadows : the haunting of Vietnam / Mai Lan Gustafsson. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8014-4770-9 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-8014-7501-6 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Spiritualism—Vietnam. 2. Spirit possession—Vietnam. 3. Spiritual healing and spiritualism— Vietnam. 4. Ghosts—Vietnam. 5. Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Psychological aspects. 6. Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Casualties. 7. War and society—Vietnam. 8. Religion and state—Vietnam. I. Title. BF1242.V5G87 2009 133.109597—dc22

2008052908

Cornell University Press strives to use environmentally responsible suppliers and materials to the fullest extent possible in the publishing of its books. Such materials include vegetable-based, lowVOC inks and acid-free papers that are recycled, totally chlorine-free, or partly composed of nonwood fibers. For further information, visit our website at www.cornellpress.cornell.edu. Cloth printing Paperback printing

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For my juniors, with love: Lonnie Philbrick, Samantha Hoang, Maria Gustavsson, Natalie Clark, and Nina Clark

Contents

Preface

ix

1. The Problem

1

2. Foundations

11

3. Revelations

25

4. The Living and the Dead

35

5. Afterlives

55

6. Problem Solving

73

7. “Superstition” in a Secular State

87

8. Revivals

107

9. Conclusion

123

Epilogue

139

Appendix 1. Table of Suffering Appendix 2. Chronology of the War Notes References Index

147 169 17 7 193 205

Preface

This work is about how the Vietnam War has had an effect on both this world and the next. Long after the peace treaties were signed, the war rages on in both realms: the battlegrounds are living human bodies, its warriors, the enraged ghosts who invade and assault them. Many of the residents of the North, even after the North became Vietnam, were plagued by illness and misfortune—for years in many cases—that they attributed to ghosts. These ghosts are not mysterious phantoms lurking in dark corners: they are my informants’ friends and relatives, spouses, children, and neighbors. Casualties of the war, they have become angry spirits who prey on their descendants and survivors. The trouble they cause is very real and very painful for their victims, some of whom have been driven to despair and self-destruction by their tormentors. In anthropological terms, they suffered from spirit possession illness; in their words, they were bi benh ta, or “made ill by ghosts.” In this book I describe the aff lictions of my informants and the obstacles they and others faced as they attempted to release the ghosts of war from their rage and ease their own suffering by doing so. Throughout, their stories are told in the language they offered and not in the language of the academy. I leave the task of developing a theoretical understanding of their real-life pain and suffering to others. Those who seek to compare these stories to those related by psychologists and other social scientists will have to look elsewhere. My goal is not to advance a new theory of spirit possession, nor is it to analyze the woes of my informants solely

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through the perspective of trauma. Although I provide here the larger context of their suffering, I will give no explanation for what ailed the Vietnamese I worked with during my stay in their country beyond what they offered themselves. To do otherwise would denigrate their years of suffering, give lie to what I witnessed, and imply that they were not sound of mind. I went to the country in 1996, just two years after the U.S.-led embargo had been lifted and a decade into the sweeping economic policy known as Renovation (Doi Moi). I fully intended to ignore the war—it was over, it seemed to me, over and done. Academics, journalists, and participants alike had already covered it ad nauseum, from lengthy histories detailing tactics and campaigns to revealing autobiographies of its major players and heartbreaking memoirs of both Vietnamese and American veterans. Not me, I vowed. I wanted to do something different. Prior to doing fieldwork, the main impression I had of Vietnam had been gleaned from the frenetic media images I’d seen of the country. There stood Dan Rather in the middle of a boulevard teeming with young Vietnamese on motorbikes on the twentieth anniversary of the Fall of Saigon. On CNN, I’d seen shot after shot of VCRs and TVs, American beer and cigarettes being sold by tiny women wearing fl ip-flops and conical hats, the images accompanied by a grave voice-over lamenting that such a terrible war had been fought for nothing, as the American Way had won out in the end. Business journals raved about the moneymaking opportunities awaiting the enterprising cowboy in Vietnam. Such stories were always golden-hued, conveying the sense that all was well, that Vietnam had stalled for a while but was now making up for lost time with a vengeance. Admittedly, I had succumbed to these visions, blithely choosing to believe what I saw on TV. Willfully blocking out the war, I wanted to write an ethnography of Vietnam that would showcase ghosts and spirits and their human attendants. I intended to use shadows as a lens through which something of the nature and quality of life in today’s Vietnam would be refracted. In 1996 there was little in the way of ethnography about Vietnam, due in part to the country’s closure to outside researchers during the war years, and afterward to the difficulty of conducting field-

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xi

work in a socialist state. Why harp on the war, I thought, when so much had already been written about it and so little about life in postwar Vietnam? Looking back now, I smile ruefully at my confidence that there was no need to address the war. Although I have always taken care to caution my students against the fallacy of thinking that “culture” is static and unchanging, somehow I believed that Vietnam’s spirit world was just that, protected from the damage wrought by the confl ict. When I actually got there, the on-the-ground reality of today’s Vietnam packed a visceral punch. It does not take long to see beneath the shimmering and overly optimistic surface of things in Vietnam and fi nally get at this simple truth: in a very real sense, Vietnam is haunted by the war. To dismiss its impact—even in an ethnography likely to end up collecting dust in the back stacks of a library—is to denigrate the past and present experience of the Vietnamese people. During my time in Vietnam, I did not meet a single person of any age whose family had not lost one or more members as a result of the war. During the war years, the population of Vietnam was 38 million.1 With more than 5 million or 13 percent of the population killed, 2 and with family size at that time averaging six people,3 it was statistically probable that every family would lose someone. Countless families lost two, three, four, or more of their members. Without even asking anyone about it, you can see this loss all around you. Many couples lost their children to the fighting and had to restart their families after the end of the war— giving rise to frail seventy- and eighty-year-olds with children in their twenties. Other couples, separated by their war duties until after 1975, were delayed from having children until they were well into their forties. Vietnamese and hapless foreigner alike are never sure if what they are witnessing is the loving care of elderly grandparents by their devoted grandchildren or parents who were forced by the war to begin their families anew. The loss can also be seen in virtually every home, where altars meant for the remembrance of ancestors are weighted down with pictures of young men and women killed in their prime. On dates important in the Buddhist calendar, pagodas and temples are crowded with people sending

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money and luxury items to their dead dear ones via the burning of “hell money” and votive paper offerings, and provisioning them with huge amounts of food. “We have peace, but where are our people?” asked Mr. Vinh, a trusted informant. “Some are in heaven, most are in hell.” I came to understand that the positive media images I’d fallen for were made for Americans by Americans, perhaps to assuage our national guilt over the war—the simplistic “they’re OK, we’re OK” mentality. The smirking, triumphant tone of many media reports marking the twentieth anniversary of the end of the war in 1975 trumpeted the supposed victory of capitalism in Vietnam, a funhouse mirror reflection of the Marxist view that all roads inevitably lead to communism. Just as a culturally relativistic stance can disguise that what is being upheld as logical and reasonable has in fact already been altered beyond recognition by the stamp and stomp of colonialism, the exuberant reports of the media in the mid-1990s ignored that what was being touted as the debut of Vietnam as a junior player in the global economy was in large part the rapid expansion of the black market following the end of the embargo in 1994.4 Moreover, the benefits from postwar economic reforms tend to accrue to urban Vietnamese,5 and unevenly at that. Vietnam is not simply playing catch-up, as if there is some inescapable and enviable progression from “backward” country to foreign colony to global player. What has happened and is happening there should not be reduced to mere “reconstruction,” even though so much that has been damaged or destroyed by the war remains to be restored. Yes, the war there did wreak havoc on Vietnam’s infrastructure, economy, and population.6 But as the Vietnamese managed to bring in the harvests, have children, celebrate the New Year, in short, live, during the war years, so too have they managed to adapt to the aftereffects of the confl ict. For some, this has been more difficult than it has for others, as readers will come to understand from this book. I am not the first, nor will I be the last, anthropologist or even traveler to arrive at a destination with expectations that turn out to be laughable and quickly discarded. It is no secret that ethnographic fieldwork suffers when its agenda is too rigid to allow for discoveries on the ground.7 In shifting my focus, I was able to infi ltrate a “natural community”8 that

PREFACE

x iii

merited study: living victims of war ghosts. Three simple words uttered to me a scant ten minutes after my arrival at Hanoi’s Noi Bai Airport provided the impetus for me to do away with my no-war policy: the customs agent scrutinizing my U.S. passport looked up at me and with the most beatific of smiles said, “We forgive you.” This declaration made crystal clear to me—even in the first chaotic weeks of my stay—that to write a truly comprehensive and relevant study of contemporary Vietnam, one has to acknowledge the war. Forgiven, yes. Forgotten? Not yet, and perhaps never. The war makes up a huge part of the consciousness of any Vietnamese person who lived through it and, by diffusion, even of those born after its conclusion.9 I ended up writing yet another book about the war because I had to: there was no other way to do justice to the pains of my informants.10 They are preyed on by the ghosts of the war, and their spirit attackers are angry and hateful because of the horrific ways in which they were killed during the conflict. Their ailments are not isolated events but rather part of a larger phenomenon acknowledged at the highest levels in Vietnam as both real and a problem. The war is to blame: by infusing millions of fresh souls into the spirit world, and relegating millions more to a hellish status as wandering ghosts, the war created an overpopulated shadow world of darkness and pain. In their unrelenting torment, this legion of angry ghosts seeks to make miserable those lucky enough to have survived. This is about them: the haunted living of Vietnam. Portions of every chapter in this book were used in an article in the journal Anthropology of Consciousness 18, no. 2 (Fall 2007). I wish to acknowledge the American Anthropological Association and the University of California Press for permitting me to use that material. A Note about Names All names of informants in this book are pseudonyms. In the text I supply a full name for each principal informant; in the table in appendix 1, I list only given names. Vietnamese names follow the Eastern order (also used in China, Japan, and Korea), that is, the family name comes before the given name.

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Vietnamese names are unique, however, in that unlike other places in Asia, where people are addressed by their family name, in Vietnam it is the given name that is usually the primary form of address. A person’s given name is often accompanied by a title or honorific such as Mr., Professor, Brother, or Aunt. For example, in this preface, Duong Huu Vinh is properly referred to as Mr. Vinh, even though Duong is his family name. The titles “Mr.” or “Mrs.” are used to address someone of a certain age. Young men are never called “Mr.” but rather by their given name alone or Brother or Son. For example, an older man would never be called Brother except by someone older than himself or by his actual siblings. When I use “Mrs.” it is a sign that the woman is older than myself, as well as being married. When I use Ms. it indicates that the woman is either Westernized in her style or of marriageable age but single. Women almost always keep their own family names even after marriage; however, children receive the father’s family name. Although diacritical marks are important for distinguishing names with otherwise the same spelling, for simplicity I have not used diacriticals in this book.

WAR AND SHADOWS

1. The Problem

It was the blood that gave Vi away. Had it not been there, she would have remained my friend but she would not have become an informant. But it was there, and it was startling to see it on her immaculate figure. I met Ly Thi Vi in 1996. She was a regular fi xture in the foreigners’ guesthouse where I lived in Hanoi. Two or three times a week, I would see her sitting in the garden bar with a soft drink or having a meal in the canteen. Always, she was surrounded by foreigners, and the staff of the guesthouse rushed about making sure they were well-stocked with beverages, snacks, and cigarettes. Always, she was chic in her dark sunglasses and perfect makeup. Shoko, a Japanese resident of the guesthouse, referred to Vi as “Rock Star.” It was true: Vi was charming, beautiful, and intelligent, and all of us who lived there flocked to her.1 Although the guesthouse was nine miles from the center of Hanoi, in a district sparse with foreigners, Vi’s presence there was good for business. The guesthouse’s director had picked Ms. Vi to formally open the garden bar four months earlier, knowing her to be foreigner-friendly and a sure draw for Western men. After the opening, Vi dropped by on a regular basis. She’d round up whatever guests she could and treat them to drinks and sometimes dinner, joking and talking for hours. Her efforts bore fruit: almost everyone who chatted with her in the garden bar ultimately scheduled a tour or a night on the town, or even made an outright move to a more upscale neighborhood.2 Afterward, Vi would pay the

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director 30 percent of her fee for each excursion and thus ensure her continued welcome presence at the guesthouse. For many who met her, Ms. Vi seemed to be the face of postwar renovated Vietnam. 3 She was young and wealthy, an entrepreneur par excellence. Ever glamorous, she zipped along the streets of Hanoi on her new Honda motorbike wearing a face mask and silk scarf, setting up appointments on her mobile phone and popping into expensive cafés and hotels to meet clients. After graduating from college with a degree in business, Vi worked as a secretary for an import business specializing in Chinese goods. When the embargo was lifted in 1994 and a flood of foreigners arrived in Vietnam to set up business or tour the country, Vi quickly put her English skills and forceful charisma to work. She bribed her way into a job at Hanoi’s most luxurious hotel and from there launched her empire. She started by setting up informal tours for the foreigners she met: day trips to Ha Long Bay, tours of the countryside, nights of pub-crawling and karaoke. Within a year, she had moved on to arranging housing, transportation, electronics, and various sorts of adult entertainment for a largely male and foreign clientele. By 1996 Vi had established herself as one of Hanoi’s top service providers to Western visitors and business people. She had a large office in downtown Hanoi and a staff of three, as well as a beautiful apartment near Hoan Kiem Lake in the city center. Her parents had moved from a tiny house in the provinces to a marble three-story mansion Vi paid for, and her younger siblings were assured of going to college. She epitomized the spirit of capitalism, while also maintaining her worth as a Vietnamese in the dutiful upkeep and upgrading of her family. In short, she was all that a “modern” Vietnamese in peacetime was supposed to be. But back to the blood. After we became friends through our various dealings at the guesthouse, Vi and I would often meet downtown on Friday afternoons to go shopping and eat dinner. These were precious outings for me. Friday afternoons spent in bookshops and restaurants with Vi did much to restore my spirits, and I was able to return to my research with renewed vigor. I waited for her at a lakeside café in early May 1997. Our plan was to shop in the old quarter for a birdcage, as Vi

THE PROBLEM

3

wanted to install a singing bird in her office to keep her staff alert, and then dine wherever Vi could order fettuccine Alfredo. She arrived at the appointed time, roaring up on her gleaming motorbike. “Hi, Chi!”4 she called. I waved and put my field notes away. With her hair upswept under a silk scarf and her expensive all-white ensemble, Vi garnered appraising glances from the assembled restaurant patrons—Vietnamese and Westerners alike. As she took the chair next to mine, I noticed three long lines of red on the front of her blouse. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the stains. Glancing down, she grimaced. “Blood,” she whispered, taking the scarf from her hair and attempting to conceal the red marks. Taking my hand, she whispered, “Brother is very upset. He knows I am sending Little Sister to France for study.” Trouble with Spirits The blood, and her chilling words, marked Vi as another member of an unenviable segment of Vietnam’s population: victims of angry ghosts.5 She was one of almost two hundred northern Vietnamese I met and interviewed who had various ailments, all of which they attributed to the predations of spirits. Ideally, spirits are to be revered as the oldest and wisest of the family’s elders. They are not always treated as such, however. When this occurs, ancestor spirits are quick to let their displeasure be known, in quite visceral ways.6 These ancestor spirits were not the ones afflicting my informants, however. The Vietnamese I knew were preyed on by a kind of ghost that is permanently enraged. Unfortunate souls who died horribly or who died without relatives to remember them or whose remains were lost and so the necessary funeral rites were not performed—these souls are angry ghosts. Such spirits have a penchant for violence or “aggressive mischief,” as one man tormented by his lost uncle, phrased it. In Vietnam, supernatural causes for illness are likely to be blamed when the following situations apply: the sudden onset of strange behavior, frequent and/or recurring illness, and chronic illness that is unresponsive to treatment.7 This was the case with my informants, who had

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attempted to explain and treat their maladies in conventional ways prior to blaming ghosts. The wide range of problems they suffered present as classic symptoms of spirit possession,8 a psychophysiological event during which an individual’s body and consciousness are temporarily dominated by a noncorporeal entity.9 Anthropologists have found that spirit possession10 —as a theory of illness used to explain sickness and other misfortune—occurs in a majority of cultures worldwide.11 Indeed, many of my informants explicitly referred to their problems as spirit possession,12 though others spoke not of being forced to share their minds and bodies with ghosts but rather of physical and emotional disorders caused by spirits. Wherever possession beliefs and practices are found, the symptoms or signs of it are the same.13 The symptoms, each followed by an example, are:14 1. An experience of unpredictable, uncontrollable, unwanted, and sudden takeover of the subject by a generally malevolent entity: “He comes,” said Nguyen Thi Bich My about her possessing spirit, “and makes me do things. I am still here, but I have no power over myself.” Pham Quang Khinh was aware of his actions while possessed but “cannot stop, cannot change, cannot help myself” until the invading spirit— his brother’s—leaves him of its own accord. 2. The observers and the subject believe that the entity is the devil, a demon, a spirit, or a person: All but three of my informants believed that they were possessed or made ill by the spirits of dead relatives, friends, comrades, and neighbors. The other three were victims of evil forces or ghouls who are thought to attack any and all unlucky enough to cross their paths. 3. The entity speaks and acts through the subject who may exhibit changed affects: Nguyen Lien Anh, a fifteen-year-old forced to abandon school because of the unruly behavior he exhibits while in possession, felt enormous shame that his invading spirit caused him to “shout at Mother with very bad language.” 4. The entity speaks of itself in the first person and of the subject in the third: Tran Van Dien, in response to his wife’s inquiry as to what was

THE PROBLEM

5

bothering him, replied: “Husband, hah? He is under my foot, old wife. Lift me from the dirt and I will lift my foot.” 5. The possession may be preceded by a brief period of perceptual changes in the subject such as a sensation of darkness or constriction: Many informants mentioned being able to tell when the possession was about to start, for they would experience physical sensations like shortness of breath, a ringing in their ears, paralysis, dim vision, heightened hearing, and/or feelings of fright. “I know it is coming when I can hear what the people on the street are saying—very clearly. Then I know it is about to come,” said Nguyen Cong Rong. 6. During the possession, one or more of the following behaviors are observed: a. a level of awareness ranging from conscious to unconscious: Do Thi Lieu said, “I am awake and asleep at the same time. I can see and hear, but I cannot speak and I cannot control what I do.” According to Doan Van Ty, “You know that when it happens it is as if you are dead but your mind is still alive. Very strange.” b. falling or losing voluntary motor control, or manifesting violent, assaultive behavior: Many informants reported falling during episodes of possession or spirit sickness, or having difficulty with balance. Nguyen Thi Mai, normally the loving mother of three toddlers, would beat the boys with the handle of a feather duster when “Uncle is angry that he is dead.” c. unusual speech: Sam, an American, let loose expletive-fi lled tirades in fluent Vietnamese during his possessions. Many other informants reported speaking in ways they normally did not, such as Ms. Dung’s lowbrow manner of speech during an attack, or the highly formal language with many Chinese words used by Mr. Lam while possessed. All the informants who experienced this “speaking in tongues” or glossolalia said or assumed it was the language and style of speech used by their afflicting spirits when they were alive.15 d. inability to hold eyes open: Only Ms. Thuy reported being unable to keep her eyes open during an attack. Conversely, Mr. Trung

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claimed to have stopped blinking since his spirit sickness began—“My nephew wants to see everything.” e. physical movement perceived as automatic or not controlled by subject: Hien said, “I was walking, walking, walking. Where, I don’t know.” And Net related, “Whenever I pass the place where Father is buried, I crouch and dig with my hands.” f. hallucinations, auditory and/or visual: These were very common among my informants, ranging from hearing shrieking voices or sounds of bells and wind and water to visions of the dead and their moments of death. g. unusual physiological phenomena such as feats of balance, no pain or burning: Be, regarding his skin problems, said, “The arms here, they burn worse than if I held a cigarette to my skin.” Said Vi, “When he is with me,16 I often tear my skin here and here with my nails.17 There is blood, yes, but no pain. Never.” h. unpremeditated behavioral actions totally out of character for the person: Behaviors not in keeping with the typical character of my informants were varied but uniformly destructive. For example, Bui Van Xuong, a gentle man in his eighties, smashed the beehives and honeycombs kept by his great-grandchildren. Seventeen-year-old Nguyen Duc Thanh succumbed to the will of the angry spirits of his father and grandfather and took a pipe to his sister’s belongings. 7. Following the possession, partial or complete amnesia, changes disappear, and/or a sensation of calm or an absence of usual thoughts lasting a few hours to several days: Tam said that “my wife tells me after it is over—I remember nothing. I see at times that I’ve made the house untidy, but I do not recall it.” For Huong, “After I dream of Chat, the mood stays with me for a long time. I can only think of the dream.” While Trinh, mother of Phan Van Si, a possessed child, reported, “If he has had a bad night, he is very obedient and calm for a few days after that.” 8. No evidence or presumption of an organic factor initiating the possession: Most of my informants sought medical treatment for their health problems when they first began, but doctors found no treat-

THE PROBLEM

7

able cause. In many cases, my informants suspected spirits from the start but opted to consult doctors. “It is a much easier matter,” said Mr. Hai, “if the spirits are not involved—easier to get better.” Some people suffered from physical maladies that they treated with various prescriptions and remedies and distinguished as very separate and different from those they attributed to spirits. 9. The possession is not regarded as a normal aspect of the culture or religion in the society: The anthropological literature on spirit possession breaks the phenomenon down into two types: the unsolicited/negative/undesired kind, and the kind that is solicited/positive/desired.18 Clearly, the people in my study suffered from the first type of spirit possession. They were victims, in contrast to specialists like mediums who willingly experience possession in order to help—among others—those who suffer spirit attacks. Victims of spirit possession in Vietnam experience an abnormal event that is physically painful and/or deeply disruptive. 10. The possession results in social or occupational disruption, and/or personal distress: For all informants, spirit sickness was a source of worry, unhappiness, as well as mental and/or physiological pain. At the very least, their health problems reduced their quality of life, such as by creating friction with family members, destroying their ability to concentrate, and making simple tasks more difficult. “Happiness goes when they come,” said Chung Thi Ba about the nephew and two nieces haunting her. At worst, people were forced to abandon their work or school and, in some extreme cases, their families. Nguyen Huu Ro’s violent behavior forced his wife to flee from their home with the children. Demure Ms. Hong, a widow on the verge of marrying an old school friend, felt compelled to break off the engagement when her husband’s spirit led her to verbally abuse the fiancé’s family. 11. The possession does not stem from a psychosis and is not due to a substance-induced disorder: None of my informants appeared to be psychotic or on drugs. They were young children and the elderly and every age in between; some had been plagued by spirits for years; they were men and women—in short, there was nothing connecting

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this diverse bunch of people aside from their assertion that angry ghosts were responsible for their suffering. The variation in my sample negates the possibility that this group of people was prone to dementia, for example, or drug addiction. All were functional members of society—they worked, went to school, had children, got married, enjoyed hobbies and friends, and so on—except when their “ghost problems” were particularly intense. Extent of the Problem Ms. Vi’s situation—which will be looked at again in chapter 3—perfectly represents what all my informants experienced: busy lives marred by painful episodes of possession. That spirits were the source of their misfortune is not at all unusual in Vietnam; it was the intensity and duration of their possession problems that made my informants’ situation extraordinary. Traditionally, those who suffered from spirit predation had recourse to a variety of treatment options, including the use of talismans, spirit priests, and mediums. For many years during and after the war, it was difficult if not dangerous to seek such treatments due to the state’s ban on supernatural practices. Certainly, it was the ban that prolonged some of my informants’ miseries, for they had nowhere safe to turn for help in dealing with unhappy spirits. Still, even had these treatments and practitioners been readily available, the nature of angry ghosts is such that they can never be permanently appeased. Treatment for the problems they cause must therefore be ongoing and adapted to the changing demands of the offending spirit. Indeed, the angry ghosts preying on my informants have gotten angrier over the years, inflicting more and worse pain on their victims—and this during a time when Vietnam was making profound changes to its economy that ultimately improved the lives of its people. In the late 1980s, most of my informants were struggling to eat, their possession ailments just one of their many burdens. By the time I met them in 1996–97, they had more money, more food, and some luxuries, but they also had many more and more intense ghost problems. Although the

THE PROBLEM

9

spirits haunting my informants had been their friends and relatives in life, death in the war had turned them into angry ghosts that were not at all pleased to see their survivors doing well. No, they were envious and hateful and caused my informants to suffer even more as “payback” for the spirits’ inability to benefit from the nation’s economic upturn. While the ethnographic present for this book is 1996 and 1997, the problem of possession by war dead remains to this day since angry ghosts can never—according to Vietnamese cosmology—lose their anger and therefore can potentially lash out at the living at any time. Anthropologists have conducted considerable research in Vietnam since the period of my fieldwork,19 and a few have studied spirit possession, though not from the angle I present here. My focus is on the people whose illnesses and misfortunes get attributed to the war dead, whereas other scholars have focused on the possession practices of mediums.20 My interest lies in relating the stories of my informants: how they deal with chronic illness and how their seeking of succor has been constrained by Communist Party politics.21 Read together, my work and that of other anthropologists of possession in Vietnam can provide a rich understanding of the topic—from theory to experience, and from the points of view of victims, devotees of the spirits, and spirit specialists such as mediums. It is this variety of viewpoint and time frames regarding cultural phenomena that makes the field of anthropology such a deep well of information about the human experience. In the field, many months into my research, I met with an official from the Ministry of Health. He confided to me that spirit possession illness caused by war ghosts was a “public health menace.” It was shocking to hear this from a representative of the party that had disavowed all things supernatural. The official took care to speak only in practical terms, declaring that his office was deeply concerned about the many victims. “They must forget these ‘ghosts’ and move on,” he said forcefully. The people are “obsessed” with the war, he contended, and this was bad for the country. With his words, it was clear to me that the Communist Party of Vietnam had come to recognize that its beloved people are haunted by the past in very tangible ways.22 Vietnam needed its people to “move on,”

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as the official said, so that the country could make its own desired entrance into the global economy. This it cannot do if the people are oriented toward the past. That is precisely what was “wrong” with my informants: their ghostly afflictions were constant reminders of a painful past that they were lucky enough to have survived, and the illnesses reduced their social productivity. It is also exactly what motivated the angry ghosts: they forced, through the infliction of pain and suffering, their victims to remember them.

2. Foundations

If the war haunts Vietnam, who or what haunts the Vietnamese? It is the angry spirits of the dead, or con ma. The millions of dead from the war joined other classes of beings in Vietnam’s otherworld, known as the gioi khac. That world’s intrusion into our world is taken for granted by Vietnamese—even my informants believed that their problems were not unusual in being caused by ghosts but just for their duration and scope. That supernatural experiences are not considered out of the ordinary in Vietnam is indicative of a worldview in which spirits are believed to influence and take part in the daily concerns of the living. Countless other cultures have similar folk beliefs; in Vietnam, they fit into what some scholars call tam giao, “the triple religion.”1 This triple religion is not one of the institutionalized religions found in Vietnam,2 and people do not speak of themselves as adherents to it as a religion. Neither is it one of the dozens of religious movements that have emerged or been revived since the late 1980s and the start of Renovation.3 There is now and historically has been considerable diversity in the Vietnamese religious landscape, including the traditions of fifty-four ethnic minorities.4 I use tam giao to refer to a generalized worldview that is neither set in stone nor shared in the same way by all Vietnamese but nevertheless operates as a coherent system of thought that gives an explanatory context for the role spirits play in Vietnam.

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A World of Spirits The triple religion is outwardly Buddhist in its use of the lunar calendar and the special significance accorded full moon days,5 as well as observances of important milestones in the Buddha’s life. However, what truly characterizes tam giao is its intricate combination of Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism, each exported to Vietnam from China during a different period.6 All three strands intertwined with indigenous Vietnamese animism to produce a syncretic cosmology that transcends the sum of its parts.7 One important feature is its mystical nature, distinguished by magical beliefs and practices designed to help people cope with both the natural uncertainties of life as well as supernaturally caused difficulties.8 Spirits play an important role in tam giao. Vietnamese origin myths relate the union between mountain fairies and sea dragons as the origin of humanity.9 Viet kings bore dragon tattoos signifying descent from the Dragon Lord of the Seas,10 their right to rule thus sanctioned by the spirits. The focal point of every village was, and in many ways still is, the dinh, an open architectural structure serving as a communal hall.11 There, the elite members of the community gathered to discuss important matters, and villagewide celebrations also began there. Traditionally, one of the dinh’s most important functions was to house the village’s guardian spirit.12 Twice every lunar month, villagers would make ritual offerings to their patron spirit, who provided protection and good fortune in return. Villages were free to choose their own guardian spirits from the vast pantheon of beings in the triple religion—they had only to submit their request to the king for approval.13 Court mandarins would grant the spirit a rank of high, medium, or low status, based on how long it had been worshipped,14 and enter its particulars in the Viet Dien U Linh Tap (Spirits of the Viet Kingdom) registry.15 In tam giao, guardian spirits such as these inhabit the gioi khac, which is crowded with “an array of spirits, genies or deities, the sacred souls of heroic historical personages and the souls of the ancestors” (Malarney 1996, 543). Angry ghosts entered this world in bulk during the war, but con ma have always been part of that population and have long been frightening the living.

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In fact, the con ma penchant for committing psychic violence is so great and so feared that every year Vietnamese are moved to make offerings en masse to them. This happens on Ngay Xa Toi Vong Hon, the Buddhist Feast of Wandering Souls, held on the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month and known in common parlance as “Hell Day.” On this day, families prepare special foods and place them on altars at home and at pagodas throughout Vietnam, all to pacify the con ma ghosts known to lash out in their anger. Con ma generally go straight from life as people to their hellish condition as angry ghosts (discussed further in chapter 5). Some persons are believed to be so wicked in life that they go beyond even the worst con ma to become con quy, or ghouls. The field adjacent to my residence in Vietnam was believed to be populated by at least two such con quy, who fed on the souls of those killed there during the U.S. bombing of Hanoi. In turn, the con ma created by the bombs occasionally attacked those who made the mistake of entering that haunted space. While con quy are unknowable in their evil, con ma are frightful entities but also pitiable ones. “It is terrible for them,” sympathized Luong Nu Ha on Hell Day. Sweating over the many delicious dishes she was preparing in her tiny kitchen to feed the con ma, she justified the behavior of the ghost causing her cousin Tuc to experience fainting spells and nausea: “What else can they do but cause suffering?”16 With a sweep of her arm to indicate the food she meant to offer at a nearby pagoda, Mrs. Ha made the sign of the cross and said, “I do this, because if one day I am dead and my children are dead, I will not be hungry on this day.”17 All in the Family The various denizens of the gioi khac are less supernatural than they are “extracultural,”18 in that they do not exist in a realm off-limits to humans. On a grand scale, “the world of the living is seen as part of a broader world in which spirits and other superhuman beings influence the lives of the people” (Kleinen 1999, 185). All of them, but especially the spirits of the dead, can be solicited for aid through invocations and offerings. Ancestral spirits (to tien) are most moved to intercede in

14

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the affairs of the living, having only recently passed from that status themselves. The typical Vietnamese home features a main room that serves as a parlor for receiving guests and where the family gathers to eat or watch television.19 Not infrequently, families will turn this room into a home shop, from which members sell anything from food to electronics. Regardless of its function, it is in this room that an altar (ban tho) devoted to the memory of dead kin is kept. Elevated on a table or shelf or wall nook, the altar may be of varying sizes and resplendence but always displays photographs or other depictions of deceased family members. Atop this memorial are also incense sticks in long-necked vases and offerings of fruit that get replenished as they lose freshness and color. To these essential elements, and depending on their fi nancial situation, people will often add colored light bulbs, flowers, cigarettes,20 various religious icons, verses of poetry or prayer, even mock waterfalls. On the first and fifteenth of each lunar month, special offerings are made to ancestral spirits: perhaps their favorite food dish in life, or a box of sweets, a glass of rice wine. Additional offerings of a higher caliber than the daily fruit gifts are also made on secular holidays, as well as on ritual days in the Buddhist calendar, festivals, and occasions marking major life-cycle events. In return for these remembrances, the to tien watch over and ensure the health and well-being of their descendants. These spirits can appear in dreams to warn their relatives of impending danger or misfortune and to offer preemptive solutions to problematic situations.21 Loyal kin who maintain a regular schedule of commemorative offerings to their ancestors are thus guaranteed their protection and influence from beyond the grave. This is classic ancestor worship (tho cung to tien), although when I used that term in conjunction with ton giao (religion) in reference to the gigantic and ornate altar at the home of Trinh Dinh Thieu, he was baffled. For him, making offerings to his forbears and consulting them when important decisions needed to be made were not “religious” acts. They were, instead, matters of “respect and intelligence.” Indeed, there is a distinction in Vietnamese between institutionalized religion (ton giao) and popular beliefs and practices of a religious nature (tin nguong).22 Had

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I used tin nguong instead of ton giao, Mr. Thieu may not have reprimanded me. In any case, no house I visited lacked a family altar, regardless of the religious affi liation of its occupants. Whether Buddhist, Catholic, Cao Dai, or atheist, each of my informants kept and tended a family altar—to the anthropologist a clear indication of ancestor worship. Tending such altars was seen as a mark of love, respect, and common sense to all of the people I knew. Ancestral spirits were not viewed as disembodied mysteries demanding to be propitiated but as family members who continued to need care, and who reciprocated by providing care of their own. Family Values There are five principle ethical qualities shaping people’s behavior in Vietnam, 23 each of which comes directly from Confucianism: nhon (benevolence), nghia (duty), le (propriety), tri (conscience), and tin (faithfulness).24 All of these are to be enacted within the confines of one’s particular role and status within the separate hierarchies of family, village, and nation. Above all, lower status individuals in Confucian thinking must obey those of higher status: subjects owe allegiance to their rulers; wives to their husbands.25 Within the family, the performance of one’s duty is specified as hieu, or fi lial piety, and ancestor worship is one very important expression of it. Because “family” in Vietnam extends to the unborn as well as to the dead, ancestor worship is a vital part of being a good person. It is what “makes us human [and] distinguishes human behavior from that of other animals,” writes anthropologist Pham Van Bich (B. V. Pham 1999, 224, 232). “Someone who forgets his father and mother is no more than a crazy dog,” said Le Thi Kim, whose family altar exhibited a breathtaking display of flashing lights, dry ice, and artificial chirping birds. “You must remember them, or you lose yourself,” she added sagely. The very idea of the self in Vietnam is subsumed within the Confucian conception of society as family writ large.26 Simply put, individual persons are upheld as and pressured to be inseparable from their families in Vietnam, as they are in other Asian cultures where Confucianism is the

16

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backbone of the value system. Every self is fi xed within a hierarchy of other selves and referenced by named roles within that structure. For example, a thirty-year-old woman refers to herself as em (little sister) in talking with her husband, as con (child) when with her mother or father, and as me (mother) to her own children. When speaking Vietnamese, one does not typically refer to the self as “I,” even with those who are not kin.27 Using our example again, a woman in her thirties may use chau (granddaughter) to refer to herself when talking to a male neighbor in his seventies. Should she encounter a foreign anthropologist near to her age, she might use the polite co (miss) in reference to herself, or chi (older sister) if she wanted to be friendly. There are endless ways to refer to oneself in Vietnam as well as ample choice in how one addresses strangers. In talking to unfamiliar people, one must gauge their age and station in life; most Vietnamese opt to be very polite and address strangers as respected kin.28 As a result, the act of speaking continually reinforces a conception of the self as inextricably bound to others and reminds each speaker of his or her order in relation to others within a family hierarchy. Appropriate behaviors are assigned to and expected of each of the named roles by which Vietnamese refer to themselves and others. 29 Whether one is a parent, child, sibling, or all three, there are separate obligations associated with each. In Vietnamese kinship, the primary relationship is that between parent and child, and so foremost among all family duties is to serve one’s mother and father.30 Children are seen as owing an enormous moral debt to their parents, which they continually pay down during the lives, and after the deaths, of those parents. In life, parents are obeyed and served; in death, they are served and revered. Ancestor worship, then, is simply the continuing care of children for their parents. It is less worship than respect for those who came before, and a fulfi lling of one’s obligations to the older generation. In the offerings of food and luxury items, children provision their parents for their new lives in the otherworld—lives in which they will still need sustenance and shelter and loving sentiment. To not provide one’s parents with such essentials after they die is to commit a serious breach of the

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Vietnamese moral code, since kinship is the most important relationship a person will ever have. When a woman marries in Vietnam, she typically goes to live with her husband’s family, and whatever children they have will belong to his side of the family. In other words, Vietnamese kinship is patrilineal and usually patrilocal. After marriage a woman’s own relatives are referred to as “outside” kin (ngoai), as opposed to the “inside” kin (noi) of the father. Daughters are known as “flying ducks”31 because they are raised with care only to ultimately leave home.32 On the other hand, women who never marry and remain forever in the homes of their birth families are compared to bombs with the potential to explode (in craziness or with suicide) at any time. 33 Sons are much preferred over daughters in Vietnam, as, structurally, they represent the latest in a long line of individuals making up their “locally anchored patriline that ideally continues unbroken” (Luong 1989, 749). Despite the Communist Party’s attempts to eliminate son preference in Vietnam,34 it has not disappeared, and sons still shoulder the burden of maintaining the patriline (ho). A Vietnamese son is responsible for the “worship” of his parents after their deaths, 35 and he is the one who faces the most pressure to have at least one son of his own who will take over this obligation. Because of the ritual duties assigned to senior sons, they are entitled to keep the ancestral home and, if the family holds land, to a larger share of that. These sons should oversee houses that reflect the Confucian ideal of ngu dai dong duong, or “a family of five consecutive generations together under the same roof.” This was almost always the case in my informants’ homes, for whether or not there were five living generations under the roof, there were certainly several generations of dead kinsmen and women residing there and presiding over the family. Punitive Ancestors Ideally, all dead persons in Vietnam should be transformed by the loving care of their descendants into benevolent to tien. This does not mean, however, that their positions as such are permanent. Ancestral spirits can

18

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become angry ghosts themselves should their living family members neglect them. To tien may also deliver suitable punishments to their kin should they fail to live up to social obligations. This is a common understanding in cultures where ancestor worship is prevalent and serves as one kind of social control.36 Not only must people remember their ancestors with offerings and appeals to their wisdom, they must also abide by the mores of society. Not doing so can invite the wrath of one’s ancestors, who commonly assume the role of arbiters of conduct. This was the source of suffering for a few of my informants, whose neglect—always unintentional—of certain fi lial duties or social responsibilities caused the to tien to sicken them as a warning. Two of my youngest informants were affl icted by their to tien. Phan Van Si was an energetic eleven-year-old when I knew him. His parents were both schoolteachers in their early thirties who were trying to conceive a third child. Si had a five-year-old sister, My Hanh (Beautiful Happiness), who wailed when Si and their parents left for school in the morning. Their paternal grandmother lived with them, providing loving care and the occasional reprimand to her grandchildren. Ba noi (paternal grandmother) was a widow twice over and very old: her fi rst husband had been killed in the early days of the war with the Americans, her second in 1985 as the result of a car accident. Si’s father was the only child of the second union and was a very devoted son. Although Si was a good student, at home he could be rather naughty. Ba noi often retired to the bedroom she shared with her daughter and the children to escape his constant chatter. “Too much energy,” she said as she applied a headache patch to her forehead. Little My Hanh was content to tag along with her older brother as he explored the yard or harassed the ducks kept in a coop in the back. Si’s parents encouraged him to keep a watch over his sister and hoped he would set as good an example in his studies for his future siblings as he did for My Hanh. In the early summer of 1997, both Si and My Hanh began acting strangely. Si was not his usual self: sulkiness replaced his typical rambunctiousness. At night, both children would have frightening nightmares that left them sobbing and screaming. After Si fell to the floor twice, convulsing and frothing at the mouth, his mother took him to the pro-

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vincial hospital. She was certain he had epilepsy, as two of her uncles had the condition. But the doctors found nothing to indicate it and sent them home with a caution to pay attention to the child’s diet. Shortly after the trip to the hospital, Si’s parents returned home from school to discover Ba noi in a rare rage—she was shouting at My Hanh and waving the bamboo duster in her hand as if to strike the little girl. Ba noi had gone to great trouble making a special dish to leave as an offering to her husbands’ memories. Both had loved her salty pork with tofu, so once a lunar month, she would place a dish on the family altar for their spirits to enjoy. She had entered the sitting room where the altar was kept and discovered My Hanh’s fi ngers in the dish and her mouth full of pork. Ba noi fumed at the child’s lack of respect and her own son’s failure to teach his children proper etiquette. According to Si, his sister’s “cowardly spirit” led her to point a fi nger at him: apparently, Si had been “stealing” food from the altar for months. It had started with the pinching of a single orange, which Si and My Hanh had secretly eaten behind the duck coop. Then it was pieces of sugarcane, a sip of beer, a cigarette that Si pocketed and later forgot about. On the special days of the calendar when Ba noi made special treats, Si would always pilfer a portion to share with My Hanh. Si’s parents and grandmother were humiliated and horrified: how shameful to have a child who stole from the dead and then attempted to dodge responsibility for his actions. He was given a lengthy lecture about right and wrong, but corporeal punishment was withheld: the point was made to him that his actions had been punished already. His grandfathers, angry that he took what was meant for them, had caused both him and his sister to suffer. Still, both children were made to endure weeklong fasts and one month of enforced silence in penitence for their transgressions.37 Their parents wanted the children to feel hunger, just as the deprived spirits of their grandfathers had experienced. The local cadre in charge of social affairs was brought to the home to lecture Si and My Hanh about the war and the many sacrifices people made to win it. This same cadre was so pleased with his speech that he repeated it to each of the classes in the village school. By the end of their punishment, the siblings’ symptoms had disappeared.

20

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Another victim of ancestral spirits was Ngo Dung Tien, my assistant. A sophomore English major when I fi rst met him, Tien was the classic marginal man,38 as manifested by—among other things—his preference for the company of foreigners over that of his fellow Viets. His impeccable English and hilariously wry sense of humor made him a welcome visitor for the shifting population of foreigners at the guesthouse where I lived, though the director and other staff thought he was trouble. Attempts to ban him from the premises were met with typical Tien aplomb: “I’m much more intelligent than they are and I will fi nd a way to stay.” Indeed he did: he deigned to work as a waiter in the garden bar, thus giving him a reason for being there so much. Sulkily bringing soft drinks back and forth from the bar to the tables, muttering “chan” (boring), he was soon fired, but his attempt to fit in assuaged the director. Tien had poor relations with his father, mainly because he’d defied him by dating a girl with a sketchy past.39 For the first six months of our collaboration, Tien would show up at the appointed time looking like death warmed over from having been out all night carousing with his girlfriend. He carried on like this until he became impotent and developed a hideous rash on his face. It was caused by his dead mother, he explained to me. She was trying to force him back in line. After Tien ended the relationship with his girlfriend, his physical problems went away. His mother was satisfied. Nguyen Thi Thuy’s case provides the fi nal example of this type of spirit possession illness. A twentysomething single woman, Ms. Thuy lived in Hanoi and worked as a clerk in a department store. She’d moved to the capital four years earlier from a province about seventy miles west of the city. Thuy was a stylish young woman with great ambition: she took English classes in the evening as well as computer classes in the afternoons after her shift at the store. She aspired to be a great businesswoman in the vein of Ms. Vi (whom we met in chapter 1), although in what particular business and in what capacity she had yet to decide. The ground floor apartment she shared with a young married couple and their infant in the Dong Da district was spacious and bright, cluttered but clean. Ms. Thuy had a large bedroom to herself that was

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decorated with pictures cut from fashion magazines. The images were of Hong Kong women in business suits, toting briefcases, and talking importantly into their cell phones—precisely the lifestyle Thuy wanted for herself. Gauzy curtains fluttered at the open window, occasionally obscuring the large assortment of perfumes and cosmetics lined up atop a solid white vanity table. Next to the table was Thuy’s “school desk,” upon which sat an ancient and enormous computer, stacks of English lesson books, a tape player, and various music and language tapes. There was a poster of a famous Vietnamese singer on the wall above her bed, featuring the burly young man in an unbuttoned shirt paddling a raft. Thuy giggled when I asked her if the singer represented her ideal man: “I have no time for love until I have a career.” In the spring of 1997, after the Tet season had come and gone,40 Thuy was forced to miss several days of work and class. Whenever she was not moving, she would experience the sensation of paralysis and near suffocation. Her constant struggle to break the paralysis left her exhausted and irritable. She was unable to focus on her many tasks because her vision would cloud over with “a gray mist” and her sight would dim. Excused from work and incapable of sitting through her classes, she returned to her home province in March. She had been working during the Tet holiday and so had not been able to visit her family at that time. Despite her problems, she was happy to be reunited with her mother and siblings and other relatives. Mother doted on the daughter she was so proud of, concerned that her health was being affected by her busy schedule. She offered to come to Hanoi for a while to look after her—cook, clean, make life easier for her in the small ways that mothers know best. Thuy was grateful, but declined, knowing that adding her mother to the house would only distract her and perhaps cause friction with the couple living there. She did allow herself to be pampered on her trip home, though, and her episodes of paralysis and dim vision lessened. She returned to Hanoi after a week, accompanied by her younger brother. At seventeen, Thanh was hoping to attend college and intended to visit the universities in the city and buy books to help him prepare for entrance exams. Thuy returned to work, only to be sent home after a half

22

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day because her paralysis had returned. Her brother had not gone out as planned but, instead, had been forced to remain in the house because he too had begun to experience problems with his sight. In a panic, Thuy telephoned her mother, who promised to call back after she’d made arrangements to get to Hanoi. An hour later, Thuy’s aunt rang to say that her mother had already left on the back of a neighbor’s motorbike and would be there sometime that night. She also told Thuy to ask her brother about “what happened.” The aunt refused to elaborate and broke the connection. Thuy repeated to Thanh their aunt’s words and, in hearing her brother’s response, learned why she was experiencing such problems. Two years earlier, the family had begun making plans to move from their ancestral home. It was too small for the nine people living there, and now that Thuy was earning money, they could afford to fi nd another house. Mother had balked for a time, as she had spent her entire married life in the house and it had belonged to her dead husband’s family for generations. In the summer of 1996, they did move to a larger home and rented out their former residence to an even larger family. The Tet that had just passed was an even bigger occasion for celebration as a result: thanks were given and hopes expressed for great happiness, wealth, and good health in the coming years in their new home. Thuy had not been home for Tet to participate in the festivities. As the oldest sibling and someone considered “lucky” by the rest of the family, her absence had been noted with disapproval. Mother had defended her daughter, reminding everyone that it was Thuy’s hard work that had made the new home possible. What the aunt had alluded to was this: despite Mother’s reprimand to the rest of the family, she too had felt that Thuy needed to be home for the holiday. Mother suffered from night terrors in the weeks leading up to the New Year, and admitted this only to her sister who promptly told everyone else. Even more disturbing was what had occurred at their former home. Mother had gone to visit the new residents and to see that the home was being cared for properly. She had not been pleased: eleven people were living there, and apparently no one bothered to keep the weeds from overtaking the walkways or cared about disposing of trash.

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Most horrifying to her was their treatment of the remembrance altar to her husband and father-in-law she had left behind. Since it was her husband’s family’s ancestral home, Mother felt it important to leave part of them there. She had set up a new and more elaborate altar at the new house but had left the old altar in place at the old home. The renters had agreed to not disturb it, saying that their altar would be placed in another room. It was a shock and an insult, then, when Mother discovered that the photograph of her husband with his father that had graced the altar was gone. The altar was still there, but the red light bulb illuminating it had been broken and not replaced. The vase of artificial flowers had been fi lled with broken pencils, and someone had used the dish in which she once placed offerings of food as an ashtray. Outraged, Mother confronted the tenants. They showed her that they had put her husband’s picture in another room, atop their own family altar, and explained that “one of the boys” had disgusting personal habits. They attributed the squalor to him and him alone. Mollified only to the point of not evicting them on the spot, Mother warned them to keep the house in better and more “respectful” condition. She’d retrieved the picture and the remnants of the altar and brought them with her to the new house. After Thanh gave the above account, Thuy understood the source of her paralysis and vision problems. Although she had done right by her family in providing more suitable housing for them, she had angered her father and grandfather by not ensuring that their spirits were properly looked after at the old house.41 Had she gone home for Tet, she could have made the appropriate conciliations to them at the new family altar. As the oldest of the children, it was her duty to set a good example for the rest. Moreover, she had assumed the financial support of her entire family, and this apparently accorded her the status of a senior son in that she was expected—by her living and dead relations alike—to propitiate the ancestors.42 Thuy waited for her mother to arrive that night, then set off the next day to make amends to her forefathers. The family returned by private car to her hometown, armed with baskets of expensive gifts for her ancestors’ use in the otherworld. To fully ensure their goodwill, she

24

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commissioned an architecture student in Hanoi to create a beautiful nha tang (paper mansion), which she planned to offer to her father and grandfather on Hell Day. She was careful to explain to the student that the nha tang had to be more beautiful and more elaborate than the new home she had bought for her mother, and even paid for him to make a trip to her province to see it himself. Thuy then returned to her life in Hanoi, her health and vision restored. Setting Ghost Problems to Rights There are two main differences between the three cases detailed above and those of the vast majority of my informants. The first is cause. Si, My Hanh, Tien, and Thuy were afflicted by to tien, ancestral spirits who were outraged by their descendants’ bad behavior. The moral code inculcated in people from birth makes the neglect of ancestors a rare happening, as no one would deliberately condemn their dead relatives “to make a precarious living as wandering beggars” (B. V. Pham 1999, 221). Having to exist as “wandering beggars” is exactly what makes the con ma so angry: the circumstances of their dying—detailed in chapter 5—force them to wander forever somewhere between this world and the other, unanchored to any family altar. Such is the Vietnamese version of hell: it’s not a place, but a condition of homelessness and eternal hunger. In their suffering, con ma are thought to take by force what to tien are ideally given with love and respect: attention. They do this by inflicting sickness and misfortune on the living. Ancestral spirits do the same on occasion, but typically their victims realize their wrongs and make amends, thereby returning to tien to their original state. Therein lies the second difference between illnesses caused by to tien and con ma: the cure. Those tormented by their ancestors can “easily” determine what angered the to tien, according to Ms. Thuy, and just as easily correct their mistakes and get better. Not so for people being assaulted by con ma. For angry ghost problems, expert help is needed, but that is difficult to attain in socialist Vietnam.

3. Revelations

Vi told me everything later that day after we left the café. Abandoning our dinner plans, she took me to her apartment to dress her wounds. Just before she left to meet me, she explained, the angry ghost of her brother had made himself known. She’d blindly torn at her chest with her nails, ripping open the skin, while explosions and a loud male voice rang in her ears. This was the worst of Vi’s frequent possession episodes: tearing the flesh of her chest and stomach with her long, lacquered fingernails. The damage was terrible and extensive. “My body is ruined,” Vi said as she changed into a fresh blouse. I could only nod in agreement and sympathy. Not wanting to be late for our excursion, she had put cotton over the latest gashes and gone to the café. It was not the first time her work or social life had been disrupted by her dead brother. “I feel embarrassed when this happens and I have to meet a client,” she admitted. “How could I explain to them?” Years later, I told Vi’s story to a room full of sociologists and anthropologists during a talk I gave as part of a job interview. They were skeptical. One woman had traveled extensively in Vietnam and never heard of the type of troubles experienced by my informants. I had no response at the time—no doubt the reason why I did not get the position—and for months afterward I obsessed over the doubts they expressed. My contention was and still is that the lingering presence of

26

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the war—in the form of its dead on a rampage—can be seen in the maladies of my informants and that this is a widespread problem in Vietnam.1 At issue for the professors at my talk was this: Why, if war ghosts are such a destructive force, was I the only anthropologist who’d come across this phenomenon? I am not, of course, the only one. There are brief mentions of ghostinduced ailments and fears pertaining to war dead in the anthropological literature on Vietnam,2 but they are few in number and nearly all postdate both my research and that appalling campus interview. Still, even if there was absolutely nothing to reference, I should have been able to provide an explanation. Countless sleepless nights and pounding headaches later, I can finally satisfy my interrogators. Oh, to be in possession of a time machine! Why did Vi and the others I worked with in Vietnam reveal their pain and suffering to me? The answer requires me to disclose two highly relevant personal details that had an impact on the context in which I interacted with my informants. The Politics of Blood Reflexive ethnographies have been around long enough for them to no longer be considered a grand experiment in anthropological writing and for the “new ethnography” to have lost its novelty.3 I firmly believe in the relevance of including a certain amount of self-reflection in ethnography. Beyond simply correcting for the illusion of authority and omniscience found in the discipline’s earlier literature,4 doing so allows reader and researcher alike to see how the ethnographer’s own activities, circumstances, and emotional responses factor into the process of observing and documenting the lives of others.5 Certainly, two aspects of my identity shaped my fieldwork in Vietnam: one made doing research there “easier” than it might have been for another anthropologist, and the other caused ghost-plagued Vietnamese to identify me as a fellow victim. The first of these is my ethnic identity: I am a “halfie.”6 My American father and Vietnamese mother met and married in Vietnam during the war, then raised their family in the United States. Being bicultural did not give rise to any identity issues in my youth that are so ably described

RE VEL ATIONS

27

by other anthropologists.7 Nor did being “half and half” cause me any more anxiety than other people feel when called on to shift focus from one set of identifications to another as suits particular situations. We are all “multiplex” creatures whose social and inner selves are composed of different pieces and allegiances that rise to and fall from the forefront of consciousness throughout the course of daily life.8 Everyone, not just the halfie anthropologist, maintains an identity that is complex, shifting, and relational.9 That part of my multidimensionality sprang from different cultural/ ethnic heritages has always seemed to me a positive thing, allowing me to enact and enjoy traditions unique to both sides. As such, I had no need to flee to anthropology as a strategy for coping with alienation.10 When I did eventually find my way to the discipline, it took some time to discover what interested me. When I did, and proposed to do research in Vietnam, a senior and rather hardcore graduate student permitted me my ideas with these words: “Well, OK. You can do that because you’re Vietnamese.” The horror! In her eyes, the Vietnamese part of my identity was all that mattered and it gave me the “natural” right to study those whom she believed to be my people. I was, to her and perhaps others, a “native” anthropologist by dint of my mother’s birthplace. Never mind that I was born in Texas and with a personality forged during formative years in New Jersey—my “blood” made me Vietnamese. Igor Bargesian, another “native” anthropologist, observed that “for the native anthropologist, options are reduced to just one—to join his or her people” (Bargesian 2000, 129). Kirin Narayan remarks that “native” anthropologists are viewed by other anthropologists as “insiders regardless of their complex backgrounds” (Narayan 1993, 677). Those of us perceived as “natives” are envied for our supposed inside knowledge and dismissed as not really being professional anthropologists and scholars. Rubbish. Despite my genetic link to Vietnam, when I got there I was as culturally incompetent as a feral child. While being Amerasian11 did not give me an insider’s perspective or some sort of double consciousness,12 it did matter in other ways. Informants in Vietnam and elsewhere possess various historically and

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culturally located subjectivities that affect how they perceive and interact with (or not) the anthropologist.13 If asked for my background, I would answer that my mother was Vietnamese or that I myself was Viet lai My.14 This term carries none of the negative connotations of con lai, which is the far more common term for Amerasian and translates to “mixed breed.” In 1989 the U.S. Congress passed the Amerasian Homecoming Act, allowing for the immediate repatriation of Amerasians and their closest family members to the United States. Amerasians who were once collectively known as “children of the dust” suddenly became known as “golden children,” for they provided a ticket to the United States for anyone who could prove a parental or sibling relationship to them. Orphaned Amerasians were often paid to pose as the relatives of people who wanted to leave Vietnam.15 Once in the United States, these fictional kin frequently severed ties with the Amerasians, leaving them alone and abandoned once again. A great many of the Amerasians who were born and raised in Vietnam experienced awful childhoods,16 and their horrific stories are recounted in a number of books.17 It was not uncommon for Amerasian children in Vietnam to be denied access to school or health care and to be openly abused and exploited. Of course, there were exceptions to this sad rule, as when some mixed children were adopted by childless Vietnamese couples or by families decimated by the war. In general, though, Amerasians were the physical reminders of a painful past and treated accordingly. Vietnamese men had reportedly felt “threatened, humiliated, and outraged by the sight of Vietnamese women with foreign men” (Jamieson 1993, 339), and such feelings were often directed against the children of these unions. The heavy baggage associated with Amerasians is absent in the north. During the war, the American ground presence was relegated to areas below the demilitarized zone,18 and so no Amerasians were born in the north. The north had no population of half-American children to contend with as the south did, and therefore a person like myself who was Viet lai My did not have to deal with the memories and associations held by southern Vietnamese. When I identified myself as Amerasian, I was

RE VEL ATIONS

29

always received warmly and with enthusiasm. At times, people who recognized me as Viet lai My would assume I was fluent in the Vietnamese language (I was proficient not fluent). They would talk on and on, apparently very passionate about what they were saying, until they noticed my panicked and uncomprehending expression. These were embarrassing moments that we laughed about later, nothing more. I never experienced any of the discrimination faced by my native-born counterparts in the south. What my ethnicity basically did for me was allow me to fly under the radar, so to speak. Just a few years prior to my fieldwork, the U.S. trade embargo was still in place. In Vietnam there was a deep suspicion of foreigners and the Vietnamese who had contact with them. Communist Vietnam is not the monster that unthinking believers in some Red Menace think it is, but dissidents are jailed and there is a history of reeducation and persecution of people considered to be enemies of the state. Although postwar, postembargo Vietnam has been the site for increasing numbers of anthropological field-workers, some of that research has been severely curtailed by government interference and, most worrying to me, surveillance.19 It was this threat that motivated me to take steps to protect myself and my informants from suspicion. Other anthropologists have done research in places far more dangerous than Vietnam,20 and some have admitted to never writing up any field notes and to outright misrepresenting themselves to protect themselves, their subjects, and their work.21 Still, I had good reason to be apprehensive: the spirit possession and angry ghosts I talked about with Vietnamese were officially disavowed by the government as backward, superstitious, and ultimately, dangerous.22 Because of the sensitive subject matter of my research, the notes I took did not identify my informants by name, and in any case they were in a personal shorthand English and impossible for the police to understand on the few occasions they asked to see my notebook.23 The possibility of police detention convinced me to give my tape recorder away early on, and though I kept my camera, my picture taking was limited to the tourist variety. The police and block wardens did occasionally visit my

30

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informants and question them about my presence in their homes.24 It was troubling to realize that I may have compromised my friends just by knowing them. Do Van Hoang, one of my best informants, tried to calm my fears by saying, “The police are corrupt and stupid. They do not care about our discussions, only about money. I have none, so I give none, and they leave with empty pockets.” This statement did little to soothe me until Mr. Hoang and I worked out a partial truth to give to anyone interested enough to ask: I was there to improve my Vietnamese. The ledger where I kept my field notes was indeed also my vocabulary journal, and I was in fact taking Vietnamese classes. Other informants who were visited by police used the same explanation for my presence, and it worked: no money was paid, no further questions asked. This small deception saved my informants and myself from uncomfortable situations with the police, and this was only possible because of my mixed ethnicity. Seeing in my features that I was Amerasian often led people to assume that I was in Vietnam to learn more about my heritage. It made perfect sense to them that a Viet lai My would want to learn her mother’s tongue. I’d witnessed countless other foreigners endure lengthy conversations in which they had to explain why they were in Vietnam and what they thought about it. Being halfVietnamese enabled me to skip such tedious formalities, while shielding me from suspicion. Instant access to the native population? No. But it did give me greater freedom than other foreigners and provided a measure of protection for my informants. What allowed me to enter their world of pain—and explains why that academic harridan from long ago had never been told by her Vietnamese acquaintances about angry ghosts—had nothing to do with my genes. It was my weight. On Being a Freak in the Field Much has been made, and rightly so, about how the ethnographer’s race, gender, class, educational background, economic status, and birthplace can simultaneously cut her off from and grant privileged access to informants.25 While my particular embodiment of these various categories set me apart from my informants, what overcame these potential obstacles

RE VEL ATIONS

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to access was my size. I was well over three hundred pounds at the time of my fieldwork, and my obesity was yet another thing that differentiated me from my subjects. Overweight people are few and far between in a poor country like Vietnam. North Vietnam in particular has a long history of deprivation and famine. I was by far the fattest person most Vietnamese had ever seen. This mortifying fact made me a star attraction at the guesthouse where I lived. Located on the campus of a foreign studies university, this guesthouse was one of the few places in Hanoi where local people and visitors could mingle without arousing the suspicions of nosy neighbors and police. The bars, restaurants, and other establishments where Vietnamese and foreigners encountered one another were unsafe, unsavory, and under surveillance. This was not the case at the guesthouse. In fact, because this was a foreign studies university, it was expected and even encouraged that students would go to the guesthouse in search of foreigners to help them with whatever language they were learning. Several of the guests even taught some of the conversation classes offered by the school. Because all guests’ names, nationalities, and room extensions were listed on a board in the reception area, students could ring upstairs to invite the foreigner of their choice to sit in the garden bar, where Coca-Cola and conversation flowed freely. All of us in residence at the guesthouse received daily calls, though native speakers of English were in the greatest demand. This particular university was home to over four thousand students, all of whom crossed the small campus at the same times everyday. To be truly stylish, one had to be seen riding a bicycle—or better yet, though more rarely, a motorbike—the two hundred yards to and from class. I dreaded getting caught up in one of these teen rush hours, for the shouts of “Beo!” (fatso)—although uttered entirely without malice—never failed to embarrass me.26 This unwanted attention was, in fact, an excellent way of meeting people. Given my home base at the guesthouse, college students were naturally the first people I met in Vietnam. Admittedly, they are an elite bunch: just 26,000 at the time of my research.27 The costs associated with higher education are often too high for Vietnamese families to bear. Although

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the government heavily subsidizes tuition fees, college students still pay an average of one hundred dollars a year.28 This does not include additional fees for textbooks, housing, and other living expenses, all of which push the cost of college in Vietnam close to five hundred dollars a year.29 In a country where the average income is $726 a year,30 a college degree is an unattainable dream for most. And getting into a university poses as much of a challenge to young people as paying for it. Entrance exams are administered by each of the universities in July, resulting in droves of stressed-out teenagers rushing from school to school hoping to fi nd a place—any place—in the upcoming year’s freshman class. 31 Space is extremely limited due to the allocation of a fi xed number of enrollments at each school.32 Those without family connections to the Communist Party have to hope they pass one or more of these exams and that there is room for them if they do.33 Had I remained exclusively within this circle of youthful acquaintances, this ethnographic account would surely not be representative—the sample would be too skewed and too small. However, from these initial contacts came introductions to dozens more people: their friends and relatives, the vendors they frequented, the strangers we met on various outings. What started with students led to interviews with their parents and older family members. These proud parents led me to other members of the generation who had directly participated in the war—their friends and comrades in arms. The suffering of some of these people led me to spirit practitioners, and while working with them I met other sick people who sought supernatural cures for what ailed them. This was networking of the most organic kind, and the impetus for every new encounter was my weight: people would introduce me around or bring me home with a “look what I found in the guesthouse” attitude. The Communitas of Suffering Once I was introduced, it was a simple thing to talk about illness and other misfortunes. Because the theme of our discussions was “war problems” and everyone had much to say about it, I never had to redirect the

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flow of the interview back to the topic at hand. We talked, my informants and I, always in the course of their doing “normal” things, such as eating dinner, attending a gathering, or hawking goods in the market. We spoke of things that mattered deeply to them and were always on their minds. My experience was the polar opposite of that of Helan Page, who writes about her work in Granada this way: “Participating in my ethnographic project required them to reallocate their attention towards an activity that was clearly in my interest and not at all clearly in theirs” (Page 1988, 170). Perhaps she should have packed on the pounds prior to doing research. Who knows? It might have helped her as it surely helped me. To them, my weight was a clear indication to all that I was ill, and it was this identification as a fellow sufferer that opened doors that might otherwise have remained closed. Although meaty people are considered healthy and attractive in Vietnam, my enormous size was a sure sign of sickness. The very fact of it was enough to build almost instantaneous rapport between myself and my informants. The shared experience of suffering erased the many differences between us and allowed us to speak freely of painful matters both to each other and about ourselves. “You have hunger disease,” was one diagnosis. “It is deadly to be so fat, Mai Lan” was another sentiment voiced again and again. My illness, like those of my informants, was thought to have its source in the spirits. While their ailments could be pinpointed as having been inflicted by one of the nguoi bi mat (people who were lost in the war) who was transformed by violent death into a malicious ghost, my offending spirit remained a mystery. “Perhaps it is one from your father’s family,” offered Hoa, a powerful medium, after repeated attempts to identify it.34 Had I not been viewed as sick-by-spirits myself, the Vietnamese I met might very well have been reluctant to open up about their own ghost problems—as other researchers have encountered—for fear that they would be seen as silly and superstitious. 35 Knowing that I understood their spirit afflictions—and had my own—people kindly invited me to join them as they entered into transactions with the shadow world. That world is overpopulated now due to the more than five million Vietnamese killed during the war and with another three hundred

34

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thousand still missing but presumed dead. The war resulted in a massive infusion of fresh souls into Vietnam’s spirit world, many of whom became, not beneficent guardians of the living as ideally all dead spirits should, but angry ghosts who inflict harm on people such as my informants. Vietnam “is a house that has suffered a death in the family” (Charlot 1989, 444), and the dead have returned.

The Living and the Dead

4.

A Tale from the Trail: Rainy Season, 1971 Nghiem Thi Huong related to me the following story about her first-hand experience during the war: Six people are making their way down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. They are somewhere in northeastern Cambodia, and they have been walking for two months. For three of them, this is their third trip. Two of the others are newcomers to this arduous journey, but like the rest, they do not complain about the hardships. They are an offshoot unit of Battalion 18, Regiment 102, Division 400 of the People’s Army of North Vietnam, and they are on the way to where the rest of their battalion stands ready somewhere near the border on the Vietnamese side. The six are friends, four of them having trained together back in 1966 when they signed on to fight the imperialists in the South. They have been a unit for two years. The youngest of the six is Huong, the lone woman. Twenty years old, she has been fighting for the northern cause for five years. Like the others, she hefts a tattered backpack fi lled with the necessities of life on the trail: a canteen, some rice, one tin of pickled fish, a hammock and mosquito net, bullets, and a knife. Slung over her shoulder, the rifle is old but in good condition. Someone else in the group has the oils and cloths they use to clean their weapons when they get a chance. Huong is on her way to Long An Province, where she will coordinate the activities of the junior

36

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propaganda unit and collect the records of women candidates to the party. This is her second trip along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and she is much used to the conditions: the endless walking, the dread and terror as the B-52s make their approach and drop their bombs, the lack of food and sleep, the steep climbs over sometimes treacherously muddy slopes. Unlike her comrade, Duc, she has not fallen ill on this journey. Even on her last trip from Hanoi to beyond the Vietnamese Demilitarized Zone—a trip that took five months—she did not get sick. She is lucky: most on the Trail do. Duc has malaria. He suffers the nausea and headaches silently as they walk, but when they come to their rest stop, he immediately collapses on the ground without setting up his hammock or cooking his rice. There is a doctor at this way station, and there are maybe ten others. The people at the way station have all been working on the Trail for years, the doctor at various points along the way, the others as a permanent repair and supply crew in this remote region. The doctor gives Duc some quinine while Be—the oldest of the six at thirty—soaks a well-used piece of cloth from his canteen to put on his friend’s head. They talk and laugh quietly about Duc’s girlfriend, who is on a bomb repair crew further down the Trail. Huong comes over and admonishes Be for teasing Duc, who in turn asks her to sing the song about young lovers that they all like so much. Huong declines, promising to do so later after she’s had her rice and slept a bit. Dang is the nominal leader of the group. He consults with the supply crew and makes a list of what his unit needs. This will be radioed on or run to the next way station before the group leaves. Twenty seven years old, Dang has a wife and two children in a village outside of Haiphong. He has not seen the youngest, a three-year-old boy. His six-year-old daughter does not know him but has sent him a poem. He keeps this in the pocket closest to his heart. Chat and Hien eat their portions of rice, then take their peanuts and a small bottle of spirits to the hammock where Duc is now lying. He is shivering with the malaria and the wet, but he readily agrees to play cards with his comrades. He has had malaria before and knows that he would rather play cards than lie miserably alone in his hammock. They gamble with the peanuts, Huong looking on and

THE LIVING AND THE DE AD

37

clucking her tongue with mock disapproval until Hien has won them all. Chat digs Hien in the ribs, and once again accuses him of cheating. They play again, being careful not to drop the cards on the wet ground. Hien has had this deck for a long time, and though the cards have lost their original luster, they have provided the six friends with many hours of pleasure as they talk and reminisce and sing to the sounds of the cards slapping down on the map case. Dang, the leader, leans against one of the trees supporting Duc’s hammock and listens to the players’ banter. He argues that the rice cakes from his province are vastly better than those made in Hanoi. Even though Duc has stopped playing and now just lies propped in his hammock among his friends, he opens his eyes to disagree. Hanoi rice cakes are the best in the country, he says. When he was learning English, one of the sample sentences spoke of the quality of Hanoi’s rice cakes. Chat laughs. He is from Hanoi, and even he believes that Dang’s cakes are superior. From a distance, the deep voice of Be booms out of the gathering darkness. “Saigonese rice cakes are the best,” he intones. “That is why we are going there.” Later, as Huong tries to sleep in her frayed hammock, she remembers her childhood in Hanoi. Every year, she would help her mother make rice cakes, boiling them in their banana leaf bundles for twelve hours. She dreams of her mother, whom she hasn’t seen in four years, and she sleeps well. When they wake, Duc is shivering violently and vomiting. Chat is grimacing with pain as he unwraps his leg. Ten days earlier he had cut open his calf on a sharp rock while tramping through a stream. With all the rain and moisture, the bandages do not keep dry and the wound has not healed. Today, it is suppurating, and he cannot walk. As the day wears on and the rest of his group go about replenishing what they can of their supplies and resting, Chat grows increasingly delirious. The doctor recommends that both Chat and Duc stay behind so he can tend to them. They will catch up to the other four later, if they survive. Dang greets the news stoically. He has seen many friends and comrades die. Duc will recover, he thinks, but he does not like the look of Chat’s leg. He debates whether or not to write a letter to Chat’s wife. No,

38

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Hanoi had been evacuated for the most part and she had recently lost her brothers and father. If they send Chat home, she will be happy, but if he dies in the jungle, the news might cause her to harm herself. Dang decides to wait until he hears more news. Huong, Be, Dang, and Hien leave that night, moving at a snail’s pace in the darkness. There is much bombing up ahead, but word has it that the B-52s have been limiting their runs to the daylight hours. The doctor and the crew at the way station see them off, the doctor promising to relay news of their downed comrades. Before leaving, Be promises Duc that he will explain his delay to the sweetheart waiting down the Trail. Several weeks later, the four friends have regrouped with three other units of their battalion. They are back in Vietnam, where the going is much slower. They expect to arrive at a command post in four days. They have been at this outpost for nearly a week, waiting for two more units to catch up with them. Radio contact has been prohibited. Finally, the two units arrive, bringing bad news. Chat is dead. His leg had worsened and he’d been moved backward along the Trail, deeper into Cambodia, in order to fi nd a surgeon. He died along the way. Chat’s body is buried immediately, its location presumably marked on some map in someone’s hands. Dang doesn’t know if he should write the wife with the details. Huong advises him to wait awhile, to see if the recovery crews will get the body. If the wife hears that Chat is lying in foreign mud in an unmarked grave, she may go mad. Finally, they make base camp and reconnect with the larger group. More sad news awaits them: Duc is dead, too. His sweetheart is in the camp and she tells how she received word that Duc was killed in a bombing raid on the way station where he’d been left. Everything and everyone had been destroyed. Of Duc, nothing remained. She tells his friends that she will be going home soon, and along the way, on the Trail, she will make an offering over the spot where Duc was killed. She will then try to get to his mother in Vinh to assure her that the proper rites were observed. Dang writes a letter to the mother, which Huong and Be also sign, and this they give to the girlfriend to deliver. She manages to do this four years later. The war and Duc’s friends move on.

THE LIVING AND THE DE AD

39

Haunted Oftentimes the stories I heard from my informants were so vivid that I felt I’d been there myself. Huong’s recollections were especially powerful and sometimes accompanied by photographs. She was a teenager when the war began, a serious girl from a good family who dreamed of becoming a photojournalist. At fifteen, she left her apprenticeship with a commercial photographer to heed her country’s call to arms. When she joined the North Vietnamese Army, her technical background landed her in a propaganda unit where her task was to shoot gruesome scenes of carnage for dissemination to the international press. She once included a picture of her own grief-stricken face in the packet of propaganda shots she sent back to Hanoi. She kept a copy, and this rested on her lap when she recounted her experiences on the Trail. In her mid-forties when we met, Huong had three teenage daughters and worked as a bookkeeper in a photocopy shop. She hoped to one day own and operate a fi lm-developing business, assisted by her daughters. Her husband, also a veteran, worked as a mechanic for a taxi company. I was introduced to Huong by her eldest daughter—also named Huong— who was part of my guesthouse’s kitchen staff. She had told me about her mother’s problems—“sometimes she’s crazy.” Dien (crazy) refers to many behaviors in Vietnam, including “disorientation, uncontrollable impulses, speaking in gibberish, and aimless wandering” (H. T. Nguyen 2002, 85)—all things associated with spirit possession illness. Few words could get me to grab my notebook and hurry to the scene the same way dien could. It was at Huong’s home that I also met Be and Hien, the two comrades who figured most prominently in her war stories. The three had reconnected two years earlier, on the twentieth anniversary of the Fall of Saigon.1 Since the end of the war, its veterans in the north of the country had gathered annually at Ba Dinh Square in Hanoi to commemorate the peace. Every April 30th thousands of veterans turn out to march in parades and listen to long speeches made by party officials. To mark the twentieth anniversary, Huong and the other surviving members of Battalion 18 had congregated at a f loating seafood restaurant on

40

WAR AND SHADOWS

West Lake. Wearing their best clothes, some even donning saved uniforms, these former comrades had reunited to eat and drink and reminisce about the war. Huong, Be, and Hien sat together at a round table that year with several others. They cracked crab shells and toasted one another with beer and soft drinks. Silent toasts were offered to those who had died; the restaurant periodically went quiet as the memories of dead comrades were honored. Of the many friends they lost, Huong, Be, and Hien recalled most clearly the ones with whom they’d shared the path along the Trail. Dang, their leader, had been killed in action in the South in 1975. Tai, Tam, and Hiep were all killed on the journey. Huong told her friends of the recurring nightmare she’d been having for a year: Chat lying in his hammock, waving to her. Sometimes her dreams are of bullets and fire and bombs, other times of pouring rain— whatever the action of the dream, Chat is always there in his hammock, waving to her with a sad smile. Be and Hien tried to comfort her, lamenting the conditions on the Trail that ultimately killed their friend. Listening to the three, Tran Van Xu rolled up his one of his shirt sleeves. “That,” he said, pointing to a jagged scar on his forearm, “almost killed me.” A small piece of shrapnel had pierced his arm during a firefight with southern forces in 1969. During his return trip to the North along the Trail, the wound had become infected. “I spent three months lying on my back. It still pains me today,” he said. Such memories steered the conversation toward matters of health: the usual complaints heard in any gathering of the middle-aged, as well as the unusual ones voiced by war veterans. Be revealed he had been suffering from rashes and other skin disorders since 1990. The problem had grown increasingly more severe, reaching the point that he was now afraid to pick up his great-grandchildren for fear that he would infect them. The doctor had given him ointments, but to no avail. Be rolled up his sleeves to expose raw and painful-looking arms. “This is killing me,” he said. He told them of his difficulty keeping track of time, which made his children tease him that he was becoming senile. Likewise, Hien had been ill for more than twenty years, a generalized listlessness that had grown worse with time. Sometimes it was too diffi-

THE LIVING AND THE DE AD

41

cult for him to get out of bed, and he had to send his son to take over his pedicab. He had already been forced to close his frame shop due to a chronic inability to stay focused in the present. Sometimes, he said, his mind would wander so far afield that he would come to to find his family staring at him, waiting for a response. “They are afraid of my dead eyes,” he shared. Time was easily lost with Hien, who once came out of what he called a trance to fi nd himself aimlessly walking in a neighborhood market far from home. By the end of that meal, all three were certain that their individual afflictions had the same source: it was Chat, their dead comrade from the Trail. Bound by their wartime experience, Huong, Be, and Hien were now linked by a postwar haunting. The ghosts doing damage to all of my informants were not faceless hobgoblins who popped up from time to time to give a scare. Nor were they ancestral spirits who are known to now and again frighten their descendants into proper behavior. Both ghouls and ancestors are thought to inhabit Vietnam’s the gioi khac; they are but two of several types of being resident there. However, the angry spirits preying on the people I knew were a particular kind of spirit: the war dead. In virtually every case, the angry ghost was known by name, for it had been a friend in life, or a relative, sometimes a comrade or simple acquaintance. Whatever the relationship, it was the war that ended it and turned the fallen into a vengeful spirit. Eight more cases follow that demonstrate the relationship between these ghosts and their victims.2

Case 1: Prodigal Son Trung Dinh Phu was a retired professor and veteran, a man in his middle sixties when I knew him. Unmarried and childless, he spent his days making the rounds of his favorite coffee shops and book stalls. A good portion of his time was devoted to working on his memoirs—“the papers of my life,” he called them. His third-floor apartment in the Hai Ba Trung district of Hanoi was orderly and decorated with mementos from his long and varied life. A yellowing photograph of himself as a child with his family was the only keepsake he had of his family. In it, six-year-old Phu is holding tightly to his mother, who is pregnant and holding a baby.

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Phu’s father stands erect next to her, a chubby toddler in his arms. No one in the picture is looking at the camera. Professor Phu’s family would not be appearing in his memoirs, as they had disappeared from his life when he was a teenager. Of Catholic background, they left North Vietnam in 1954 when the country was split in two. Young Phu elected to stay in Hanoi, where he got his degree in economics and joined the Viet Minh nationalist front organization.3 Later, he became a high-ranking officer in the North Vietnamese Army. He had no contact with his family throughout the war years, both because it was impossible during the confl ict and because it was unwise to associate himself with southern Catholics as he ascended the party ladder in the North. In 1977 Professor Phu learned that his family had opened a fabric shop in Saigon in the 1960s, eventually relocating themselves and their business to the coastal city of Da Nang. He did not try to make contact with them, but knowing they had survived the war was enough. “It calmed my heart,” he said. Professor Phu was lucky that in his many years of military service he was never wounded. It perplexed him, then, when in 1988 he began to experience searing pain in his head and neck. Some episodes would leave him writhing in agony on the floor of wherever he happened to be at the time. Doctors could not fi nd the source of his pain, and he was left to self-medicate with a combination of herbs and nonprescription painkillers. Even more troubling to the professor than these infrequent attacks were the lightheadedness and voices he experienced on a nearly daily basis.4 Because he was stoic and embarrassed he did not tell the doctors that his head became “light and windy” and he could “hear someone calling from a great distance.” There was nothing he could do when this occurred but lie still, listening, until it passed. On rare occasions, the distant voice would grow loud and clear and his head fi lled with the sound of a male voice shrieking “Anh!”5 This voice almost always presaged an episode of pain. Professor Phu believed that the spirit of one of his brothers was causing his health problems. When he checked on his family’s whereabouts in 1977, his parents were alive and living with his sister, as well as with

THE LIVING AND THE DE AD

43

another daughter born after they’d migrated to the South. Of the three younger brothers he’d grown up with in Hanoi, Phu had no information. Now, in 1996, his parents were surely deceased and he had no way to find out which of his siblings had died. For political and emotional reasons he had remained out of contact with them for almost fi fty years, and he was adamant that he could not and should not attempt a reconciliation now. Professor Phu was quick to point out the irony that the only communication he had with his kin came from the angry ghost of his brother.

Case 2: The Heroic Mother Vo Thi Hai was in her seventies when we met. She was a lonely old woman living with her bedridden husband and crippled son in Bac Ninh Province. She was a “Heroic Mother”—one of thousands of women given that title for having lost at least three children to the war. Gone were three daughters and a son, as well as a niece and nephew she’d had a hand in raising. The annual presentation of blankets, pillows, and a small amount of money to her and the rest of the Heroic Mothers did nothing to soothe her misery. Although her loved ones died in separate incidents,6 Ba Hai often had a nightmare about their deaths. In it, they are all at her home, eating her cooking and chattering happily. She goes out for a moment to retrieve some fruit she’d left outside and when she returns they are skeletons. Yet still they eat and drink, and so she continues to serve them. Whenever Ba Hai had this dream, she would sleepwalk through her kitchen, pantomiming the actions of cooking and serving food. On waking, Ba Hai usually wept for hours and suffered terrible pains all over her body. When at last the tears subsided, she would have visions of blood and death for as many days as it took for the nightmare to return. Then the cycle would start all over again. This had been her daily existence for decades, ever since her niece was killed, and she wanted it to end: “I am already dead, but my body is too strong to go with my heart. Soon it must stop. Soon, I hope. Then I can cook for them again.”

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Case 3: Harried Husband, Secret Spy Nguyen Van Thach, a robust sixty-three-year-old, divided his ample time between homes in Hanoi and Haiphong. He did not work but was evidently sufficiently well off to afford new motorbikes for himself and his teenage children. His second wife was a shy woman who spent most of her time tending to the needs of a pregnant niece. Mr. Thach’s first wife and children fled Vietnam along with thousands of other ethnic Chinese Vietnamese (Viet Hoa), during the “boat people” crisis of the late 1970s. She had done well in Australia, but when asked if his children from the first marriage sent him financial support, Thach only smiled and whistled. Unlike his first wife, Thach is not of Chinese descent. He was born and raised in Hanoi with parents who were pro-Communist laborers. From 1959 to 1980, Mr. Thach lived undercover in the south of Vietnam, posing as a Viet Hoa in Saigon’s Cholon district—Chinatown—and informing on the people there. When his wife and children escaped in 1979, he remained in the south for one year, then returned to Hanoi and his real identity. “Love for family, or love for the cause?” he questioned, weighing his hands. “I had both. Always.” Mr. Thach remarried within a few months of returning to the north,7 and declared himself leading a life of “happiness, independence, and liberty”—just as Ho Chi Minh proscribed. All was well except for one thing: Mr. Thach suffered heart palpitations that caused his heart to race and then slow down, and these were accompanied by what he called “the sound of a bell in my head.” The palpitations persisted for as long as the bell rang, anywhere from two to ten minutes. Underneath the sound of the bell, voices murmured—too indistinct to indicate gender, but clearly belonging to “many people.” A doctor friend of Thach’s searched for but found no evidence of heart disease. Mr. Thach’s wife—against his wishes—then consulted a fortune-teller, a woman from whom she regularly sought advice on all matters great and small. The wife immediately reported to Thach what she learned: that the source of his heart problems was a dead uncle from his first wife’s family. According to the fortune-teller, the many voices were those of the first wife’s relatives, clamoring for him to make amends and angry that he had remarried.

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Mr. Thach considered this a ridiculous explanation. “This wife is jealous all the time,” he said. “She thinks bad things about me and my first wife. She tests my love for her.” Although he scoffed at the fortuneteller’s explanation and imagined her and his wife to be conspiring against him, he too believed his heart problems stemmed from the dead. During his long years in the south, he occasionally had meetings with other northerners living and working there surreptitiously. It was unsafe to become overly friendly with these fellow spies, for if one of them became identified as a member of the Vietcong (National Liberation Front), the entire network would be compromised. Mr. Thach remembered how one man living in Saigon was discovered to be such a spy. Thach did not know him, but he did know another man who committed suicide as a result. “He knew the one who was arrested,” Mr. Thach explained. “He became afraid that he would be taken also, and so he poisoned himself.” Buried in the south under an assumed name, it was this man Mr. Thach believed to be haunting him. “I met with him three times in ten years. One time he told me about his difficulties keeping his background hidden. He very much missed his mother and hoped to see her again. He wept and talked about his poor mother,” he recalled. “I am sure it is him now making my heart fail. He wants to go home. I am the only one who knows that he is dead now.”

Case 4: The Party Girls Tran Thi Bao Ngoc and Tran Thi Bao Chau are sisters. I met them in a canteen near Hanoi’s Polytechnic University where the younger sister, Bao Chau, was a student. Bao Ngoc, just one year older, had already graduated and was working part-time at a business school. They were hard to miss in their identical miniskirts, heels, and made-up faces. Always loud and boisterous, the sisters were rarely apart and were known by their friends as fun girls ready to go dancing at a moment’s notice. For their parents, the two Baos were an embarrassment. “They are too much,” moaned their mother. “Two of them: one of me and one of their father. We fight them and we also fight each other because of them,” she said ruefully.

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The older men and women in their neighborhood in Hanoi’s Dong Da district disparagingly referred to them as dan nhau—“party people.” This was a common way for people in the north to describe their southern counterparts.8 Northerners pride themselves on being sensible, salt-ofthe-earth types, and they look down on what they perceive as the rude, flashy, and shallow behavior of southerners.9 “Those two spend all their money on good times,” tsked old Mr. Hai, a neighbor. His wife merely shook her head in disgust. Bao Ngoc and Bao Chau knew how they were talked about but did not care. “We are good children to our parents. If we like to go out and be happy, why not?” argued Bao Chau. Their father heard her say this to me and began a tirade of epic proportions that, as usual, ended in stalemate. Bao Ngoc shrugged after he left the room in a rage: “He is old.” Indeed he was—he’d fathered the girls in his late fi fties, after having lost his first wife and sons to the war. Besides, the sisters argued, they needed an escape from their problems. Since they were babies, both sisters had experienced a strange sickness. It always struck them at the same time, though each displayed different symptoms. The younger Bao would be overtaken by violent shaking fits and moments of blindness. For the elder, it was acting out uncontrollable impulses. At times, she would dig the dirt with her bare hands and smear it all over her face. This was particularly troubling to the rather vain Bao Ngoc, for the dirt was hard to remove completely after the episode was over. She shared the common Vietnamese preference for white skin and feared that one day she would be “forced” to scratch her face to shreds instead of just dirtying it.10 The whole family knew why the girls did such things. “My brothers want to kill me,” said Bao Chau. “They are terrible,” added Bao Ngoc. Their father had survived the war with no injuries, but his two sons by his first wife had not. Both had been killed in action in the late 1960s. The father had gone to great lengths to keep their memory alive within his new family, but his second wife and their daughters were resistant. When Bao Ngoc and Bao Chau were seven and six, respectively, they’d caused a ruckus at the death anniversary feast for Loc, one of their halfbrothers. The strange sickness that had already started affecting them got

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worse after this, becoming more regular until now, in their twenties, it was occurring on a monthly basis. “We said we were sorry,” said Bao Ngoc, “but it did not help. They are very angry, very bad.”

Case 5: The American Vet Sam McAllen was a middle-aged Texan living in Hanoi. A veteran of the war, he returned to Vietnam in 1995 and fell in love with the country. He moved to Hanoi in late 1995, working first as an English instructor and later running a crew of Vietnamese electricians. He lost an arm in 1968 at the siege of Khe Sanh but left his prosthetic arm back in Texas with his mother. Living in Vietnam has given him the peace he sought for many years following the war. Sam had a Vietnamese girlfriend in 1995; he converted to Buddhism so that her family would feel comfortable with their marriage plans. His conversion was more than cosmetic though: Sam regularly visited the pagodas in Hanoi and kept an altar in his apartment. “I can get behind Buddhism,” he said. He said the low-key practice gave him strength and matched his mild temperament. His Vietnamese friends called him “the quiet American.” When he returned to the United States in 1968 to recuperate from his injuries, Sam began to experience the pain and discomfort of a phantom limb. Curiously, it was not his arm. Instead, his intact leg would feel as if it were on fire, even though he was not injured there. The burning sensation lasted for three years, only to be replaced by nightmares of the fi refight that cost him his arm. He was not overly concerned by these dreams, knowing that many veterans suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder. “I figured I had it coming to me,” he reasoned. After his return trip to Vietnam in the 1990s, the nightmares stopped. Sam assumed that the peace he had made with the country had “fi xed” whatever it was inside him that had been broken during the war. Within a few weeks of moving to Hanoi, Sam’s girlfriend told him about something of which he was unaware: Sam talked in his sleep and shook so violently that the entire bed moved. The woman was terrified, primarily because the violent and enraged statements he made during these episodes were in Vietnamese. Sam had a rudimentary knowledge of

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Vietnamese, certainly good enough to communicate with his girlfriend and his co-workers, but the fluency of his speech at night was astounding. Sam asked her to tape him, which she did on several occasions. The invective heard flowing from Sam’s mouth was that of a native Vietnamese, utterly disturbing in its bald rage. “Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me,” he screamed in Vietnamese. “Motherfucker you give it to me or I will eat your mother’s soul.” Back in 1968, as he was being flown out of Khe Sanh by helicopter, one of Sam’s friends put into his remaining hand the blood-spattered identity card of a Vietcong fighter who’d been killed inside the lines at the American base.11 Such markers of identification were supposed to be turned over to the authorities so they could keep accurate count of enemy casualties, but sometimes they were kept by U.S. soldiers as souvenirs. Sam kept it as a reminder of his time in Vietnam, even bringing it with him when he moved there years later. It was clear to Sam and his girlfriend that the problems he’d been having at night came from that dead Vietcong: he wanted his papers back and would continue to torment Sam until he got them.

Case 6: Soul Sister When Nguyen Anh Thi was just a child, she and her younger sister spent many happy hours with their parents and baby brother at Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi is a city of lakes: there are a dozen within its limits. The most famous of these is Hoan Kiem Lake (Lake of the Restored Sword), in the dead center of the city in the high-end district of the same name. There, a giant tortoise is said to have surfaced to give the medieval Vietnamese emperor Le Loi a magical sword with which to fight off the invading Chinese. On occasion, rumors circulate that someone has seen a giant tortoise in the lake, and even more people will flock to its shores. Today, Hoan Kiem Lake is dotted with island pagodas and ringed by ice-cream shops, souvenir stands, the post office, and other establishments of interest to tourists. It is truly the center of the city and the spot all foreigners visit for a picture and what invariably turns out to be a shoutfest with the ferocious adolescent postcard peddlers.12 On national

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holidays and festivals of the lunar calendar thousands gravitate there to picnic, visit with family and friends, take pictures, people-watch, and join the thousands of other like-minded souls who slowly stroll around its banks. Thi is a grown woman now, someone who has carefully avoided going anywhere near the lake of her fond childhood memories. Her children clamored to go there on special occasions, but she always refused. It was at Hoan Kiem Lake that Thi experienced her first panic attack. She was newly married at the time, just twenty years old, and walking with her husband around the picturesque lake. All of a sudden, she could not breathe and felt a heavy pressure in her chest. She grabbed at the air, flailing and gasping. By the time I met her in 1997, she’d been having these attacks every three or four weeks for the last fifteen years. “I know how it is to drown,” she told me. “I feel it, but I survive. It’s crazy.” Her younger sister did not survive drowning, however. In the winter of 1972, when Thi was ten, Hanoi was undergoing the “Christmas bombing.” This was twelve days and twelve nights of relentless bombing by the Americans during which Thi and her family were terrified to leave their house. When it fi nally did stop, her parents took them out to check on their other relatives who lived in Hanoi. They passed Hoan Kiem Lake but did not stop as they might have done in the past. Suddenly, an air raid siren sounded and people scattered; Thi’s family was separated in the mayhem. Little Linh, Thi’s sister, was later found floating in Hoan Kiem Lake.

Case 7: Spider Man The first time Do Thanh Ai saw the spiders, he jumped, maybe he even screamed. He was in high school at the time and his classmates laughed hysterically at his antics. They saw no spiders, for there were none: only Ai saw them. He was punished that first time by the teacher, who thought the boy was acting up. The next time it happened, Ai was removed from the classroom. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ai’s high school career was not stellar: the visions of spiders persisted and caused him so much anxiety that he dropped out before graduating.

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Years later, Mr. Ai is a father to two daughters and, according to his wife, a good husband. He worked as a plasterer in Hanoi; I met him at another informant’s house when he was finishing the walls of her renovated kitchen. He’d been eavesdropping on our conversation about ghost problems and approached me with his own. We met for draft beer at an outdoor stall, and he told me about the spiders. They were large with long legs that reminded him of crab legs. “Disgusting,” he grimaced. He saw them even as we drank our beer, for he saw them all the time. “Like this or like this, I see them,” he said as he opened and closed his eyes. “Too bad they are not pretty girls!” Humor notwithstanding, the spiders frightened Ai and he had been living in a constant state of dread because of them. At times he would concentrate on the image of the spiders so hard that he’d forget his own name. “That is the worst,” he said. “My wife becomes very fearful. The children are heartbroken when I don’t know them.” It mattered little to Ai and his family that the spiders were not real. Their constant visual presence was more than enough to cast a pall on the best of their times. They’d been sent, explained Ai, by his grandfather—a man he could not remember at all because he’d been killed on the border of Cambodia the same year Ai was born. He understood that his grandfather tormented him because he was angry about his death. Still, Ai had little sympathy: “He ruins my life.”

Case 8: Mrs. Rice Pot Tran My Duong was a fifty-five-year-old married woman, known by her family and friends as Hu Gao, or Rice Pot. They called her this because she was always hungry. Once, at a wedding of a close neighborhood friend, Mrs. Duong had eaten so much that the restaurant manager announced the food had run out. Embarrassed, she wanted to leave but was unable to walk because of her distended stomach. Despite the fact that she ate constantly and copiously, she was thin as a rail. “It has been this way since 1970,” she told me. Mrs. Duong had served many years in the army during the war; her

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task was to train other young women to repair bomb damage and operate munitions. She’d been especially close to her charges and felt like a “real sister” to them. Many of the ones who’d survived the war kept in touch with her by mail or the occasional phone call, and this pleased her. “Only a few girls were lost,” she said proudly. Mrs. Duong never forgot the year she spent on the Ho Chi Minh Trail with a crew of twelve younger women. It was 1970. She was in her late twenties then, her “little sisters” just out of their teens. They’d been delegated a short segment of the Trail to keep clear and told to provide comfort to the troops passing through. “It was not that kind of attention we gave them!” she admonished when I hinted at certain “comfort”related activities. They were hungry at their post in the jungle. The rations they’d brought lasted a few months, and then they’d had to depend on irregular shipments of food. When the women weren’t repairing the path, they were out scouting for edible plants. Sometimes passing soldiers would share some of their own supplies, but they had so little themselves that Mrs. Duong felt ashamed to accept anything. About three months before her small unit returned home, she accused one of her girls of stealing food. A group of soldiers had spent some days at Mrs. Duong’s comfort station, passing the time by fl irting with the girls and reminiscing about home. One of them had a small supply of European cookies that he never ate but had shown off to the others. On the morning of the soldiers’ departure, this man searched the camp for his prize—it was missing. He and the others had been playing a singing game with some of the girls the night before, and the girl Mrs. Duong accused had stayed up later than anyone else. “I accused her,” Hu Gao admitted quietly. “In front of everyone, I told her she had done this. I was very forceful.” The girl protested, but no one believed her, for she had complained loudest of all of being hungry. The soldiers left without saying good-bye, and the other women gave her “dog eyes” and refused to listen. A few days later, the girl disappeared. Mrs. Duong learned from soldiers heading back down the Trail that she’d gone to a station two stops ahead. There she died during a bombing raid. Mrs.

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Duong recalled that her insatiable hunger began shortly before she heard this news: “I understand why little sister is angry. We found that box of cookies next to the latrine—hidden under leaves.” Attribution For the victims of angry war ghosts, there was always some connection to the dead in the symptoms of illness (or abnormal behavior) that led them to classify their ailments as spirit induced as opposed to those that are naturally occurring. That connection could be symbolic or quite tangible. Ai, for example, saw phantom spiders whether his eyes were open or closed—the very same spiders his dead grandfather had collected and studied. He’d had no inkling of this connection until a distant aunt remarked on the coincidence. Ai felt sure the spiders were not a random experience. Sam, too, was convinced that there was an obvious culprit behind his nightly attacks and diatribes: “It didn’t take a great leap of logic to figure out that it was this guy making trouble for me.”13 Thach had a “strong feeling” that his heart problems were caused by the fellow spy who’d killed himself: “His heart was broken, now he does the same to mine.” Ba Hai’s dream about her dead children always preceded weeks of pain and morbid visions. Huong also had nightmares about someone lost in the war. The dream about Chat in his hammock depressed her and affected her during her waking hours. She admitted to being short with her husband and children, sad at work, her normally cheerful demeanor subdued. Once, while thinking about the dream as she prepared dinner for her family, she dropped her chopping knife and cut open her flesh at the same spot where Chat had been injured. This, and the fact that she always dreamed about him prior to one of her “bad days,” made it obvious to Huong that Chat was to blame. Her comrade Hien had separately come to the same conclusion about his own torments, after discovering that the neighborhood he had walked to in a trance was the very same one in which Chat grew up. In a few cases, the ghosts outright identified themselves to their victims. Professor Phu thought so: he’d been hearing a voice in his head

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calling “Brother!” for years. In addition to the voice, the severe head pains he suffered led him to the conclusion that one of his long-lost brothers had died during the war from a head injury. All of my informants were able to deduce the source of their suffering after analyzing its elements. For some—like Duong and Thi and the Bao sisters—it was obvious, and attribution was made quickly. For others, like Vi, whom we met in chapter 1, it took some time. The worst aspect of Vi’s malady was the tearing open of her chest and stomach with her own nails. Obviously, this was something she would never willingly do: “Why would I ruin my body like this?” That she always ripped at the same spots, and heard explosions as she did so, led her to conclude that this is how her brother died: from chest wounds suffered during a firefight or bombing raid. He had never returned from the war, and so the family knew he was dead but had no information as to how he died or where. Vi’s self-mutilating behavior had solved at least part of that mystery for them. It took her a while to unravel it, however: Vi had never met this brother, as he’d left home to serve in the army long before she was born. By the time I arrived in Vietnam, all of the victims in my study had diagnosed their troubles and attributed them to war ghosts. All had actively sought, and were still seeking, treatment; some continued to pursue remedies long after I returned to the United States. In more ways than one, a cure for their common problem was difficult to come by—as the next chapters reveal.

5.

Afterlives

Whatever the affliction, whichever spirit was to blame, all of the victims I worked with knew one thing: to become well again, they had to lay these ghosts of war to rest. Unfortunately, appeasing them is very difficult. They are known as angry ghosts for a reason. It is in their nature to harm the living. However loving and kind these spirits were in life, in death they are cruel tormentors. Why? The answer lies in the manner of their dying, for it is how someone dies that most of all determines whether he or she will become an ancestral spirit or an angry ghost. Good and Bad Death At the time of death in Vietnam, there is a sequence of events that must occur for the departed to take up residence in the otherworld as an ancestral spirit. Ancestral spirits (to tien)1 continue to be regarded as a vital part of the family and are remembered as such often four and five generations after their passing.2 Offerings are made to the to tien, and their blessings are sought on occasions of great sorrow or joy for their families, such as weddings, graduations, birthdays, and funerals.3 This is what Vietnamese want for themselves when they die—to be remembered and honored. The first step in attaining the hallowed status of to tien involves the corpse: it must be available. Missing corpses make all the funeral rites

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performed to send the spirit of the dead to its new station in the afterlife if not wholly impossible, then at least ineffective, for the soul of the deceased stays close to its corporeal remains for some time. Dying at home is considered the best possible circumstance, for the spirit of the dead will be less confused if it can sense familiar surroundings. It is believed that disembodied spirits remain in the vicinity of their deaths for forty-nine days,4 after which they permanently enter the gioi khac, the otherworld. Terminally ill Vietnamese are often allowed to return home from hospitals, cutting short treatment that might prolong their lives, so that they can die there.5 During the forty-nine days following a death, several steps are followed with great care. Survivors of the deceased are responsible for conducting the funerary rites that will allow their loved one to be reborn as an ancestral spirit. Praying for the dead—le cau sieu vong sieu vong hon or more accurately translated as “helping the souls of the dead to transmigrate from this world to the other world” (Malarney 2001, 60)—begins immediately within the family. Neighbors and friends come to the home to pay their respects and chia buon (share sadness) with the family. For the fi rst hundred days after death, the people in a house in mourning daily offer a bowl of glutinous rice with a hardboiled egg to their newly dead, to sustain them in their first months in the afterlife. When prayers are said for the dead, those who pray also light three incense sticks and put them in an urn on a household altar dedicated to the family’s ancestors. As the incense burns, the smoke carries the essence of the food offering to the spirit, and it is able to eat. During the time before the funeral, senior males perform ritual chanting to beg the spirit to return to the family altar and remain there as a guardian.6 This oft-repeated action serves to acquaint the spirit with its new station in the afterlife. The funeral itself is held within two or three days of death, followed by burial in the family plot or, less frequently, cremation.7 The expense involved in most Vietnamese funerals is substantial, yet it does not seem a hardship when the pressure people feel to display their fi lial piety in a proper and emotionally rich way is taken into account. Neither the expense nor the sentiment of loss ends with the funeral: on the forty-ninth day after death, the family organizes

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a dam gio, or death anniversary, to commemorate the passage of the spirit to the otherworld. Families lam gio (hold death anniversaries) for their dead every year on the date of their passing, inviting kin and all others who cared for the deceased to eat a large meal together—living and dead both. Last in the ritual sequence is the reburial of the bones three years after the funeral. Although some families cannot afford to follow this procedure, and it does not impact negatively on them if they do not, 8 most Vietnamese I spoke to expressed a desire to do so. The bones are exhumed from their coffins, cleaned, and then placed in an urn to be either reburied in the family plot or, as was traditional prior to the war, in another plot elsewhere.9 Sometimes a portion of the remains will be burned and the ashes kept in the home. On the fi fth day of the third lunar month, dutiful descendants spruce up the gravesites of their relatives in the Tao Mo, or Cleaning of the Tombs, ritual.10 These acts of remembrance are further signs of devotion to the dead and serve to keep the to tien contentedly in place. If the rites detailed above are followed correctly, the deceased will be transformed into a benevolent ancestral spirit.11 Once installed in the altar dedicated to dead family members, the spirit’s happiness and continued good will must be maintained through regular offerings. Such is heaven in Vietnam: it is home, where you are surrounded by those who love and respect and feed you. One achieves heaven by dying well, which means doing so at or near home, as an old person with many children, and with obedient sons who will perform their fi lial duty at the funeral and forever after at the family altar.12 Not dying in such a manner and/or having your descendants not follow the ritual sequence as described above virtually guarantees that the dead will become angry ghosts, con ma.13 Specifically, to die badly in Vietnam means to die as a young person, with no children, violently, far from home, or in such a way that one’s corpse is mutilated or has missing parts.14 Every ghost blamed by my informants for causing them problems died in one or more of these ways. It is the brutality or injustice of such deaths that condemn those who die badly to an eternity of anger. When someone in Vietnam dies, there are two ways to describe their

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passing. If they are old, they are said to qua doi, or “cross out of life,” evoking the mild conclusion of a long journey. None of my informants described their tormentors as having died in this way. Instead, they used the verb bi mat, “to be lost,” a phrase used most often when a young person dies. Dying young is a nightmarish end for Vietnamese, since not only is life stopped short but often a premature death means that the deceased had not yet procreated. If a person dies without leaving behind any children to complete the death rituals, they will be doomed to an afterlife as con ma. Without children, there is no one to tend a family altar and no one to keep the spirit of the dead alive in memory and through commemoration. A spirit is said to remain at the scene of its death, confused and unaware that its body has died. To die far from home heightens its confusion and makes it very difficult for descendants to fulfi ll their obligation to send it peacefully to the gioi khac because they must first locate it and then persuade it to come back home.15 Violent deaths are believed to have the same effect on spirits: the trauma of dying leads them to wander far from where they were killed. Moreover, the intense anger some spirits feel in having their lives ripped from them so brutally is believed to provoke them into unleashing that rage on the living. Corpses that are missing body parts incorporate several aspects of bad death, for to be mutilated in any way means the end was violent. Moreover, the loss of portions of the body makes it likely that death was suffered far from home, for otherwise a family member would have been certain to retrieve the missing parts for burial with the rest of the body. Incomplete corpses are simply banned from making the journey to the otherworld and are left stranded in a miserable state somewhere between this world and the next. It is a process of direct cause and effect: no matter how many children are left behind to mourn their passing, the incomplete dead are forbidden to enter the afterlife as to tien. This is the worst-case scenario in Vietnam, for, not only does the dead person in this instance become a con ma, but relatives are unable to express their own grief in the required manner since a proper funeral cannot be conducted unless the entire body is available and present for the ceremony.16

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Such deaths are rare in today’s Vietnam, and so the contemporary creation of angry ghosts is itself rare. If a bad death is suffered people have ways to deal with it and thus prevent the creation of another con ma. For example, should a person die young, parents and other family members take on the responsibility of tending his/her spirit at the family altar. Violent death is not the norm, but if it occurs, the family is especially careful to locate and placate the spirit before, during, and after the funeral. However, incomplete corpses are uncommon these days, for the circumstances that made that kind of bad death the rule rather than the exception have changed: Vietnam is no longer at war. Hellish Fates The war created a population explosion in Vietnam’s otherworld. More than five million people were killed, many of them dying in action, others succumbing to diseases like malaria and typhoid fever picked up somewhere along the twelve thousand miles of paths and roads making up the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Civilians are included in the millions dead—victims of U.S. bombing or the widespread wartime deprivation in the North. At least three hundred thousand are still missing: they are presumed dead, and because their bodies are missing they have been forced to join the rest of the con ma in hell. All war deaths were premature deaths in that they resulted from an unnatural situation: the prolonged conflict of a war. Charismatic Pham Van Tac lost dozens of friends and relatives to the fighting, but he spoke most often of just one: My grandmother was in the street, you know she was off to the market for some things. She couldn’t hear the air raid sirens, I think—she was very old. As the others ran inside, Grandmother kept going to the market. She was struck on the head by falling debris. In my opinion, she died painlessly. But even though she was very old and may have died naturally quite soon, I am strongly convinced that she died before she was ready. Think about it: a piece

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of stone from a building killed her. It had been loosened by the sirens and the people scrambling to get inside. Grandmother: another innocent war casualty, ha ha!17 Innocent or not, fighters or civilians, they all ended up in the gioi khac in one form or another. The lucky ones like Dang, the leader of Huong’s unit along the Trail, became to tien, ancestral spirits. He was killed in action in 1975, after which his body was returned to his family. They buried him properly and put his photo on the family altar to join the other relatives who had died. In the years after the war ended, Dang’s wife and son also died. Only his daughter survives, a married mother and the teacher in her village school. Every year on the anniversary of his death, his daughter and her family invite their neighbors and her father’s closest comrades to feast with them and celebrate his life. She cannot remember Dang, so she listens intently as Be and Hien and Huong reminisce about him. Many more of the war dead did not have the “luxury” of being buried.18 There were thousands of funerals held without the corpse, thousands more in which the body was missing various parts. All such dead are believed to have automatically become angry ghosts. Efforts were certainly made to return any available remains, but the contingencies of war often made that impossible. The basic unit of the North Vietnamese Army was the three-person cell: each member bore the responsibility of notifying the other member’s families in case of death, and for providing a hurried burial and funeral if moving their dead comrade was out of the question.19 If circumstances allowed, remains were carried out of the war zone in the knapsacks of survivors.20 Great care was taken by soldiers to note the particulars of their comrades’ deaths: time, location, date, injuries sustained. These details were to be given to the families of the dead so that they would know what befell their loved ones and also be able to organize death anniversaries for them. Tragically, it often took years for people to receive word that a family member had died. Such long delays between time of death and the observance of mortuary rites drastically “decreased the chances of the soul ever returning to the family altar and increased its chances of becoming

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a wandering soul” (Malarney 2001, 62). Northern soldiers and those in the Vietcong who had infi ltrated the South did not return home on leave, nor were troops rotated in and out. Families often did not hear from their loved ones until after the war was over, and then only if they’d survived. Numerous songs and television shows in Vietnam feature sweethearts—or mothers and sons—separated for years during the war. These songs and programs are hugely popular, and even the callow teenagers I knew were pulled in by their raw emotion. Everyone I met could tell me about someone—a wife or mother or child—who’d waited patiently, year in and year out, to be reunited with a loved one. Dao Thi Vu lost two sons and a daughter to the bombs that fell near their home in Haiphong. She waited from 1967 to 1976 for her husband to come home before she forced herself to accept that he was dead. Official death notification arrived in 1977, followed the next year by a letter forwarded to Mrs. Vu from the wife of her husband’s subordinate. The woman had found the letter in her late husband’s rucksack—sent to her by his unit after he was killed in the battle to take the airport in Saigon in 1975. In a handwritten note to Mrs. Vu, she explained the three-year delay: “I was too full of sadness to go through his belongings until now.” The letter from her husband’s dead comrade explained that Mr. Vu had been buried alive in a bunker and that he had “valiantly struggled to survive for two days, never once uttering a scream.” 21 He screams now, though, to his wife—“I cannot breathe. Oh God, I cannot breathe.” Another informant, Vo Van Dang, thought his family had recovered their war dead. For years the family had been making offerings to two brothers and an uncle killed near Saigon in the 1970s. Searching for answers to his entire family’s spirit sickness, Mr. Dang made a gruesome discovery that is shocking for its frequency: the remains his family received did not belong to his kinsmen. Whom they belonged to was unclear; the whereabouts of his family was even more mysterious. The yearly death anniversary feasts, the thoughtful offerings, the almost daily prayers: all were for naught. Mr. Dang continued to make the offerings even after learning about the “mix-up” as he called it, even though he recognized that he was honoring the wrong spirits. He sniffed at my

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suggestion that “it’s the thought that counts.” This is apparently untrue when it comes to the dead. Pointing to the pictures of his family’s war dead, he said, “They have received none of our gifts all these years.” In Mr. Dang’s small town alone, there were twelve other families in the same situation. He was sure there were “thousands” of misidentified remains in Ha Tay Province where he lived. When I asked about the numbers for the whole of Vietnam, Mr. Dang refused to speculate, only sighed and said the tally must be “unthinkable.” He could only hope that those families did not suffer as his did—nine people laid low by malaise and chronic coughs, nightmares, and chills. He should have known the cause, he said in hindsight, but to think his family members were still missing—that, too, was unthinkable. More often than not, killed northern fighters never went home again. While dead American soldiers were airlifted or otherwise removed from the battlefield within a matter of minutes, Vietnamese soldiers had to be left behind in makeshift graves to simply biodegrade. Only a handful of these graves have been found despite official attempts to locate them. State-run television regularly airs shows devoted to giving information on battle sites so that people can at least know where to look for the remains of their kin. Similarly, the Department for Martyrs and War Invalids puts out Cuu Chien Binh Viet Nam, a magazine dedicated to publishing information on the likely locations of the remains of those killed in the war. Resolution in these cases and by these means is exceedingly rare and far too slow to help the large numbers of people desperate for answers. Even today, more than thirty years after the end of the war, families continue to make costly trips to southern and central Vietnam to search for remains. 22 A significant number of my informants had arranged meetings with the surviving comrades of the con ma they believed were haunting them.23 I attended some of these gatherings, which were highly emotional and resembled interrogations. Family members would relentlessly grill the comrades for more information about what had happened to their relatives. It was painful knowledge, but they sought to reconstruct their loved ones’ last moments of life in the hopes of identifying the precise spot where they died. The everlasting hope was that somehow

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the site of death could be pinpointed, and then someone in the family could retrieve the bones. Bao Ninh’s great novel, The Sorrow of War, tells the tale of a man in a postwar cleanup crew. With his team, he returns to former battlefields to retrieve human remains. Very few are found, for the dead “had been totally vaporized, or blasted into such small pieces that their remains had long been liquidized into mud” (Ninh 1991, 21). In fact, this is what happened to Duc, another of Huong’s Trailmates. After being left back because of his infected leg, he’d been killed in a B-52 bombing run. Nothing was left of him, but many months after he was killed, his girlfriend came to the place in the jungle where he died. She laid offerings for him, said prayers, and burned the requisite joss sticks. She took from the spot several handfuls of dirt, which she eventually gave to his mother along with a letter from his friends.24 When I visited his mother’s home, Duc’s photograph was gracing a crowded family altar, his likeness sharing the sacred space with those of his father, two uncles, and a brother and sister. His mother was careful about keeping the offerings fresh: every few days she replaced the oranges and burned-down joss sticks with new ones. The old woman’s care had kept her son’s spirit from becoming truly wicked: he is a con ma, but he is a lackadaisical one at best. Two or three times since the end of the war his mother had experienced crushing chest pains and heard the sound of Duc weeping. “Next time he comes, I will die,” she smiled, looking forward to the day she can enter the otherworld and from there “look after him better.” “An Army of Hungry, Wandering Souls” Duc’s mother recognized that one day soon she would die and then there would be no one to placate his ghost. Like so many of the war dead, Duc died young and without having children of his own. He had planned to marry his wartime sweetheart and, as she recalled, “fi ll the streets with our fat children.” Approximately half of the northern army was made up of single men and women;25 a third of the rest were married with children. 26 Vietnam’s hell is teeming with the ghosts of young, childless

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people who died far from home and in horrible ways. With no descendants of their own, their parents are left to remember their lost children. This is a wholly unsatisfying and improper arrangement, as it is the younger, junior members of a family who are bound by duty to care for the souls of their elders. Furthermore, old parents tend to die, and so the memory of their children quickly fades into obscurity. In a fi nal blow, if these parents lost all their children to the war, they then become angry ghosts themselves, for there is no one appropriate left to honor them at the family altar.27 Graveyards throughout Vietnam are full of those lost in and to the war. In the north alone there are more than three thousand martyrs’ cemeteries for soldiers who died in action,28 and another seventy cemeteries exclusively for the Vietnamese who “toiled on the trail, perished under the bombs or expired from disease, exhaustion, animal bites, and storms” (Prados 1999, xiv). People fear getting too close to these graveyards, having heard the rumors of angry ghosts lying in wait nearby.29 Those buried in these cemeteries and in family burial plots across the country, as well as those who decomposed in the jungles—every one of them suffered a violent death of some kind. In theory, then, each of the five million plus people who died in the war became con ma, willing to and capable of harming the living. Indeed, it is this “army of hungry, wandering souls” (Malarney 2001, 61) that is responsible for the suffering of so many Vietnamese. Existing in their lonely miserable hells, these war ghosts seek to torment the living, if only to be noticed and, in that unsatisfactory way, remembered. The Struggle Continues By the end of hostilities in 1975, decades of war had claimed millions of lives and effectively destroyed many millions more. The U.S. war in Vietnam (1964–73), called the War of National Salvation against the Americans in the North,30 was in actuality the continuation of a Vietnamese civil war that began in the 1940s and became wholly cannibalistic after the departure of the French in 1954. Sometimes overlooked in the American preoccupation with its own role in the conflict is the fact that

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Vietnam was at war continuously from the early 1940s until 1975. The nine years the United States spent actively engaged there on the side of South Vietnam were the bloodiest of all: one in every thirty Vietnamese was killed as a result of war during this time.31 With peace came a number of stark realities. More than one million widows have had to spend the rest of their lives in their dead husbands’ homes, never to remarry. Women vastly outnumber men in postwar Vietnam, 32 which condemns the average woman to a life without the children that give her, in Vietnamese tradition, a sense of worth and identity. Forty thousand women have been given the honorific “Heroic Mother” by the government, for having lost many if not all of their children to the war. The unimaginable grief borne by these women was made even worse by the fact that the death of sons meant an end to a key source of financial support and the only source of ritual care after they themselves die. The three hundred thousand orphaned children and millions of disabled people also had difficulty supporting themselves in the reunified Vietnam: the social stigma attached to their respective conditions often led to discrimination that prevented them from becoming productive members of society. The end of the war and reunification of the two Vietnams in 1975 in no way marked an end to the country’s economic problems, as had been expected. To the contrary, they deteriorated even further after 1975, due in part to the government’s attempts to integrate the economies of what had been North and South Vietnam.33 The latter’s economy had collapsed in 1973 after the U.S. withdrew from the confl ict, taking with them the investment capital that had artificially and enormously inf lated the southern market.34 With the Communist victory, three quarters of the economy was collectively organized into twelve thousand state-owned enterprises35 and nine thousand agricultural cooperatives; 36 petty producers were closed down.37 There was little incentive to produce, and production in both the agricultural and industrial sectors fell. Peacetime also meant divided families could resume their lives together, and this brought about a population explosion that put even more pressure on the floundering economy.38 By 1980 agricultural cooperatives or communes comprised an average of 370 households,39 up from

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fewer than 100 in the 1960s.40 Vietnam’s cities experienced an annual growth rate twice as high as the rate for the country as a whole,41 as rural peasants migrated to urban areas and fi lled them with their children. Food was scarce throughout Vietnam: in 1960, the output of food was one million tons short of what was needed. The shortage reached a nadir in 1980.42 Peasants resorted to clandestinely growing food and raising animals for their own nourishment. It was this hidden domestic capital that made the difference between life and death for many Vietnamese,43 making up more than 60 percent of their diet and livelihood.44 Still, the average person in 1980 made only 300 dong a month—less than three cents.45 Confl ict with China in the late 1970s over the issues of Vietnam’s treatment of Chinese minorities in-country and its invasion of Cambodia meant the loss of massive amounts of Chinese aid,46 as well as confirming global opinion that Vietnam meant to inflict its “communist messianism” (Ton 1989, 199) on all of Southeast Asia. This, in combination with the U.S.-led embargo, isolated Vietnam even further from the rest of the world. The country turned to fellow socialist nations as its only source of international trade and came to rely on Soviet economic aid—all of which disappeared when the Soviet Union started to disintegrate in the 1980s.47 All told, postwar Vietnam was a disaster. Fresh Hells Literally and figuratively, the war crippled the population. Survivors, in addition to having to rebuild shattered lives after years of upheaval and amid economic disaster, also had to worry about their dead returning as angry ghosts. The manner of death suffered by liet si (revolutionary martyrs) and tu si (war dead) was precisely the kind that sent a freshly dead soul straight to hell: violent, far from home, at a young age, and in ways that left the body dismembered or disintegrated into nothingness. The families and friends of those killed were then perfect targets for the rage and misery of their dead loved ones.48 Even the many young people I knew feared the wrath of war ghosts. Vietnam is roughly the size of New Mexico and the thirteenth most

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populous nation in the world. Given that more than half the population is under twenty-five,49 and therefore born after the end of the war, one would think that at least this large segment would be immune to attacks from vicious con ma. Alas, no. “They are very real,” insisted Lac Thi Thu Ha, a French major at the university where I lived. For emphasis, she pointed out my window at the place where she herself had encountered a nasty ghost. Just beyond the gates of my guesthouse was an overgrown field that was the center of campus and site of many activities throughout the daylight hours. Pairs of women in pajama ensembles ran round and round this field from just after daybreak until the bread seller could be heard shouting his wares, after which they were off to work or school or market. Throughout the morning, people from the neighborhood could be spied from a certain fourth-f loor balcony relieving themselves behind the knee-high bushes, thereby making their own contribution to the growth and development of the wild greens that were harvested by all in the spring. Later on in the day, the field would be used for informal soccer games, or as a place where the gym classes did their calisthenics. For two frightful weeks each year, new students were forced to engage in military drills and shoot their very real guns at targets set up in the field. Huge amounts of trash were burned there during the day; dogs that did not end up hanging on hooks in the snack shops ringing the school often chased mice there; and students late for class or home would take shortcuts through it. At night, though, the field was dead quiet save for the shrieks of bats and the hoots of owls. The presence of these animals—psychopomps and harbingers of ghosts in Vietnam—only served to confirm what the neighborhood people knew: the field was haunted and had been ever since its bombing in 1972. When hundreds of members of a youth organization from the outskirts of Hanoi arrived on campus for an overnight expedition, their setting up their tents and camping in the field was looked on with horror by both the local population and college students. I once told my friends on the staff of the guesthouse that I would be crossing it at night, and the cacophony of protests and one tearful pleading to not do so instantly changed my mind. Perceived as safe

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during the day, the field at night was a place where ghouls could snatch your soul. Bogeymen and the angry ghosts of those killed in the field during the war dwelled there in the darkness, and everyone avoided it if at possible. Another foreigner at the guesthouse, Mr. Tanaka, stumbled through it drunk one night on his way back from a nearby beer stall. When he discovered the next day that his wallet was gone, people looked pityingly at him and knowingly at each other. “His money is feeding hell today,” they said. The guesthouse director refused to call the police as the enraged Mr. Tanaka demanded, admonishing him that “bad things happen in the field.” Young Thu Ha had heard these stories and believed them. Still, she’d once been out late visiting with friends at Hanoi Polytechnic and was in danger of missing curfew at her overcrowded dorm. She’d had no choice but to traverse the field in order to get back in time. Racing through it, she suddenly felt herself pushed to the ground. She heard a voice screaming “Help!” and then “Die!” as her head was battered by an invisible force. As soon she’d crawled to the edge of the field, the attack stopped. Why these attacks did not occur in the daytime is unknown— theoretically, according to the people I talked to about it, the con ma haunting the space could attack at any time.50 I once offered the old “you can run but you can’t hide” adage to a woman tormented by the angry ghost of her brother. She countered with “you can hide, but you cannot escape.” This was a sad truth for my informants, who were all living badly because someone close to them died badly in the war. “We were so happy in 1975,” said Dien My Ly Hoa, remembering her family’s hopes when the fighting stopped. Life had been very bad for them during the war, as it was for most Vietnamese. There was little food and much fear: “We had a terrible feeling all the time, all the time.” The end of the war had the family looking forward to the return of Ly Hoa’s brother from combat and to the many economic boons promised by the government. Neither materialized. Although Mrs. Ly Hoa kept her brother’s photo on the family altar and made offerings specifically to his memory, his spirit was cursed because the way he died made the journey

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to the afterlife impossible. In 1979 she started experiencing unbearable and continual pain in her left side—the very part of her brother’s body that was destroyed by a grenade.51 The pain was accompanied at times by the “screaming, screaming, screaming” of her brother. Once, Ly Hoa half-jokingly referred to herself as a prisoner of war. “I thought it was over,” she said. “It wasn’t.” Other Wars, Other Ghosts Is this a situation unique to Vietnam? No, I do not believe so, though there is scant evidence one way or another. I see the possession-as-publichealth-menace being limited to cultures like Vietnam in which violent civil war killed a large segment of the population and where ancestor worship is practiced. High-casualty civil war and ancestor worship are themselves not rare, though the other crucial ingredients of this recipe for disaster are, when taken in combination. For one, the ancestor worship must be of the type found in Confucian-inspired cultures, that is, those in Asia. Because violent death precludes the deceased from attaining ancestral spirit status, surviving kin are unable to fulfi ll their moral, ritual obligations, and this makes the death hard to forget. Second, the difficulties experienced by victims of angry ghosts in Vietnam have been prolonged by the state prohibition on supernatural practice. If not for this ban—common in Communist countries where religion and the supernatural are deemed superstitious and backward—angry ghosts might not have been the terrible menace they were during the time of my research. Though not enforced consistently, the ban is such that sufferers have been, and some remain, afraid to seek help from spirit specialists who could provide treatment. Three countries in the world fit this bill of practicing Confucian-type ancestor worship, having had massively destructive civil wars and being Communist. Vietnam is one, of course. The others are China and Cambodia. There are tantalizing clues that perhaps ghosts—of the war dead or postwar catastrophe dead—are as much of a menace there as in Vietnam.

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In China, Mao’s ambitious Great Leap Forward led to widespread famine from 1958 to 1961. An estimated 30 million people died of hunger,52 and most of these, due to scarcity of resources and energy, did not receive proper burials and funerals. They thus became “wild ghosts,” the Chinese name for con ma. In fact, residents of the village of Zhizuo provided the title for Erik Mueggler’s absorbing The Age of Wild Ghosts: Memory, Violence, and Place in Southwest China (2001). As “the greatest trauma experienced by the Chinese people since 1949” (Becker 1996, 275) and the October Revolution, the millions of famine dead have apparently reappeared to harm their descendants. Their predations are so numerous and frequent that the villagers refer to the decades since the famine as “the age of wild ghosts.”53 Spirit specialists, banned in China but still needed and discreetly practicing (as in Vietnam), shared with Mueggler that, whereas before the famine only a few exorcisms were needed each year, nowadays two or three are held each week to handle the wild ghosts.54 That certainly sounds like a public health menace to me! Cambodia experienced its own age of wild ghosts: the Khmer Rouge period, known as mahandori, or “the big destruction.”55 In just four years, 1.7 million Cambodians—25 percent of the population—were killed by the Pol Pot regime. 56 Didier Bertrand, who has also studied Vietnamese possession, relates how the post—Khmer Rouge increase in the number of possessing spirits is explained by the droves of people who died without the appropriate funerary rites.57 Other than Mueggler and Bertrand, I have found no other indication of a link between war and possession in China and Cambodia. Still, the brief mentions described above are revealing and indicate that people in all three countries are troubled by the phenomenon of angry war dead. How similar their troubles are is unclear. In China, the famine is an open secret: it has never been confi rmed by the state, and the people rarely discuss it.58 The loss of so many millions is manifest only when the living are harmed by one of the wild ghosts. This is very different from the situation in Vietnam, where—in the north, at any rate—to be harmed by an angry war ghost is almost a virtue. It can be openly discussed, as the offending spirit is upheld as a martyr to the nationalist and Communist cause.

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Cambodia officially reinstated Buddhism as the state religion in 1989, unlike Vietnam which remains officially a secular state. Bertrand’s work shows how Cambodian mediums cure victims of angry ghosts by explicitly calling on the power of Buddha.59 These victims are thus in no danger from the state, since they are not participating in an illegal activity when they visit mediums for help. Not so in Vietnam, where mediums and their users are still officially prohibited. In short, while angry ghosts exist in all three countries, it seems that only in Vietnam does this army of shadows openly wage war on the living while its victims resort to secret sessions with spirit healers.

6. Problem Solving

A Ghost Speaks Three people sit stiffly on a dark red divan covered with clear plastic. The older woman, Do Thi Luu, clutches the hand of the younger—her daughter, Nguyen Thi Thi. Both appear nervous. Thi Thi whispers something to her mother, but Luu quiets her with a quick jerk of the head. Thi Thi’s husband, Lam Van Loi, sips tea with studied nonchalance, but the rapid tapping of his foot betrays him. They wait. From another room travels the sharp voice of a woman: “Finish your homework and be quiet.” Loi straightens up at the sound of the voice, which is soon followed by the appearance of its owner. Smiling, Nguyen Thi Phuong enters her parlor. “Don’t worry,” she tells her guests. “The children will not disturb our meeting.” She pushes the table holding the teapot and cups toward the middle of the room, replacing it with a sturdy wooden chair. It faces Mrs. Luu and her daughter. “Please, young brother, sit next to your mother here,” Phuong directs. Loi joins his mother-inlaw on the divan, his eyes darting around the room. “Just a moment, aunt,” smiles Phuong, patting Luu’s arm. She leaves the room—“Yes, I’ve started already. Stay here, child” is heard—then returns holding a red cloth and a small silver bell. Mrs. Luu takes a deep breath and nods as her daughter sits attentively. Loi continues his seemingly fascinated study of the area where they have left their shoes.

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Phuong sits across from them, placing the cloth and bell in her lap. She reaches for Mrs. Luu’s hands, fi rst stroking her palms, then the backs, fi nally just holding them in her own. She looks deeply into Mrs. Luu’s eyes as she questions her. Does she have pain? Yes. Where is it? Here, and here—left arm and back. Pain everyday? Nearly, yes. Today? This morning, yes, but not at the moment. Is this new pain? No, it’s been many years, but I don’t know how many. Thi Thi cries as Phuong questions her mother, but Luu responds without tears. Mrs. Luu had been an emotional wreck on the way to see Phuong, almost swooning on the back of Loi’s motorbike. She was anxious to meet with the medium but terrified of the actual experience.1 After having to be literally dragged up the stairs to Phuong’s third-floor apartment in Hanoi, Mrs. Luu surprises everyone by regaining her confidence: her answers are brief but focused and delivered in a strong voice. Phuong nods as she listens to Luu’s responses, studying her eyes and face with each answer. At last, the questions stop. Phuong sits holding Mrs. Luu’s hands, her eyes closed, for perhaps two minutes. “All right,“ she says, fi nally. She holds up the red cloth and the bell. “This one,” indicating the cloth, “is for you. This one,” dipping her head toward the bell, “is to help me.” Mrs. Luu and her daughter nod, as does Loi, although he keeps his eyes averted. Phuong drapes the red cloth over her face. It is silky and light, clinging to and lifting from her nose and mouth as she inhales and exhales. The bell makes a tiny, tinny sound as she rings it in a regular rhythm of four rings, then three, then four and three again. The room is silent but for the sound of the bell, which after three minutes or so changes in its pattern of ringing to two-three-two-three. Phuong’s breathing accelerates until the movement of the cloth matches the syncopation of the bell. Mrs. Luu leans forward, but Thi Thi grabs her upper arm and pulls her back. She is clearly terrified, her eyes wide and showing much white. Her husband’s lips are tightly pursed, but he now stares at the cloth covering Phuong’s face. The bell rings constantly now, in no discernible pattern, and Phuong’s head and neck move back and forth in time to it. Abruptly, the ringing stops and Phuong is still. “Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” comes the voice from

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under the cloth.2 It is Phuong’s voice, but deeper and huskier. Loi shivers once, violently. Thi Thi buries her face in her hands, weeping. Mrs. Luu sobs too, but hers are tears of recognition. She greets the voice in a low murmur full of emotion: “Cuong dear, my beloved son.” “Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!” comes the voice again, much louder and with desperation. The voice is strangled with tears: Phuong is crying as well. Mrs. Luu caresses her face through the cloth, causing Loi to gasp and grab her hand. “Mother, do not!” Mrs. Luu spits back, “It is Cuong, you animal!” Loi keeps hold of her hands, repeating to her, “It’s dangerous, it’s dangerous.” Cuong does not speak other than to call for his mother over and over again. Mrs. Luu becomes increasingly agitated by the interaction—after ten minutes of hearing Cuong call for her, she has to be held down by both Thi Thi and Loi. “Why?” she moans over and over again. “What do we do?” pleads Thi Thi. “I don’t know,” says Loi, “but this is useless.” A child of seven or eight appears in the doorway, fist jammed almost entirely into his mouth. Phuong’s arm shoots behind her, her hand warding off the curious son. “Go!” It is her own voice now. Although her face is still covered, it is clear to the audience that Cuong is no longer present in Phuong. The palpable tension in the room is gone, replaced by deep sadness as Phuong relays gruesome information. “Your son passed badly,” she tells Mrs. Luu. “He was ambushed, then bayoneted, by a savage.3 Another one cut his arm badly. He was carried a long distance, but he was lost.” Hearing the details, Mrs. Luu’s mouth opens in a silent scream, but later she can recall every detail. Cuong had sustained terrible injuries and been carried from the scene by his comrades. He died in their arms, and they were forced to leave him behind in their rush to vacate the area. Phuong told how someone came across his remains a few years after his death and buried them in a shallow pit dug on the spot.4 “He wants to come home, aunt,” relays Phuong. “You must help him. He shows me where to find him.” Still covered by the red cloth, Phuong tells Mrs. Luu and her family what they need to know: that Cuong lies in Dac Lac Province, near the hamlet of Thuoc Hai. He is four or five meters under the earth, “sixteen long steps west of the buffalo paddock, between a manioc shed and a rubbish pile.”

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Treatment Options Nguyen Thi Phuong is a medium, a religious practitioner found the world over who specializes in being a vessel through which spirits can interact with the living. Mrs. Luu was her client. For a fee of 30,000 dong,5 Mrs. Luu had hired Phuong to make contact with and then channel the angry ghost of her son. She’d been plagued by aches and pains for years, and these she attributed to him because they had only started after his death. Vietnamese people do not automatically assume their ailments have a supernatural source; in fact, it is accepted that most illnesses have some empirically verifiable cause.6 All of my informants, including Mrs. Luu, had taken various measures to alleviate their pain—unsuccessfully— before laying blame on con ma and before seeking the help of spirit specialists like Phuong. Illnesses with more-or-less obvious natural or biological causes are referred to as “yang” disorders and treated in a variety of ways.7 Lesser health problems are managed first with simple home remedies and local herbal cures; for more chronic maladies, Vietnamized classical Chinese medicine may be used.8 The more serious and potentially life-ending diseases are treated with Western medicine,9 if at all possible. Access to this kind of treatment is limited in Vietnam, both in terms of being available and the excessive cost of it. Old Phan Cong Huu, for example, simply could not afford to go to a doctor specializing in Western medicine for his rheumatoid arthritis. “I know I will need a bed there [at the hospital], and where, tell me, will the money come from?” he exclaimed, shaking out his empty pockets for emphasis. He relied instead on herbal remedies he purchased from several women in his neighborhood. The various herbs and plants they provided he then ground into an evil-smelling paste and brewed into tea. Mr. Huu swore by the concoction and was thankful that he could so affordably and effectively treat his arthritic condition. Unfortunately, herbs and doctors were “useless” in preventing the violent shaking fits that sometimes wracked Mr. Huu’s frail body, for they were caused by con ma and thus immune to conventional cures. Spirits are the main source of “yin” disorders,10 which are believed in Vietnam to be caused by supernatural rather than natural agents.

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Illnesses that are long lasting and unresponsive to secular cures, as well as continuing bouts of misfortune, fall into this category. Because such maladies have supernatural causes, they can only be treated through supernatural means.11 Traditionally, sufferers of yin illnesses could choose from a number of treatment options. The simplest of these involved the person haunted by ghosts getting beaten with a mulberry branch.12 Talismans might also be used in an attempt to ward off angry spirits.13 If neither violence nor charms worked to deter the con ma, an exorcism by a spirit priest known as thay cung would be in order. Thay cung operate within Buddhist temples and in private homes, where they are called on to bless people and occasions, officiate at funerals, perform exorcisms, and provide horoscopes.14 The thay cung use powerful verses from Buddhist scripture to purge victims of their afflicting spirits. As exorcists, their power to heal comes not from themselves but from the ancient words they use to compel malevolent ghosts to withdraw. Their expertise in exorcism is learned from older monks and based exclusively on their command of the relevant scriptural passages. To perform an exorcism, a thay cung must formally petition the offending spirit to stop harming its victim;15 if the spirit agrees and pledges in a written affidavit to cease and desist, it is then given lavish offerings.16 Elderly Mr. Huu recalled witnessing an exorcism in the 1930s: I was just a small boy, and I was excited to see the priest do his magic. A woman in my hamlet had taken a loom to her husband’s head as he slept. He was seriously injured and the elders in the council agreed to call in a spirit priest. The woman’s maternal uncle was on the council, you see. I remember her well, this woman. She repaired clothing and shoes as she was too weak to work in the paddy. She was good, though. She was kind, as I remember. Her violence was unexpected, so it was certain that she had been under the influence of something wicked. The spirit priest arrived with a number of nuns. The council feasted him and I remember seeing him eat indiscriminately of all

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the dishes. The next morning he was at the injured man’s home. I was just a small boy. My mother had told me to avoid going near that house—unlucky, you see. But I was just a small boy—of course I went. It was the only time in my life that I saw a spirit priest up close. He entered the house and there were many screams from inside. The woman was being tended by her mother’s people while her husband’s people remained outside. They looked anxious, but the man’s cousin was kind and let me stand near him. He rested a hand on my neck so I would lose my fear. Inside, we heard the priest chanting. When the woman shrieked, he raised his voice. This went on for a long time. At times, there came sounds of a physical struggle and more shrieking. Finally, there was tranquility and the priest emerged. He looked peaceful. The man’s family gathered around him and, after some time, paid him.17 The spirit priest for our hamlet, you see, was corrupt. He required much money to do anything. Even blessing a home or a child—he would not do it unless paid in real money and gifts. Our people were poor, so if a ghost was a problem, we would handle it ourselves.18 But I admit he was effective: the woman in torment recovered immediately.19 Since exorcisms are performed to effect the removal of illness-causing ghosts and are notoriously violent in Vietnam,20 some victims opt not to engage the services of thay cung. The bullying of spirits that occurs in such rites is considered an inappropriate way to treat the unhappy spirits of comrades or relatives—fine for evil ghouls but unthinkable for dead loved ones.21 If exorcism is not performed, or is conducted but unsuccessful, the last resort—and the most effective—is mediums. Only mediums allow for a dialogue with angry ghosts wherein their victims can question their spirit tormentors and learn what to do to placate them. Instead of commanding the obedience of affl icting spirits with sacred words as the spirit priests do, mediums allow unhappy con ma to speak through them to the relatives of the person being made sick.22 The session between Phuong and Mrs. Luu typifies the practice of

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mediums: they preside over ceremonies in which the spirits leave their plane of existence to temporarily take over, or mount, the medium’s body. One main function of such action is divination: living clients have pressing problems that sometimes only the spirits, in their omniscience, can solve. In the case of my informants, it is the spirits themselves who cause their problems, and so, through mediums, they can and do engage in direct negotiations with their ghostly attackers. Asked what can be done to end the distress of the sick one, the con ma usually responds to the respectful, if frightened, inquiry of the family with a list of demands. Proper burial or retrieval of its remains, rectification of wrongs committed by the victim, regular food offerings to be made at the family altar, special offerings of luxury items, and installation of their souls in pagodas to receive perpetual care and prayers—these requests topped the typical list.23 Through this direct communication with the dead, people thus learn what they need to do to assuage the con ma and restore themselves or their family members to health. Although Mrs. Luu’s dead son was not able to articulate his demands to her, Phuong was able to “feel his pain” and thus express to the mother what he needed in order to at last rest in peace. Other mediums spoke of “seeing through dead eyes” and, like Phuong, gave details to their clients about the location of remains or cause of death. Pham My Hang, a young medium who worked with numerous veterans’ groups, hears the dead speak to her from a great distance and in a distorted fashion—“as if underwater.” She cannot hear them if she is ill or if it is windy, but even when conditions are perfect, conversations between the spirits and her clients are long and labored as Hang passes information between the two worlds. However mediums describe their communication with spirits, the result is the same: their suffering clients gain the information they need to appease their ghosts. Since it is the con ma themselves who provide the answers for the health and other problems they cause, communication with them through mediums is the only sure way victims of spirit possession in Vietnam can get well. As Mr. Bo said, echoing many other informants, “It is the only way.”

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Len Dong Phuong’s ability to channel spirits is characteristic of mediums wherever they exist as spirit practitioners and healers. They willingly undergo possession to help others—for a fee, usually. The very problem that brought clients like my informants to her was what Phuong used to assist them: spirit possession. The Vietnamese term for what mediums do is len dong, which refers to the invited mounting/ascension (len) of the medium (dong) by a spirit or, more generally, “going into trance.” Karen Fjelstad, an anthropologist specializing in Vietnamese mediumship, calls len dong first and foremost a “health care resource” (Fjelstad 2006, 99), for it is utilized most of all to fi nd solutions to illness. It is during trance that mediums grant spirits access to their bodies for the purpose of discovery: for my informants, they wanted to know why and by which ghost they were being possessed and made ill. Many of my informants also used the phrase len dong to describe what happened to them when the spirits attacked. The difference between their experience and that of mediums lay in intent: mediums invite the spirits to mount them, whereas victims have no choice in the possession. Mediums are also distinct from shamans, another kind of healing spirit specialist, in that they do not travel to the otherworld and back again but, rather, give spirits license to enter their bodies for a time. It is shamans who traverse the worlds, not mediums. Although the line between them is blurred and blurry, and their roles in society often overlap, the key difference between shamans and mediums is the nature of their relationships with spirits. The typical shaman is a chronically ill individual whose sickness is believed to be caused by spirits.24 The long duration of their spirit sickness is taken as evidence of a divine calling: the spirits want them as regular conduits of information to and experience of the human world. After obeying the call, shamans undergo a long initiation and period of training with senior shamans that culminates in the ritual death and rebirth of the shaman-in-training. On being reborn, shamans are said to be superhuman,25 having been reconstituted during their initiation into beings that are part human, part spirit. It is this quality that allows them

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to traverse the two worlds—they are equally at home in both. Shamans become the masters of the spirits that once afflicted them,26 and this is what distinguishes them from mediums. Mediums, on the other hand, do not control the spirits that enter them. The power mediums have is not their own—it belongs to the spirits they channel. Mediums are only temporarily invested with otherworldly powers, whereas shamans are powerful in and of themselves. Shamanic power is triggered by the shaman’s close and permanent relationships with spirit guides. Not so with the Vietnamese mediums I met.27 “They come and they go. I have had many in me—never the same one twice,” said Phuong. Another medium, Nguyen Thi Hoa, explained it this way: “I let a spirit take me only when someone comes to me and needs me to do it. All other times, it is only me here.” What makes mediums the specialists they are is their control and active induction of trance, an altered state of consciousness that—for them—precedes possession. Trance has been called a “psychobiological heritage of mankind” (Suryani and Jensen 1993, 31), meaning that all humans are capable of going into it. Worldwide, mediums use a variety of methods to induce trance, from sensory deprivation to altered breathing patterns, various drugs, and fasting.28 The only technique I saw Vietnamese mediums use for going into trance was rhythm. Phuong entered trance to the patterned ringing of a bell, while Dinh Anh Tuyet, the medium featured in chapter 7, did so to the rhythmic beat of a song she played on an audio system. Other mediums I watched undergoing len dong achieved trance while focusing on the sounds of dice clacking together, or their own breath being expelled in a regular pattern, or to the ticktock of counters. These various means of producing rhythm for the express purpose of entering trance qualify as the “sacred drum” mentioned so often by Eliade in his seminal work on shamanism.29 In it, he categorizes all such techniques as later variations of the original: the sacred drum of the earliest Siberian shamans. Thus, the violin used by the Songhay of Niger to “draw the spirits from the bush” (Stoller 1989, 11) is the same as Phuong’s bell or Tuyet’s song—all rely on rhythm to send mediums into the trance state from which they work.

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Once trance is achieved, spirits can take possession of a medium’s body. Every time I witnessed mediums entering trance in Vietnam, possession always followed: never did possession occur without fi rst the medium going into trance. When the spirit has taken the medium, he or she moves from being ong dong (trance man) or co dong (trance woman) to being dang ki (possessed medium). Unlike the average person, a dang ki is not overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience and can guide it for the benefit of the client. Theirs is a controlled possession,30 unlike the kind suffered by their clients. Vietnamese mediums thus fight possession with possession, channeling the very spirits responsible for hurting their clients and enabling resolution for both. Reservations Despite the expertise that only mediums have and the possible cure for ghost-induced problems that they facilitate, some sufferers I knew were still hesitant to hire them. In fact, almost half of my informants had not even tried, and some of these outright refused. Tran Van Lam was quite vocal in his stance against mediums. “Liars!” he spat when asked if he would consider going to one. “They steal from poor people and feel nothing! I’m no fool,” he said. Indeed, while mediumship has a long history in Vietnam, it is not necessarily a glorious one. There is a social stigma attached to being a medium, and a fairly common assumption is that they are charlatans.31 Mediums have long been looked down on by “established” society,32 for they are, if not nonelite, then certainly marginalized.33 They are said to be crazy and sexually wanton, difficult, hot tempered, and willfully unconventional in their refusal to conform to traditional gender and social roles.34 Mr. Lam urged me to stay away from all mediums, painting them all as obvious fakes. In Culture, Ritual and Revolution in Vietnam (2002), Shaun Kingsley Malarney states that older men like Mr. Lam “have the greatest antipathy” (Malarney 2002, 102) toward the practices of specialists like mediums. Vietnamese men tend to publicly denounce such things, perhaps because in accepting the supernatural assistance

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provided by mediums they fear associating themselves with the weakness and inability to solve problems attributed to women.35 “Bad women” is how Mr. Lam referred to mediums, and “stupid women” is what he called those who used them. Mediums in Vietnam and elsewhere can be men or women, but women do predominate. Spirit possession studies tend to explain this in terms of power: in those societies where women have little or none, mediumship and spirit possession are two ways for them to exert it. 36 In Korea, Japan, and Indonesia, for example, only women are mediums.37 There, women are recognized as natural go-betweens between this world and the next. In Korea, specifically, being a spirit specialist was one of but four professions officially permitted to women.38 Second-class citizens to men in all realms but the spiritual, Korean women used and continue to use mediumship to wield power in their society. Like Korea and Japan, Vietnam has been heavily influenced by Confucianism, which holds women to “the three subordinations”: fi rst to father, then husband, and finally to son.39 In ideology, Vietnamese women are “supposed to be perpetual minors” (Tai 1992, 92), yet at the same time they symbolize the strengths of the nation. The old mother and the “long-haired warrior” are two of the most powerful and common images of women in Vietnam,40 representing unconditional love on the one hand and commitment to country on the other. The devoted and constant mother is juxtaposed to the unreliable father so powerfully that Vietnamese children openly express their bifurcated attitude to their parents41—love for mother and fear of father.42 Generally speaking, women in Vietnam are accorded higher status than their counterparts in other Asian cultures.43 Vietnamese society has remained more “flexible” than societies following the Chinese pattern that is found throughout Asia,44 and so the position of women in Vietnam has historically been characterized by considerable autonomy.45 A glowing UNESCO report claimed that, among the common people, gender divisions are few, since the “common struggle for survival and the sharing of hardships eliminated the idea of the man’s inborn superiority and fostered mutual affection between man and wife” (UNESCO 1989, 6).

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Whether that gem is true or not, equal rights for women are written into the Constitution of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Vietnamese women today are not always aware of these rights,46 and some fail to claim them when needed because of the traditional expectation of “being behind” their husbands and acting shy.47 Still, the constitutional guarantee of equal rights, combined with the historically higher status that women enjoy in Vietnam as opposed to other Asian societies, would seem to negate the power theory espoused in so much of the possession literature. In fact, where men and women are economically dependent on one another, men are just as likely to become possessed and serve as mediums to their communities as women.48 Although the focus of my research was always victims of angry ghosts and not mediums, I did interview a few and heard about many more. Only one of the mediums mentioned was male, and I met just one male medium—Le Viet Ky. This did not seem strange to me at the time, nor does it trouble me now. While other scholars have written about powerful male mediums,49 I did not encounter any because I deliberately avoided going to public places like temples and pagodas with my informants. Whereas male mediums oversee such public spaces and enact healing possession ceremonies within them, female mediums tend to work within private temples in their own homes.50 This is very much in keeping with the essential public versus private dichotomy associated with men and women in Vietnam. Mr. Lam and the handful of my other informants like him who refused to see mediums, would no doubt have avoided a male medium as well. Dong co is one way to say “female medium,” but it also translates to “nancy boy”51 and refers to the effeminate, possibly homosexual nature of male mediums.52 This association of trance practice with femininity is why the medium Mr. Ky refused to len dong for anyone but those close enough and persistent enough to demand it. “It is not correct,” he told me flatly, later elaborating to my assistant that he “feels like a woman” when he goes into trance. The stigma attached to both effeminate men and mediums prevented Mr. Ky from practicing and stopped certain of my informants from making use of their services.

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No Recourse By far, the majority of my informants who had not yet been to a medium for their ghost-induced ailments spoke of it as an inevitability. “We will have to [go to a medium] I think. It is the only way,” said Tran Duc Bo. For years, he and his wife had agonized over the death of their infant son, killed while they had both been deployed elsewhere. The circumstances of the baby’s death were unknown, as the people who had been caring for him were also killed. Beginning in the late 1980s, Mr. Bo and his wife Duong Thi Ha began to hear their son crying, and the grief they had felt since his death in 1973 turned to horror. Offerings and prayers to the child on the family altar did nothing, nor did paying for a place for his memory in their local pagoda. All that they did to try to give succor to the child’s soul failed: Mrs. Ha had begun to lose her hair, and her husband was coughing up blood. 53 Worst of all, their two young daughters had started to have visions of death and were convinced the brother they never met was trying to kill them. Sufferers like Mr. Bo and Mrs. Hai had tried any number of homespun remedies to restore their health, all to no avail. Knowing that angry ghosts were the source of their maladies did not ensure success: efforts like theirs to appease the unhappy dead failed and ultimately led my informants to enlist the aid of mediums. The attempts people made to satisfy the ghosts on their own were not effective, for they involved guessing at what the con ma wanted. With the help of mediums, there was no guesswork at all: people could learn precisely what to do to effect a cure, for they get the solution from the source of the problem—the ghosts themselves. Had the treatment options provided by mediums and exorcists been available during the war years, my informants might not have suffered from their problems for as long as they had. These traditional remedies could have helped them and the population as a whole cope with the con ma. Unfortunately for the countless Vietnamese who believed they were being abused by con ma, the healing practices of spirit specialists were severely curtailed during the crucial war years when millions of dead were being reborn as angry ghosts.

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This is because all practices in which people interacted with spirits were banned after the Communist takeover of North Vietnam in 1945. Exorcisms, spirit calling, possession trance, the use of protective amulets, fortune-telling, faith healing, divination, and the burning of paper votive items for use by spirits in the otherworld—all were labeled me tin (superstitious) and illegalized.54 Virtually everything related to the otherworld was considered a “manifestation of backwardness” (Kleinen 1999, 129) by the new secular and officially atheist Communist government. Experts in otherworldly matters, like spirit priests and diviners, were put under surveillance and otherwise dissuaded from practicing their craft. Some mediums were made to report to the new authorities and “fi rmly asked to destroy their altars and to abandon their practices” (Luong 1992, 145). Although the prohibition was in no way complete or consistently enforced, it did have an impact on those Vietnamese made ill by ghosts and on the mediums and exorcists who continued to practice in secret. For my informants who had not been to a medium by the time I met them in 1996 and 1997, the reason most of them had not done so lay in the ban: they were afraid, with good reason, to pursue supernatural solutions to their ghost problems.

7. “Superstition” in a Secular State

Secret Dealings The directions were carefully written and very precise: Follow Nguyen Trai Street away from the center. After the traffic circle next to the Alpo Hotel, make a right onto Hue Street. Follow Hue Street until you come to an unmarked alley between a photo shop and a coconut juice bar. Follow this alley for ten minutes until you reach the market. She sells in the fi sh section. She has red buckets and she is very fat. “She” was Dinh Anh Tuyet, a thirty-year-old full-time fish vendor and part-time secret medium. My first encounter with her was unforgettable. I followed the directions given me by my assistant, which he in turn got from a friend who had utilized Tuyet’s services to contact the dead. It took a full two hours to reach the market where she sold fi sh, and if discretion was the point of the directions and of going alone, it did not work: I was followed the entire length of my journey by jeering children and curious adults. Through the regular market throng and the crowd of my followers, I saw her. There were the red buckets: six large pails fi lled with dead or dying fish. Tuyet squatted on her heels next to them, busily smashing the head of a fi sh as she kept up a stream of chatter to the woman who was apparently making a purchase.

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“Two kilos, good lord,” she heckled the woman. “Look at this thing! When I take out the two kilos, it will just be skin and bone. Hey, take the whole thing. It’s only four kilos altogether—I give you a good price, okay?” The customer remained firm: “No, just the two and from that fish only. The others are already dead.” Tuyet made a whistling sound through her chipped teeth, admonishing the woman all the while as she hacked into the fish and extracted two kilos of what were more or less fi lets. She spotted me as she was wrapping the fish chunks in a piece of newspaper. Rudely shoving the bloody parcel at the woman, Tuyet jumped to her feet and ran over to me. With one fish gore–covered hand she grabbed my arm and with the other pushed at the crowd. “Go, go! What? You’ve never seen an Amerasian before? Bumpkins! Get out of here, go home!” she cried. To my amazement, the mob dispersed. Tuyet hurled insults at their retreating backs: “Bumpkins! No wonder Viet Kieu1 don’t want to come here! Fuck, you leave my little sister2 alone.” She pulled me toward her red buckets, then wheeled around to again shout after those she had just harassed: “And don’t forget me when you need some fish! They come from the sea, you bumpkins, come stare at them! I’ll give you a good price!” Tuyet spent about twelve hours a day with her fish. She woke at two every morning to prepare food for her husband and two children, then rode with two other market vendors by motorbike to Hanoi’s central fish market where she and other fish sellers from throughout the city made their selections. It often took two hours for Tuyet to transport her fish from the central market to her little one off Hue Street: back and forth by motorbike two or three times, interspersed with periods of waiting for her friends to return from moving their own goods. By seven a.m., she was setting up in her stall. Dead fish she put at the bottom of her buckets, covering them with fresher looking specimens. “The very smelly ones that are getting hard, those I cut up right away,” she explained as she demonstrated how to make “a quick sale.” These unappetizing morsels she laid on display on a table she rented from the market authorities. No price was affi xed to these, and she usually took for them whatever was offered.3 Unlike the live or nearly alive fish in her buckets, the bits on display did not attract fl ies. This seemed a small

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miracle in the fragrant atmosphere of the market, at least until Tuyet pointed to the industrial-size can of insect repellent she kept in her bag. “It won’t kill as fast as Agent Orange,” she cackled at my horrified look. By four in the afternoon, the market was winding down and Tuyet’s long day as a fishmonger was over. “I know what I’m doing,” she told me proudly. “I never have leftover fish.” She said she often took a bowl of soup with some of the other women of the market after rinsing out her buckets and stacking them on the table to be stored in a large shed used by all the vendors. Today, however, she had to go straight home in order to meet “a crazy man” who needed her services as a medium. Another set of directions, this one dictated to me by Tuyet. Despite her brashness, she did not want to be seen arriving at home with an American. I perched myself atop a motorbike behind my assistant, Tien, and we followed Tuyet at a distance as she rode home. As instructed, we dallied for an hour or so over a meal. We could see her home from our table: she lived on a houseboat in an underdeveloped area of the Red River. The street facing the river was clogged with end-of-day traffic, the din of which competed with the sounds of some forty floating households. At last, we saw the door to Tuyet’s home open. A man in his thirties emerged with two young children. “Out, out!” we could hear Tuyet shout after them. “They cannot watch when I rise to the spirits,” she told us later. “The children are too young, and my husband doesn’t like it.” As the sky darkened and night fell, we saw the signal: the light in Tuyet’s houseboat f lickered three times. Tien crossed first, quickly, whisper-shouting to me to hurry. Across I went, bumping arms when I reached the riverbank with the “crazy man” who had come to see Tuyet. We had not seen him from our spot across the street, although we had looked and we remarked on his sneakiness. “Old habits die hard, I guess,” drawled Sam McAllen, the Texan with the ghost problem. The same friend who had given Tien directions to Tuyet had been the one to arrange for Sam to meet her, and after several weeks of preparation and backdoor negotiations, we were all here to try to learn the identity of the ghost haunting Sam. “In, in, in!” Tuyet scolded us from her darkened home. Only once we were in the most interior of the three rooms of the houseboat did she

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turn on the lights. “Two Americans here, good lord. You would be so handsome if you had your arm,” she told Sam. To me it was “you are even fatter than me!” Tien thought he had been spared until she saw the ragged scar above his eye: “Good lord, that’s ugly. You’ll never find a wife with that.” Our tight smiles earned us another tongue-lashing for being too “fragile.” A whirlwind of motion, Tuyet seemed to simultaneously pocket the money we gave her,4 crack open a beer for Sam and two soft drinks for Tien and me, and adjust the speed of the fan. It was August and sweltering in the close quarters of the houseboat.5 “This has to be quick,” she warned Sam. “If I can’t do it, that’s it. No money back.” She bade us sit on the floor, which we did. Tuyet covered her face with a square of white cloth,6 anchoring it in place with two barrettes. She reached for an old cassette player nearby and turned it on. The four of us sat there for the full twenty minutes it took for the song issuing from the tape deck—an instrumental piece featuring clicks and drums and an odd-sounding horn—to finish. The three of us were certain that it would be “no money back” after all, until Tuyet spoke. It was her voice but in a higher timbre that made Tien mutter fearfully under his breath, “God.” He is Hoc Van Nguyen. I see he is running at the wire at the big American base. Others are running with him and shouting. He is shooting, always shooting. He falls over something. There is a loud explosion—so loud!—and then he is dead. His throat is open and he sees his own blood pouring. An American comes and pulls him roughly to another place with many other killed Vietnamese. He goes through his pockets and takes what is there. He [Hoc] is put in a hole with the others and covered with a bulldozer. Tuyet relayed these details very slowly, as if they pained her to do so. Sam was fascinated and held the identity card he was given in 1968 just before he was flown out of Vietnam. The name on the card had been scratched out—only the number remained and place of birth. “Is this him?” he asked, holding the card out in front of Tuyet’s covered face. “Yes,” she replied. “He is very angry.”

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Tuyet was silent for several minutes, later telling us that she was conversing with the dead man in her mind. “He was so angry and saying terrible things, so I said the same to him. We argued and I told him he had to make peace with the American because maybe the American could help him.” Indeed, after giving more details about what happened to Hoc’s remains,7 Tuyet told Sam what he must do to make things right: “This boy died at nineteen. His mother is alive and suffering. Tell her what happened to the boy and give her the card. That is all that is left of him now in this world. Tell her and you may be well again.” We were ushered off the houseboat soon after, as Tuyet’s husband and children were due to return shortly. As before, we took care not to be seen—we left separately and regrouped in the city center to discuss the experience. Sam’s concerned girlfriend visited Tuyet in the market several months later to thank her for helping him. I learned of the encounter in an e-mail from Tien.8 “She intended to pay her more money because she was grateful, but Tuyet turned her away,” wrote Tien. Apparently, the girlfriend had been subjected to some extrarich verbal abuse from Tuyet, who felt the woman had not taken adequate precautions in coming to see her. The Ban Tuyet’s cautious approach to her practice as a medium was not just part and parcel of her dramatic personality; it was a necessity. Since the rise to power of the Communist Party in 1945, Vietnamese were prohibited from participating in or conducting ceremonies designed to contact spirits.9 The len dong rituals performed by mediums were considered by the state to be the height of “superstition” and detrimental to the modern development of Vietnam. In 1946 the party’s Central Committee for the Propagation of New Ways began publishing tracts meant to promote a secular and egalitarian ideology in Vietnam. In The New Ways,10 practices associated with the spirit world fell into the category “feudalistic and superstitious” (Kleinen 1999, 81). Most were summarily banned, including any form of divination

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or fortune-telling, the use of magical amulets, and len dong. The burning of paper votive objects (hang ma) for use by the dead in the otherworld was strictly prohibited and their production suppressed. Out, too, went the old lunar calendar because of its division into periods of auspiciousness and inauspiciousness,11 by which people planned the major events in their lives. Similarly, geomancy—a system of spatial auspiciousness—was also forbidden. From the point of view of the party, all such practices were both superstitious and a waste of money, and therefore unacceptable. Vietnam is not alone in barring its people from making contact with the spirit world: the Meiji government in Japan banned shamanic practices in 1873,12 and Korea has a long history of attempting to eliminate possession specialists and their rituals.13 In Central Africa, control over possession trance was one of the tools of power used by state rulers to legitimize their reigns.14 As native Rhodesians (now Zimbabweans) were wresting independence from the British in the 1970s, each side used the authority of mediums in trance to denounce the other.15 In Vietnam, both the effect and the purpose of the ban on all things supernatural was the eradication of otherworldly challenges to the state’s authority. It had been done before, most notably in the sixteenth century with the Le kings and again in the nineteenth century under the Gia Long authority.16 Transforming Society The ban was itself part of a much larger plan to rid Vietnamese society of ideas and practices deemed backward (lac hau) and feudal (phong kien). In step with the Soviet strategy for building socialism,17 North Vietnam intended to “leap-frog the capitalist Western imperial states into a more advanced stage of history” (Kerkvliet, Chan, and Unger 1999, 6) by way of forced industrialization. This could not be accomplished if the population in Vietnam—then, as now, primarily rural peasants— retained the traditional belief that supernatural agents influenced their lives. In denying the spirit world, the party intended for the people to recognize that destiny was something they could create for themselves. Only when the masses looked for “empirically verifi able solutions to

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human problems rather than recourse to the metaphysical realm” (Bradley 2001, 205) could the scientific revolution marking the onset of industrialization occur. The basis for the state’s ban on spirit practices thus lay in their superstitious, unscientific nature. Because they were in opposition to the science-oriented worldview necessary for modernization, such practices were prohibited for the danger they posed to the development of Vietnam into a nation strong enough to deter future foreign aggression. It was weakness that had allowed for the invasion of Vietnam many times in the past—weakness intrinsic to the inegalitarian social structures of yesterday. The blame for spirit and other “backward” practices was laid on Vietnam’s long legacy of Confucianism, considered by the state to be an ideology supporting feudalism. Although scholars18 have noted the inherent similarities between Confucianism and communism,19 any such comparison would enrage a Vietnamese hard-liner. The Communists in Vietnam wholeheartedly believed Confucianism had allowed the French to colonize their country. The strictly autocratic and hierarchical nature of traditional Vietnamese society had provided the French colonial government an in-place source of social control and stability.20 Moreover, the Confucian traditions of prerevolutionary times had—to the detriment of the nation—subordinated the individual to the collective discipline of family and village.21 Consequently, the party directed its prohibitions at these two institutions, in an attempt to destroy the traditional allegiances held by the people. Only the party and its revolution were to remain in their place. To achieve the absolute authority it intended to have, the new Communist state in 1945 had to break the autonomous power of the villages. This was accomplished primarily through land reform and implementation of the cooperative program. From 1953 to 1957, the state seized land from rich peasants and landlords and redistributed it to the landless,22 along with the homes and other personal effects of the elite.23 The government also confiscated and gave to the poor the communal lands (bai) held by the villages and traditionally used as a form of public assistance for the less fortunate.24 Then, with the launch of the cooperative program in 1958, the party gave social and economic incentives to the new

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landholding masses to form communes (xa). These communes were made up of thirty to fifty households that were collectively responsible for producing food and goods for the state. Responsibilities within each xa were delegated to production brigades (doi) in which individual teams (to) were charged with such tasks as rice harvesting, field preparation, irrigation, and animal husbandry. Vietnam’s revolution, like China’s but unlike that of the Soviet Union, was rural based, since 80 percent of the country’s people—both in 1945 and today—were rural peasants. The party sent trusted enforcers to the villages to live with “basic families” in what was called the “three togethers”: cadres were to eat, work, and sleep alongside the peasants.25 These basic families were the core of Vietnamese society, each peasant a “root” through which the ideas of the revolution could take hold and spread.26 Previously trapped and exploited within the inegalitarian social hierarchy of the traditional village, the newly liberated and landed peasant owed loyalty only to the party. It was the peasant who represented the party’s “new socialist man” who was expected to let go of traditional practices like those involving the spirit world.27 Success and Failure It is difficult to assess the party’s success in reaching all of its goals, partly because outsiders had been barred from North Vietnam beginning in 1954 and so could not verify the unfailingly positive progress reports issued by the government there.28 The restart of anthropological fieldwork in reunified Vietnam in 1992 did, however, make clear that some of the revolution’s dreams had become realities. From a 95 percent illiteracy rate in 1945 to over 90 percent literacy today,29 the state maxim “limit yourself to two children to raise them and educate them well” (Tai 2001a, 189) has apparently proven quite effective. The land reform campaign gave land and livelihood to the 67 percent of households lacking either, 30 and so today 75 percent of the population in the north has both. 31 Vietnamese women today hold nearly half the seats in people’s councils at the village and district levels,32 a remarkable change from prerevolutionary times when women were excluded from the public decision-making

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process.33 Socialist law gives equal rights to women and bans polygamy, child marriage, bride-price, wife beating, and other traditional customs detrimental to women. The revolution was not, however, successful in some other matters. The ban on the supernatural world and its human intermediaries was a particular failure, both in terms of people refusing to discard spirit practices and in their rejection of the secularized rites offered by the state in their place. The rationale behind many of the prohibitions was to help the population avoid the high cost of traditional ceremonies. Weddings, funerals, and death anniversaries were occasions for villagers to showcase their wealth and generosity, resulting for many in heavy debts. These important social events were not banned outright but were modified in ways so as to eliminate traditional elements that expressed status differences and social inequalities.34 Pallbearers and musicians at funerals were banned, for example, as only the rich could afford them. So too was the traditional nha tang, a paper mansion placed on the casket and burned to provide a home for the dead in the otherworld. No longer could families hire a geomancer to identify the most auspicious place to bury their dead; instead, the state designated an area of the village for use as the community cemetery. Gender-specific funeral attire was outlawed, replaced by simple white headbands that only close relatives of the dead were permitted to wear. The food trays that friends and neighbors traditionally presented to the grieving family as expressions of sympathy and respect were banned, as were the lavish funeral feasts thrown by the family. Each of these elements was considered “a venue for waste, ostentatious display, and status competition” (Malarney 1996, 548)—obviously not what a socialist nation wants to see its people doing. All of the elaborate funerary rites of pre-1945 Vietnam were simplified to bring them into accordance with the revolution’s goals. The reproduction of social hierarchy inherent in funeral and other rituals was eliminated and replaced by starker forms of practice meant to negate the inequalities of the past. For the people, the socialist version of the funeral was unacceptable, for it failed to resolve a most fundamental issue: the fate of the soul after violent death. The war resulted in millions of

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Vietnamese killed violently, yet in the secularization of death rites under Communist law, no mention is made of the otherworld and the place of the dead in it. Instead, the state encouraged the notion that those killed in the war had sacrificed themselves for their country and its revolution, and that this alone defined the meaning of those lives and deaths. Enabling War, Ennobling Death As World War II came to its fi nal conclusion, a political power vacuum opened in Vietnam. Japan had briefly occupied the country on behalf of its ally, Vichy France, but was forced to leave after surrendering to the Allies. Into the confusion marched the Viet Minh, under the leadership of Ho Chi Minh. The Viet Minh had the twin goals of independence and revolution and used the people’s desire for these as a springboard to power. The Communist Party claimed Hanoi and the North in 1945; they inherited a country at war, not only with France, but also with those factions of its own society that did not share its socialist vision for Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh himself admitted that war had to come before revolution and that his party’s priorities were “to unite the entire people, oppose the Japanese and the French, wrest back independence [and] postpone the agrarian revolution” (Ho 1973, 107). To accomplish these goals, the Vietnamese people had to be mobilized on a massive scale. Recruits to the cause of independence could then be fed into the war machine, while being radicalized to assist in the socialist transformation of a free Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh’s military strategist and top general, Vo Nguyen Giap, declared that “to defend the fatherland and liberate the nation, our party holds that the entire people should engage in fighting the enemy” (Vo 1969, 70). This and other messages were broadcast to the people in the North via public media that was both highly redundant and persuasive.35 The party determined the content of all media, forbidding the dissemination of information or ideas thought to transgress the concerns of the state. Even art and literature came under Communist control as the state-sponsored Vietnamese Artists’ Association was directed to produce works visually

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promoting the interests of the government.36 The result of these messages and images was the “increasing political and ideological oneness of mind” (Vo 1969, 59) that ultimately led to the northern victory.37 When the United States became embroiled in Southeast Asia, the message of solidarity in the face of enemies had been sent to and received by the Vietnamese people: everyone had to band together against the American aggressors. Band together they did: the North had no shortage of fighters throughout its long campaign, and even normally dormant members of society such as children and the elderly were energized to participate in the confl ict.38 Women rallied to the cause of their quoc gia—“nation,” but literally “national family”—heeding the call that “even the women must fight.”39 If fighting for the homeland was chinh nghia, a “righteous obligation,” dying for it was the greatest duty of all. The party had been highly successful in linking individual worth to “virtuous action” taken for the nation, the people, the party, and the revolution.40 To die in defense or support of these causes was to achieve the glorified status of “revolutionary martyr,” or liet si. The state encouraged the idea that martyrs would join the pantheon of uncontested hero spirits like Gen. Hung Tran Dao and the Trung Sisters who died in valiant attempts to repel foreign invaders.41 Although this went against the atheism espoused by the Communists, it certainly aided them in advancing their cause and attracting fighters. Contrary to the negative image of communism held by many Westerners, the party in Vietnam has not been an unfeeling monolith. “The people” have always been its priority, both ideologically and in practice. The people and the party together fought and won the wars against the French and the Americans, and it is to the people for their sacrifices that the party owes a great debt. To honor them, several wholly secular rites were implemented. “Heroic mothers” of multiple children slain in the war, for example, are annually given blankets, pillows, and a small amount of money in recognition of their loss. A special position was created by the party to deal exclusively with those “policy families” who had lost relatives to the war. Members of these families received monetary compensation,42 and had priority over their neighbors in terms of land

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and food rationing, prized jobs and access to party membership, entry into college and hospitals, and the best housing assignments.43 Ho Chi Minh himself demanded the special classification of policy families to honor their sacrifice and help them be economically viable. In a 1997 news article, a director in the Department for Martyrs and War Invalids urged Vietnamese to always treat the families of war dead with the utmost respect and care: “This is not only a moral issue, but a party and state responsibility. It is part of the tradition of gratitude for those who had sacrificed their lives for national freedom and independence” (B. L. Nguyen 1997). Since 1947, July 27 has been designated War Invalids and Martyrs Day, for the national mourning of war dead. Officials make speeches expressing the party’s gratitude to the fallen and encourage the people to do the same. One of the fi rst things the party did on reunification in 1975 was to commission numerous monuments commemorating the soldiers and citizen-participants in the Vietnam War.44 Recognizing that “ritual fostered the morality and well-being of the people” (Kendall 1994, 166), the state created a new kind of funeral rite for war dead called le truy dieu. Held prior to the family funeral, this ceremony is one in which local officials participate and express the party’s appreciation for those who died. Certainly, the people to whom the party shows these considerations take pride in such recognition that their loved ones died for a noble cause. No amount of speech making and money giving, however, can lessen the anguish of the spouses and children of the dead. “Heroic mothers” may receive pillows and comforters, but their rest is made no more peaceful by them. The simplified and socialized funerals promoted by the state were and are considered by Vietnamese to be “insufficient for addressing one of their most powerful concerns: caring for the souls of the War dead and ultimately integrating them into the benign realm of family ancestors” (Malarney 2001, 47). Unable to do for their dead those things considered both necessary and an essential part of their own humanity, survivors have suffered feelings of shame and unresolved grief. What’s more, without the traditional rites to guide the passage of souls to their

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proper place in the family altar, many of the dead—not just war dead— have been left in limbo with nothing to prevent them from becoming angry ghosts. Survivals The unforeseen effect of the state’s prohibition on dealings with the otherworld was that people such as my informants, who suffered from ghost-induced ailments, were blocked from seeking or getting treatment. Spirit specialists were forbidden to practice under threat of imprisonment, while their prospective clients—the general populace—were treated to cautionary tales designed to get them to abandon their beliefs in spirits. People who persisted in trying to contact the spirit world could be jailed, put under surveillance, or branded as counterrevolutionaries. “It was a hard time,” said Mr. Huu of the early years of the revolution. “People were frightened of doing or saying something incorrect. They just wanted the party to love them—then, no trouble.” Mr. Bo, whose dead infant was the cause of his family’s sickness, remembered that his own mother and maternal grandparents suffered from spirit possession. Mr. Bo’s uncle had been killed fighting against the French, and the delay in the family receiving his remains prompted his mother to take action.45 She sought out a local woman who had formerly practiced as a medium and requested a trance session so that she could speak with her brother. Although the two women had met clandestinely at night, the police broke into the medium’s home and put a stop to the ritual. Mr. Bo’s mother was detained for two nights and treated so severely that “she never spoke of what happened.” The medium was jailed in another province and never returned. Mr. Bo’s mother never got relief for the physical maladies caused by her brother, and both she and her parents died many years before Mr. Bo began to experience his own ghost problems. His mother’s unpleasant encounter with the police happened in 1952; in 1997, Mr. Bo admitted that the fear inspired by her story was the main reason he had not yet visited a medium. The ban on spirit practitioners theoretically removed people’s only

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option for treatment and cure, and made impossible contact with those whose violent deaths turned them into malevolent spirits. In actuality, though, victims of possession and spirit sickness continued to make use of mediums in the face of the ban because dialogue with angry ghosts was the only way to ensure the possibility of a cure. For them, only direct communication would do, and only mediums could provide it. The recent work by anthropologists of trance and possession in Vietnam attests to the fact that mediums have practiced throughout the long decades in which the ban has been in effect.46 They have done so surreptitiously, often in the dark of night, and without the music and other accoutrements that traditionally go along with len dong ceremonies. Clearly, while the party tried to shut the door to the supernatural world, it remained unlocked. Indeed, the door was swinging back open by the time I was in Vietnam in the mid-1990s. The law prohibiting superstitious activities was still on the books at the time of my research—it still is, in fact—but it was not strictly enforced. This was one result of the economic and social reforms begun in Vietnam in 1986. Shortly thereafter, in the late 1980s, spirit practitioners reappeared. Geomancers, fortune-tellers, and mediums were once again in business, not exactly openly, but “seemingly without police interference” (Kleinen 1999, 187). The medium Phuong even had a few policemen and women as clients. Basically, the state in Vietnam has now chosen to look the other way when it comes to these banned practices and the “superstitions” that drive the people to seek them out. Still, during my visit, there was concern about whether it was truly “safe” to visit mediums. Mr. Bo and his wife had been “fooled” by the authorities in the past into criticizing their work superior, and they suffered downgraded pay as a result. They were nearly certain that they would be “caught” and punished for using a medium. I myself had been detained by the police on the one occasion I traveled far to see what my informants called a “real” len dong ceremony. They were referring to a possession ritual conducted by mediums of the religion centered on the mother goddesses known as the Religion of the Four Palaces, or Tu Phu.47 Such ceremonies are long and noisy and elaborate with music, food, and garish costumes—to have a fat American in the audience only made it more of a

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spectacle. The police shut it down even before the first spirit could mount its medium. Having to sit in the police station for twelve hours while my fi lm was developed and my informants fled back to Hanoi renewed my determination to study the victims of ghosts and not mediums. We all attempted to maintain low profiles: myself, my informants, and the mediums I did know. Given that the ban was still in place, there were risks—harassment by the police, fines, possible arrest. Few materialized, but victims of ghosts were circumspect about their use of spirit specialists. None of the mediums I witnessed in len dong action for their clients—my informants—were members of Tu Phu. The seven mediums I knew worked in secret like Tuyet, or at least with the utmost discretion. Phuong, the medium in chapter 6, did not require clients to come and go in darkness as Sam McAllen did when meeting Tuyet. Phuong met openly with her clients, but she was careful in other ways. The apartments surrounding hers belonged to cousins and trusted friends, and once a month Phuong paid her building superintendent 50,000 dong to “look the other way.”48 Another medium, Hoa, sold com binh dan— “people’s food”—from her home, using her business as a front for the medium work she does in a back room. Mr. Ky only rarely provided his medium services, and then only at the homes of those who had been successful in getting him to help them. Mediums continued to practice their technically illegal craft, they all claimed, for humanitarian reasons. “Sympathy” is the reason Dinh Thi Nu, a woman in her sixties, gave for seeing clients. She would prefer not to, for sessions with the dead leave her emotionally drained, but denying people in pain went against her principles. Tuyet also cited “caring for the people” as the reason she defied the prohibition as well as why she went to great lengths to keep that aspect of her life secret. Mr. Ky would transcend his embarrassment of “feeling like a woman” and his admitted fear of the police when someone he loved was desperate for relief. For these three, not utilizing their penchant for trance and possession was a “sin,”49 particularly when they were faced with the sad needs of clients and their dead tormentors. For Hoa, the fact that her clients’ problems could be solved by her so “quickly and easily” was what motivated her illegal activity. Victims of

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ghosts knew the source of their problems, but they lacked the ability to personally communicate with the dead. “They [the ghosts] don’t want much,” said Hoa. Clients knew they had to cung (make offerings) to appease the ghosts affl icting them, but unless they saw a medium, they had no idea exactly how to do it. In possession, mediums can tell them how many candles or how much money to burn, what kind of food to offer, where to scatter rice, or the best times of day to pray in order to satisfy the ghosts. The directions they give to their clients are as precise as those given to me to fi nd Tuyet’s stall in the marketplace, and they come directly from the ghosts themselves. To block this crucial information from getting to people in need is simply “bad,” said Tuyet; it was a sentiment shared by all of the mediums I met in Vietnam. For a variety of important reasons, mediums and clients alike chose to defy the ban on human relations with noncorporeal beings. For their part, the mediums I knew operated discreetly and affordably so as to not draw attention to their “ghost business,” as Tuyet so aptly put it. Many of my informants furtively visited mediums, who they selected after careful consideration and deliberation with other sufferers. Desperate as they were for succor from their maladies, they were not “so stupid that we would risk the police for nothing,” as I was told. Mrs. Luu from chapter 6 took the risk and hired the medium Phuong to help her. In short order, her spirit sickness disappeared,50 as did Sam’s after he followed the directions given Tuyet by his dead tormentor. I close this chapter with a brief synopsis of the experience of Bui The An, another victim of an angry ghost. In covering the beginning of his problem to its solution courtesy of a medium named Nu, I hope to demonstrate the many precautions taken by people when accessing the services of spirit specialists, as well as capture some of the desperation they feel after years of suffering. Breakdown of a Haunting

Summer 1979 Twenty-year-old Bui The An experiences the fi rst of the physical maladies that will plague him for the next eighteen years. He is a tiler’s

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apprentice, responsible mainly for moving heavy slabs of marble to and from work sites in Hanoi. He is young and strong and inspired to work hard by his impending marriage to Kim, a seamstress he has known since childhood. Just before the hottest weather arrives in August, An develops an asthmalike condition that virtually cripples him for three weeks. He recovers enough to return to the master tiler, who takes him off the heavy labor crew and begins training him to manage the orders.

Early Spring 1980 Kim’s family calls off the wedding with the excuse that Kim is too “immature” to be a wife. The real reason is An’s flagging health. He has lost weight and musculature and continues to suffer from breathing problems. Doctors treat him unsuccessfully for asthma.

1981–1988 The sadness of losing Kim is too much for An, and he leaves Hanoi for a “new economic zone” in the west-central region of Vietnam. The inhospitable country worsens his respiratory condition, although he is spared the hard labor other “pioneers” are doing in their attempt to make the land viable for crops. An meets and marries a woman from the Meo ethnic minority. “She is not Kim, but she is a good wife to me,” he says of her. He returns to Hanoi after she dies of malaria. An is not yet thirty, but his chronic health problems make him look like an old man.

1992 An’s fi rst child, a son named Thanh, is born. His new wife is a street sweeper and a native of Hanoi like him. The little family lives in an outlying district of the capital, in an apartment they share with two invalids. An works from home, making signs in calligraphy—a skill he learned while in the new economic zone. Although he is able to walk, his breathing

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is so painful and shallow that he generally refuses to leave the house for any reason. His hair is completely gray.

1994–1995 A second child is born: daughter Xuan. The infant sleeps with her mother in a bedroom while An and Thanh sleep in the parlor. The invalids have left the apartment because An’s son screams in the night and speaks in a language no one understands. An often finds himself helpless to comfort his son: when the screams start, he becomes paralyzed and feels his heart slowing dramatically. Occasionally, he joins his son in “raving” and screaming.

Early 1996 An’s wife gives him an ultimatum: get better or lose your family. She is certain that her husband has done something to offend his ancestors and bring down their wrath on himself and their son. An takes the boy to a hospital in the city famous for its European doctors. They fi nd nothing wrong with Thanh and tell his worried father to make the boy sleep in his own room. An’s wife receives the news without surprise and demands that he go to a medium.

Summer 1996 Not knowing whom to consult, An makes daily visits to a popular pagoda in the center of Hanoi to pray for help. The frequency of his visits is noted by a pair of police stationed on the same street: “Old uncle, maybe you’d get well if you stayed home more often.” The seven kilometer trip to the pagoda took An hours by bus and foot, and it comes as a relief to him that he must stop going “because of the police.”

September 1996 An’s wife gets the name and address of a medium from a woman she stops to chat with as she makes the rounds of the neighborhood with her

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broom. The medium, Mrs. Nu, is a twice-married widow who lives alone in the next district over. “So close!” she tells her husband. “Go now!” He does, but the walk and the inexplicable fear he has of mediums cause him to turn back.

Early October 1996 An is dragged to the medium’s door by his wife, who borrows a motorbike from a friend. He balks, and the ensuing struggle with his wife draws the attention of the neighborhood people. Refusing to enter, Mr. An is left to find his own way home when his enraged wife roars off on the motorbike.

December 1996 Alone in the apartment after his wife leaves him shortly after the incident in October, Mr. An’s condition deteriorates even further. His wife visits daily so he can see the children and to harangue him about the medium. Lonely and suffering, An determines to go once he has regained enough strength to make the trip.

January 1997 Mr. An entrusts a child to be a courier with a note to Mrs. Nu, the medium. The reply is short: “Come.” He sends the child with another letter full of questions regarding “safety” but refuses to acknowledge the girl when she returns: he has seen her laughing with a group of soldiers, unaware that one is her uncle.

February 1997 After spending the New Year holiday without his family, Mr. An once again steels himself to visit Mrs. Nu. Arriving at her door, he learns that she is away visiting family for Tet. The curious questions of the woman who gives him this information send him home in a panic.

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May 1997 An’s wife returns to him but leaves the children with her sister. He has been stricken by the worst bout yet of his respiratory condition. Unable to breathe, he gasps and splutters, frequently losing consciousness. Mrs. Nu, the medium, comes to their home at the personal request of his wife. She goes into trance at An’s bedside, where he appears to be sleeping fitfully. An’s wife claps a hand over her mouth in terror as An and Mrs. Nu begin to simultaneously choke.

Late June 1997 Mr. An proudly shows the pictures his wife had taken of herself when she journeyed to the far south of Vietnam, to the Gulf of Thailand. He points to the bonsai tree on their family altar, alongside a portrait he sketched from memory of an old friend. Duong and An had grown up together in Hanoi, close friends until Duong and his family moved to the south following the reunification of Vietnam after the war. “We told each other everything as boys,” Mr. An remembers. “I was going to be a pilot, and Duong wanted to live in Paris and be a playboy.” In 1979 Duong and his younger sister fled Vietnam by boat. A storm in the Gulf of Thailand swept several escapees from the boat well before it reached its intended destination in Thailand or, if necessary, Malaysia. Duong and his sister were two of them. He drowned before he could swim back to safety. Mrs. Nu had told An and his wife these details while in trance, along with the fact that Duong’s parents had both died not knowing what happened to their children. Duong also made an appearance that day, asking to be “retrieved” and remembered. Posttrance, Mrs. Nu recommended the trip down south to “be near” the scene of Duong’s death. An’s wife went in his place and, following Mrs. Nu’s directions, brought back with her a bottle of water and a bag of sand taken from the Gulf of Thailand. “He is in there, you see,” said Mr. An, pointing to the bonsai tree. It is healthy and growing, watered on the first and the fifteenth of the month with a drop of sea water from the gulf, and thriving in its bed of soil and sand. Mr. An pounds his chest and takes a deep breath: “As long as the bonsai is well, I am well!”

8. Revivals

Renovation and Rehabilitation The raising of living standards in Vietnam in the 1990s is attributed by economists both there and in the West to the effects of Doi Moi, or Renovation. Introduced at the Sixth National Congress of the Communist Party of Vietnam in late 1986, Doi Moi initiated an open-door and free-market policy in Vietnam designed to promote socioeconomic development and closer ties with the rest of the world.1 Following its introduction in 1986, significant economic reforms were instituted in 1987, 1988, and 1990.2 By 1992 the transition was complete,3 and Vietnam had begun its transformation into one of the Tiger economies of Asia. A perhaps unintentional result of economic liberalization in Vietnam has been the concomitant loosening of the party’s stranglehold on other spheres of life. In granting a much larger role to the private sector, the party apparatus necessarily shrank, and so there are fewer cadres keeping tabs on their fellow citizens. As such, there is much more personal freedom in the “renovated” Vietnam than there was prior to the reforms—this according to scholars and people on the street alike.4 It was a situation the people I met clearly favored. “Before Doi Moi,” remarked Mrs. Dung, “our lives did not belong to us. The suffering, yes, but nothing else.” Banned spirit practices after Doi Moi underwent a dramatic resurgence as part of a generalized revival of traditional religious practices in

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Vietnam.5 The important death anniversary once again features a largescale feast, despite legal restrictions on its size and composition; funerals and weddings are more opulent and expensive. The faithful now make regular offerings at pagodas and restored village dinhs. Devotees and thrill-seekers make pilgrimages to sacred shrines both near and far, and foreigners are often taken to religious sites on their tours of the country. Fortune-tellers, mediums, and other supernaturalists are back in business with the tacit permission of the authorities, provided they are not obvious frauds and do not overcharge their clients. I disagree that it is a “lack of thoroughness” (Kleinen 1999, 127) on the part of the government in Vietnam that accounts for the reemergence of spirit and other banned practices. In other areas, the state is still quite controlling. The rise of Protestantism among ethnic minority groups, for example, unleashed the full power of the government in several violent incidents.6 Internet content is tightly regulated, part of the party’s public call to block the “poisonous culture” (Marr and Rosen 1999, 181) of the West from corrupting Vietnamese youth. Why then is a blind eye turned to the “manifestations of backwardness” represented by the practice of spirit specialists? Because it is not a blind eye but rather a savvy one. Like their counterparts in the Soviet Union and Romania,7 Vietnamese cadres have been forced to acknowledge the myriad problems—both philosophical and practical—involved in prohibiting supernatural practices. In 1990s Vietnam, the issue of tradition was at the forefront of official public discourse due in part to the Asian financial crisis. In July 1997, currencies in Southeast Asia fell sharply, triggering a similar drop in the rest of East Asia. Watchdog groups pointed the finger at the rapid expansion and diversification of fi nancial markets in Vietnam, 8 Laos, and Cambodia. Internally, there were other concerns. The renovated economy of Vietnam had rapidly incorporated capitalism, but without certain stabilizing controls. Missing from Vietnam’s new spirit of capitalism were the Judeo-Christian morals and ethics that drove it in the West.9 Capitalism without this backbone of values tends toward simple greed and corruption, thus posing a threat to newly liberalized, socialist states like Vietnam. The party was confronted with a

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society in danger of losing its moral foundation as it faced the temptations of quick cash. Such was the context for the revival of spirit practices in Vietnam: it was part of the state’s attempt to create “favorable conditions for positive forces to triumph over negative ones” (Nguyen 1989, 96) through the restoration of traditional culture. The possible degradation of society attributed to the introduction of capitalism was tempered by the state’s readoption of past traditions. National policy concerns cited preserving traditional structures as a top priority,10 which could be seen in action in the increasing numbers of restored temples, pagodas, and other places of worship. Since Renovation’s effects took hold in the 1990s, the party has become quite vocal in its concern to preserve what it calls Vietnam’s “national culture.” What constitutes “authentic” Vietnamese tradition was and is a matter of debate within government power circles, dominated by “a tightly knit party comradeship that binds the elderly elite together, based on years of sacrifice and hardship” (Tonnesson 2000, 243). At the Eighth National Congress of the Communist Party in June 1996, this core group of leaders urged the state to be cautious in implementing change and to preserve as much stability as possible.11 No doubt this was a warning to the up-andcoming generation of younger cadres with their desire for even more radical reforms. At the time of my research, only those who had served in the revolution and been founding members of the party retained the topmost positions in the government,12 but old age and death will soon mean the end of this state of affairs. When that day comes, one can expect the full rehabilitation of the spirit world by a young party leadership not conditioned to reject it out of hand. Indeed, there was already a move in 1996 to classify dealings with the gioi khac as “parascience,”13 an indication that the state is seeking ways to remove the “superstition” label from spirit practices. This reclaiming of the past is called “cultural neo-traditionalism” (Woodside 1997, 71), and Vietnam’s leaders are not alone in initiating the process. As China, Taiwan, and South Korea modernized, so too were many of their religious and cultural traditions retrieved after years of prohibition. For Vietnam, cultural neo-traditionalism serves as what

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John Kleinen in his work on social change in North Vietnam calls “the renegotiation of authoritarianism in a postcollectivist era, not its abandonment” (Kleinen 1999, 193). Indeed, in both China and Vietnam, where economic liberalization has occurred, there are no plans to do away with socialism.14 The Communist parties in both countries have enjoyed greater staying power than those in the former Soviet bloc, precisely because they have been successful in appropriating and defi ning national identity. Vietnam’s Communist Party remains tightly in control of the country because it has taken great pains to ensure its legitimacy with the people. It has never been afraid to make course corrections in its leadership, from the Correction of Mistakes campaign in 1958 that rectified the abuses committed against landowners during the period of land reform and redistribution, to the Renovation policy itself. Vietnam’s recent cultural neo-traditionalism and embracing of traditions that were criticized earlier in the revolution, is but the latest effort by the government to remain legitimate in the eyes of the Vietnamese people. Throughout its history, the party has held itself up as the rightful force behind a free Vietnam, and it has done so by transforming prior traditions so they can better serve official ideology.15 Today, traditional practices are back in vogue in order to anchor the people to their identity as Vietnamese in the rough seas of global economics. The “otherworld” has been dusted off and once again offered to the people as part of their Vietnamese heritage. It is for this reason that practices like mediumship have been allowed to stay reemerged in the more open atmosphere created by Renovation, despite the official prohibition against them. This was good news for my informants, for their ghost problems had either emerged in full force or increased in severity following Doi Moi. Improvements Inspired by Gorbachev’s perestroika, Renovation has been called “a remarkable act of faith in the possibility of willed economic progress” (Woodside 1999, 15). The collective will in Vietnam seems to be stronger

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than that in its Soviet counterpart: while the gross domestic product in the former USSR fell following economic reform, Vietnam’s doubled. Living standards in the Eastern European countries that once formed the Soviet bloc have decreased since perestroika, while Doi Moi inaugurated an ongoing period of relative prosperity in Vietnam. In adopting the Renovation policy, the Vietnamese leadership aimed to reverse the nation’s long downward spiral. For the cynical, Renovation can be seen as “motivated by the necessity to stay ahead of the people’s dissatisfaction” (Dahm 1999, 27). Certainly, the Vietnamese had reason to be dissatisfied given the state of the postwar economy. Starvation and abject poverty were no strangers to Vietnamese in peacetime. The need for reform sprang from the destruction wrought by thirty years of uninterrupted warfare. People were “dying for a change,” recalled old Mr. Huu, who had witnessed French colonialism, war, revolution, and renovation in his long lifetime. The effects of Doi Moi have been profound, economic growth in Vietnam more than a little impressive. From a country that had to import nearly six million tons of food in the late 1970s, Vietnam has become one of the world’s leading exporters of rice. In 1996 alone, exports of coffee, rubber, and seafood accounted for $7 billion in revenues.16 The economy has grown every year since 1991, including a 13 percent growth in industry throughout the 1990s.17 Private business has grown by over 20 percent annually since the inception of Doi Moi,18 with employment in the private sector increasing by 45 percent.19 Anyone who has been to Vietnam in the last twenty years has noticed on the city streets an abundance of “mobile department stores” where people sell everything from single cigarettes to lunch to luxury items. They are everywhere—licensed or not, they are allowed to operate. In the countryside, peasants are once again able to farm for themselves: the 1988 Land Law made the household and not the commune the basic unit of production, effectively ending the Cooperative Program started in 1958. Five years later, another law was passed giving rural people rights to the land they used.20 Agricultural production soared as a result, as did industrial growth with the halving of the number of state-owned enterprises in favor of the private sector.

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These positive results engendered a great deal of good will toward Vietnam from other countries, and it convinced the United States to end its embargo in 1994. With its lifting, Vietnam’s international isolation ended. Almost two million tourists visited in 1996, compared to fi ftyfour thousand a decade earlier.21 More importantly for the economy, a massive amount of foreign investment flowed into thousands of projects with capital of $23 billion in 1996.22 Because of Doi Moi, Vietnam normalized relations with the United States, established formal ties and trade partnerships with 164 countries, and became a full member of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN). Of most significance for the people of Vietnam, Doi Moi made life economically feasible for many who had previously been barely surviving. Per capita income rose from $130 in 1989 to $270 in 1995, from an impossibly low $.36 in 1980. 23 If one were to use Vietnam’s gross domestic product per capita, this figure would rise significantly to $1,010, even as far back as 1992. 24 When Doi Moi was getting underway in the early 1990s, the percentage of Vietnamese families in abject poverty dropped by 13 percent, while spending increased 71 percent.25 However calculated, and in full recognition of rural/urban and other disparities, 26 the end result is the same: the people are no longer as poor as they once were. In short, “life is better” for the Vietnamese,27 who consider themselves wealthy when they have “enough food, a brick and tile house, a motorbike, tv set, and radio cassette” (Liljestrom et al. 1998, 118). By this assessment, some of my informants went beyond being “able to live,” as Mr. Hien described his circumstances. Most had television sets, all had electricity, and many were either satisfied with their housing or certain they could “move up”—all indigenous indicators of improved living standards. Almost half had at least one motorbike at their disposal, 28 and there was no shortage of food for any of them. I was told over and over again that had I met them before Renovation, everything would have been different. “The market had nothing good; I myself had no money. We ate rice but mixed with cereal, so it was not satisfying. We were hungry and penniless and sad,” recalled Mr. Be of his postwar, preRenovation life. The sad irony is that while my informants reaped the

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benefits of Renovation along with the rest of the Vietnamese population, their ghost afflictions got worse. Angrier Ghosts In the early 1990s, the health problems some of my informants had suffered for years started to increase in intensity. What were described as previously being low-grade and irregular pain or rare episodes of out-ofcharacter behavior became worse and more frequent. Mr. Hien had been an energetic young man always quick to participate in sports or intellectual debate;29 in 1974 listlessness “took over” his character. By 1996 his apathy had become such a problem that he often had to send a son to work in his place. Most frightening of all for Mr. Hien and his family was that he took long walks in an amnesiac trance. Similarly, Mr. Xuong had experienced sharp pain in his legs on and off since the 1970s. By the time I met his granddaughter in 1997, the old man’s pain had become a daily torture. The granddaughter was afraid of him now: he had destroyed her cherished beehives in the latest of a series of rages that had begun in 1993. For others of my informants, ghost-induced sickness began once the 1990s got underway. Mr. Be fi rst noticed a rash on his arms in 1990. Three years later, his arms were covered with suppurating sores and he was afraid to touch his beloved grandchildren. When we met together, Mr. Be would have to hold his arms above the table to avoid contact with its surface: “So painful,” he said. Elegant Ms. Vi from the opening chapter found herself “ruining” her own body in 1995—tearing at her chest with her long nails. By 1997 repeated episodes had made her as anxious to fi nd a plastic surgeon to repair the damage as she was to fi nd a cure. The worsening of my informants’ problems coincided with the improvement of living conditions in Vietnam subsequent to Doi Moi, but it was no coincidence. Vietnamese often credit increased fortune to their ancestors,30 whose role in the otherworld is to watch over their descendants and manipulate cosmic forces in their best interests. This applies only to the to tien (ancestral spirits); con ma (angry ghosts) are too angry

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and bitter at their hellish fates to do anything but cause problems. While to tien benefit from the bettered lives of their descendants, con ma watch jealously and with increasing anger as people enjoy a boost in their living conditions. It was this jealousy that, according to my informants, sparked the increased intensity and frequency of their ghost problems. They explicitly blamed the economic gains made possible by Doi Moi for the commencement or surge in their spirit sickness. Seeing that people were now living in better conditions, eating more, and able to afford basic luxuries prompted the con ma to lash out even more aggressively in their envy. Mr. Be—and all the other sufferers— understood this. “The ghosts have nothing at all,” he said, “so their hatred grows as the people prosper.” Indeed, for every material gain, there was a corresponding increase in the number or intensity of spirit attacks. Each new television set was occasion for the angry ghosts to double their efforts to sicken their victims, each move to a bigger or better home accompanied by more pain, more problems. It was an irony not lost on my informants. “The days of my being broke (chay tui) are over,”31 said Mr. Be, “but this [indicating his red, raw arms] is ruining me.” Ms. Vi best represents this seemingly paradoxical situation. She was the epitome of the new and improved Vietnam: young and glamorous, a rich businesswoman who still managed to maintain a reputation as “good” in the faithful upkeep of her provincial relatives. But for the angry ghost of her brother, and for all the con ma haunting my informants, the success of the living was another painful reminder that their own otherworldly lives were hell. Their status as con ma barred them from receiving the benefits of living people’s financial boons—unlike the ancestral spirits, who could. For years, many of my informants had been making special offerings to their afflicting ghosts, to no avail. Because they did not know specifically what the ghosts wanted, their best intentions failed to end their possession sickness. Only direct contact with the dead through mediums could give them the information they needed to satisfy the con ma and become well. Fortunately for Vi and the others, mediums were more readily available and accessible in Vietnam thanks to the resurgence in spirit practices made possible by Doi Moi. Moreover, people could better afford their

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services now that personal economies had strengthened along with that of the nation. More money had meant more health problems for my informants, but it also offered the opportunity to buy treatment. Still, money was a contentious issue for some, who believed that its power to “corrupt” made finding an effective, “true” healer very difficult. Indeed, this fit into a larger issue facing the Vietnamese as they transitioned to a market economy: how to be “good” and rich at the same time, and how to trust someone who appeared to be both. After all, the party had for decades claimed the two to be incompatible.32 Performance and Practice Spirit practitioners everywhere are continuously subject to skepticism and doubt, as are the entities they channel. If they do not deliver, they are discredited. In Vietnam, dong dua is what fake or “show-off” mediums (Endres 2006, 91) are called. This relates to the exorbitant costs associated with the trance rituals (len dong) that are the main practice of the Religion of the Four Palaces, Tu Phu. In Tu Phu, mediums serve the four mother goddesses of the universe and their many attendants.33 They are required to conduct two len dong ceremonies every year, and to pay for them. Today, each trance ritual costs at least three hundred dollars, 34 but even before Renovation, in the prerevolutionary period, only members of the bourgeoisie could afford to be mediums.35 Len dong is so expensive because each ritual requires a master of ceremonies, musicians and singers to draw the spirits with praise songs, ritual assistants to help manage the event, plus gifts and food offerings for the spirits and audience.36 In addition to having to pay for these crucial elements of the Tu Phu ceremony, mediums must also possess several different costumes made of the finest materials—each outfit designating the identity of descending spirits. To attract and then keep clients, mediums must walk a fine line between being too obviously able to afford these costs (a show-off, in the business just for profit) and not honoring the deities spectacularly enough (miserly, not respectful). Nowadays, the mother goddesses are increasingly popular due to their perceived power to bring good fi nancial fortune to followers.37 This in

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turn has led to competition between Tu Phu mediums as they strive to outdo one another with bigger and better ceremonies while still maintaining the appearance of religious propriety. 38 Participants expect expensive len dong rites in the renovated Vietnam, and mediums must comply, if only to display the wealth that signals their favor with the goddesses. Such conspicuous consumption can lead to accusations that a medium is not genuine but merely a dong dua, even if customer demand drives the display. None of the mediums I observed healing my informants in Vietnam were Tu Phu mediums. Certainly, those mediums were practicing throughout Vietnam at the time of my research, but the once-bittentwice-shy anthropologist stayed away. I kept to more-or-less “secret” mediums who worked only to provide relief for victims of ghosts. They did not have expenses for the possession ceremonies they conducted: sick people paid for their services and in return they provided nothing more than their abilities. These mediums were rogues, unaffiliated with Tu Phu. They were of the kind that Nguyen Thi Hien in her dissertation on the Religion of the Four Palaces refers to as going into possession not to honor the mother goddesses but to tim mo (search for a tomb), goi hon (call ghosts), or nhap hon (incarnate ghosts).39 Whereas mediums of the mother goddesses exclusively channel spirits from the Tu Phu pantheon, the mediums I saw were possessed only by the angry ghosts of their clients. Hoa was one of the mediums I observed helping clients. A woman in her forties when I met her, she had been practicing len dong since the early 1970s. Her grandmother was a popular Tu Phu medium in prerevolutionary times and had regaled young Hoa with stories she remembers to this day. From Hoa’s recollections of these stories, it was clear that the professional life of her grandmother was very different from her own. Hoa’s grandmother channeled mother goddesses and their courtly entourage in the public space of the temple; Hoa went into trance in an airless room behind her kitchen at home. Gone for Hoa were the gaudy costumes her grandmother wore, replaced by the plain blouse and pants that were her regular garb. Absent too were the chau van singers and cung van musicians lauding the spirits,40 the large audience, and the spirit-blessed gifts. The hours-long Tu Phu ritual presided over by her grandmother

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had been replaced with an experience Hoa likened to “robbing a man in the street”—very quick, only as long as necessary for effective communication with the dead to occur.41 The healing sessions I witnessed were streamlined to such a degree that only three elements remained: the auditory aid to induce trance, the red cloth to cover the face of the dang ki (possessed medium), and the communication episode itself. The music or other “sacred drum” had not disappeared because possession of the medium cannot occur before trance, and the cloth was considered necessary to spare clients the frightening sight of their medium’s face while possessed.42 The entertainment aspect of Tu Phu trance was utterly lacking in the rites I saw, and this seemed to make them more legitimate in the eyes of participants. Mrs. Luu, afflicted by her dead son and forced to seek the services of a medium, was glad the ceremony was sparse. “If there is nothing to look at or enjoy, you know it is real,” she said. Several of my informants did utilize Tu Phu mediums in their quest for healing, but many more did not. The ones I accompanied to secret mediums were distrustful of the pomp and splendor of the religion of the mother goddesses. “Who needs that?” asked Mr. Ro. “I have time only to get well. Those people want to be famous so they forget about everything else.” The fine line between performance and fakery in len dong rituals was never an issue in the practices of the mediums I observed. A “beautiful” performance was not the key to what made them good healers.43 They were not the excellent dancers and showsters of Tu Phu; these secret mediums had only the possession episode itself with which to entrance their clients and prove their authenticity. Tuyet, the brow-beating medium from the last chapter, may take pleasure in frightening her clients by “putting on a scary show,” but if she did not convey correct information about the spirits and clearly lay out their demands, no one would ever have bothered to sneak onto her boat at night. Authenticity I found it commonly stated in Vietnam that anything of value had to cost something—to get something for free meant it was not worth having.

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Informants did pay the mediums I met for their services, but never so much that red flags were raised as to their sincere willingness and ability to heal. Secret mediums typically charged their clients 10,000 dong per visit,44 considered by my informants to be a reasonable price to pay for ending the health problems and other misfortunes that have plagued them for years. While appreciative of the “honest” pricing, clients never failed to give larger gifts of money to mediums who succeeded in helping them overcome their afflictions. Even barring this extra compensation, mediums could significantly add to their household incomes with their practice, as the fees for a single customer exceeded the average Vietnamese person’s daily income as it was in the mid-1990s. Phuong was the only one of the mediums I knew who relied exclusively on the income generated from her spirit practice. This, she said, was because she was a single mother. Phuong’s husband “grew impatient” with her trances and left her and their children behind to start another life in Ho Chi Minh City, forcing Phuong to work full time as a medium to survive. Her business was flourishing when I knew her: she saw clients five days a week, charging no less than 5,000 and no more than 10,000 dong per party.45 Of the other mediums I knew—Tuyet, Ky, Hoa, Hang, Nu, Chi, and Nhan—most were married and living with their spouses, and all worked with the spirits only part-time at best. Tuyet was so busy as a fish vendor that she saw no more than ten clients a year. The extra income that all but Mr. Ky earned from their dealings with the spirits was enough to pay off suspicious neighbors, purchase extra and better food for their families, and generally pad their tight budgets.46 The money was certainly welcome, but it was “not necessary” according to Tuyet. Perhaps they were not being entirely truthful about this, as my assistant Tien suggested to me after spending an evening at Mrs. Nu’s house drinking expensive brandy. Working with women entrepreneurs in Vietnam in 2006, Ann Marie Leshkowich writes how “most quickly learned that while their businesses might no longer be illegal . . . it was safest to conceal the scope of their activities” (Leshkowich 2006, 292). Two decades of Doi Moi notwithstanding, people remain wary of officialdom—in any guise—knowing too much about their income-generating activities. Nearly all of the

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mediums I knew in 1996 and 1997 suspected that the state would again clamp down on len dong, and so they claimed that they tried not to rely on it as a steady source of income. Good value for their money was a minor consideration for my informants when choosing one medium over another. Genuine talent was the selling point, and that came from the spirit world. Specialists in dealing with the supernatural such as shamans and mediums share long histories of physical or emotional trauma. The shaman gains power precisely because he or she overcomes chronic and debilitating illnesses brought on by spirits.47 Similarly, mediums are people who have been changed and made more open to the otherworld through distress. Anthropologists working in Korea have noted that spirits seeking mediums “are particularly attracted by those whose souls have already been ‘fractured’ ” (Harvey 1979, 238). This is true in Vietnam as well, where there is a folk belief that spirits look to use as mediums those who have been damaged in some way. That damage is thought to open doors that people healthy in mind, body, and heart keep closed. Indeed, all of the mediums I met had experienced some traumatic event at some point in their lives. As a toddler, Phuong had seen her mother die violently in front of her.48 The fi rst spirit to make contact with her was, in fact, her mother. “She came to me when I was ten. After Mother, many more came, and they still come.” The male medium, Ky, had been abandoned at five and injured at twelve during the Christmas bombing of Hanoi in 1972.49 His ability to communicate with spirits began shortly after the bombing, during which he had witnessed the deaths of “hundreds” of civilians. “Two dead girls were the fi rst,” he recounted with fresh horror. “They were still wearing their bloodied school uniforms, and then they jumped into my body, laughing.” Tuyet was born prematurely into an environment of death and destruction: 50 her mother was collecting the remains of bombing victims when she went into labor. Tuyet claimed that her first breath took in the odor of decomposing bodies and that even today she “cannot smell good things.” Her prenatal exposure to tragedy has meant a lifelong relationship with spirits. She liked to shock listeners by recalling in loving detail her first babysitter, who sang to her and comforted her when her mother

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was away from home serving in the militia.51 Unfortunately, the kindly woman who watched over Tuyet was dead. While Hoa’s grandmother descended from two other female mediums, 52 and received extensive training from them, her granddaughter and all the other mediums I met were self-trained after experiencing trauma. “Called” to the profession by dint of her genealogy, Hoa’s grandmother was a prestigious figure in the large village where she lived and worked. Hoa, on the other hand, was a secret medium whose worth as a professional was attached to the deliciousness of the food she made and sold at her home. She was never called or “chosen,” in her grandmother’s words, to become a medium: it happened by chance. A cook and vendor since her teens, Hoa was bitten by a rabid dog in the alley behind her house where she prepares meat. She came so close to dying that a coffin was already prepared for her, and her young son was told how to make offerings to his mother at the family altar. On Hoa’s recovery, she discovered that she could tell when people were about to die and was able to “talk” with those already dead. These and other mediums had learned to cope with their personal tragedies, and that was part of what made them effective healers. The pain in their pasts helped them empathize with their clients and their problems. Their stories were well-known by their clients, who trusted these mediums precisely because they’d endured traumatic experiences. Just as I had been welcomed into my informants’ painful lives because I was sick myself, so too were these mediums accorded trusted insider status by their clients. Mr. Bang had even fallen in love with his medium, Hoa, because she understood him so well. “No one else, not even my wife, knows my pain,” he said to me. As spirit sickness is a special form of illness, it requires a special kind of doctor. In Vietnam, only mediums can heal the rifts between the living and the dead and make right whatever went so wrong that an angry ghost instead of an ancestral spirit was born into the otherworld. All of my informants had tried to rid themselves of their affl ictions by visiting doctors, or taking pills—in other words, availing themselves of modern medicine as the government encouraged them to do. Such methods were useless in fi xing their ghost problems, and even the state knew it. By the

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time I arrived in Vietnam, the “public health menace” posed by angry ghosts was considered so serious that the government had begun sponsoring mediums. After a lengthy verification process to determine their accuracy, some mediums had been hired as state employees. In 1997 there were seven state-sponsored mediums—all women—at work in Hanoi. They operated within one of the ministries in charge of dealing with the families of war dead, and all received government housing and a salary. I met one of them, who had just appeared in the newspaper because of her spectacular success in locating the remains of three hundred soldiers in 1997 and over five hundred in 1995.53 We met only once because she was “so busy with government work.” For the government to utilize officially banned spirit practitioners is to me not hypocrisy but rather a keen awareness of and concern for the problems plaguing so many Vietnamese. In hiring mediums to help large numbers of sufferers, and in allowing the people to once again access spirit practitioners on their own, the Communist Party has faced up to two realities. One is that repairing the damage from the Vietnam War could not be handled by the government alone, nor could it be dealt with on a macroeconomic level alone (i.e., by Renovation). This issue is a very localized, subjective, individual experience that might best be handled through traditional solutions (i.e., mediums). The second reality pertains to the otherworld, inhabited in the darkest of its corners by angry war ghosts. By bringing the shadow world of ghosts and spirits back into the light, the state has put the possession illness of my informants back into a “normal,” open context where a cure is possible. To truly move Vietnam to where the state wants it to be (i.e., a modernized Tiger economy), the party had to act on its recognition that the anger of con ma “threatens the peace of the community at the level of family, community, and nation” (Tai 2001a, 191). This it has done by allowing mediums to once again practice and, in some cases, paying them to help the people. They do help: nearly every one of my informants who went to a medium got better.

9. Conclusion

The Question I often share the experiences of the many con ma victims I knew in Vietnam with my students. They sympathize. Some of them are afraid of what they hear. Invariably, all want to know if my informants’ troubles are “real.” It is a joyful challenge to bring other people’s lives and culture to life for students—even the tamest of subjects requires thought and care. When ghosts are the topic, it must be framed in such a way that participants in the discussion are drawn in and persuaded to forego their preconceived notions about what constitutes reality. In my professional opinion, the most effective way to achieve this suspension of disbelief is to let those who suffer at the spectral hands of spirits speak for themselves. Of course, my informants are never present in my classroom. All I have is their words. In this work, I have repeated those words verbatim or reconstructed them from a faithful rendering of the details given me.1 It is important to note that my informants had been discussing spirit matters for years. In our time together, I was essentially participating and listening in on an ongoing dialogue. Beyond being a simple rehashing of chronological events, narratives constitute “a primary embodiment of our understanding of the world, of experience, and ultimately of ourselves” (Rapport 2000, 75). It was in these tellings of themselves that the people I met opened their world of suffering and shadows to me, and it was vital to include them here. That “it is through narratives lively with

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people, places, and events that we know recalcitrant undergraduates are likely to be seduced by the discipline” (Narayan 1993, 681) is why I incorporate them into my teaching as well. Still, the bright young people in my classes want answers—and rightly so. They grill me relentlessly, searching for connections and patterns as anthropology has taught them to do. Were my informants mainly women? Were they uneducated, underfed, or underage? Had each of them survived bombing or battle during the war? One class clown even wanted to know if everyone I interviewed had been drinking from the same tainted well. I have carefully considered all but the last of those questions myself, and I shall attempt to explain “why” the people I knew suffered so. Throughout the coming discussion, my most heartfelt intention is to suggest answers that remain true to the meanings my Vietnamese friends ascribed to their experiences. It begins with numbers. Although they cannot speak for themselves like my informants did, they do tell a tale. The Data My total sample—not including mediums—was made up of 190 people. Details on their afflictions are found in appendix 1, “Table of Suffering.” As a group, they were almost equally divided by gender, 49 percent female and 51 percent male. There was a fairly even split between urban and rural dwellers, as well, with 58 percent residing in Hanoi or another northern city and 42 percent hailing from rural areas of the north. All ages were represented in my sample,2 from two-year-old Binh Minh to the octogenarian Mr. Huu. What do these three variables say about the “public health menace” posed by angry ghosts? Seemingly, nothing. Other factors—such as income, level of education, religion, history of disease, marital status—were similarly disparate. My informants came from every walk of life: they were farmers and shopkeepers, housewives, office workers, students, war veterans, Buddhists and Catholics. One was American. Like Sam, some were missing limbs. None had ever been to England. All had pets of some kind. Many of the men were heavy smokers; several women had suffered miscar-

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riages. Everyone but the youngest had been to school, but no one had ever been legally divorced. I chose gender, residence, and age from the huge number of possible variable for a reason: they speak to the war. The following statistics pertain only to Vietnam and Vietnamese and do not include the thousands of American, French, and other Southeast Asian casualties. They speak volumes: • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

5.1 million dead3 600,000 wounded 26,000 captured in action 300,000 missing4 1.4 million disabled5 300,000 orphans6 40,000 mothers who lost at least three children7 150,000 amputees, including 20,000 double amputees8 20 million gallons of Agent Orange and other toxic defoliants sprayed 3 million suffer from effects of Agent Orange 1 million birth defects attributed to Agent Orange9 30,305 square miles of land defoliated (24% of Vietnam)10 most heavily mined country in the world11 8 million tons of ordnance dropped, twice as much as that dropped by U.S. and British forces in World War II in all theaters at least 350,000 tons of unexploded ordnance remains buried in the countryside 64,000 injured12 and 40,000 killed by landmines and unexploded ordnance13 since the end of the war in 1975 10 million refugees minimum14 250,000 boat people died during escape attempt15 The Long Shadow of War

If the Vietnam War has had a lasting effect on U.S. politics and cultural consciousness, the same is infinitely more true of Vietnam. Vietnamese today continue to suffer from the damage—to their families, to their

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health, to their country—wrought by the war, but relegating it to the past is impossible for another reason: the former enemy is still afoot. The war in Vietnam was a civil war, after all, and the North won. Therein lies the significance of where my informants lived. The majority of my sample lived in Hanoi city proper. Most of the rest lived in rural areas in the provinces closest to the capital. A tiny handful hailed from the city of Hai Phong or areas in central Vietnam. Except for a man from Da Lat, everyone self-identified as Bac Ky or “northern Vietnamese.” Bac Ky, of course, were the victors in the Vietnam War. The combat may be long over, but the social divisions that sparked it remain. Prior to the French colonial era in Vietnam, Southeast Asian states had amorphous borders in a constant state of flux.16 In the nineteenth century, all of Southeast Asia, with the exception of Thailand, was colonized by Europe. From Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam, France constructed its Indochinese Union, solidifying the formerly liquid borders between them by 1862. Vietnam was itself divided into three parts: Tonkin in the north, Annam in the center, and Cochin China to the south. It was in Tonkin in 1954 that the French lost its war with the Viet Minh. The peace accords that followed their defeat laid out the partitioning of Vietnam into two halves: North and South. Elections were planned for 1956 and designed to reunify the split country. They were never held, for the Communist North under Ho Chi Minh was deemed too imminent a threat to the U.S. and French-backed regime of the South. In stepped the Americans, first as political advisers and financial backers, then as combatants. The French had claimed their division of Vietnam into separate administrative units adhered to natural, indigenous cultural boundaries.17 To justify their intervention, the Americans made similar claims. One was that the Vietnamese as a people were apathetic and indolent, unable or unwilling to do things for themselves. This was supposedly a function of the balmy climate: it made for a hopelessly lazy people who could not be trusted to fight for the right causes. Such thinking was common in colonial discourse and served to rationalize the oppression of colonized peoples all over the world. For many, “Vietnam’s tropical

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climate explained a variety of Vietnamese weaknesses that they believed were not present in more temperate or Western climates” (Bradley 2000, 51). Rubbish. While Westerners speak of “two eternal Vietnamese, culturally and politically” (Jamieson 1993, 21), the people they are misrepresenting speak of Vietnam in terms of three distinct areas: mien bac (north), mien nam (south), and mien trung (central). The most obvious marker of this regional variation is language. Even tone-deaf foreigners can hear the difference between the northern and southern dialects, and pinpoint combinations of the two in the pronunciation of people from central Vietnam. Even so, “the linguistic and regional differences among Chinese, not to mention Indians or Englishmen, are as great or greater” (Lockard 1994, 21) than those of the Vietnamese. What matters is not the truth or untruth of Vietnamese stereotypes but rather an understanding that Vietnam’s regional differences and foreign manipulation of those differences played a part in the war. For example, during the French colonial period, vast tracts of land in the south were owned by the French and worked by Vietnamese tenants. In the north, people retained title to their land, but mounting colonial taxes resulted in peasant resistance not seen in the south. The more collaborative relationships southern Vietnamese had with the French colonials and later with American capitalists “have left their deep marks on the southern Vietnamese ideological landscape” (Luong 1993, 225). In contrast, Western influences essentially disappeared from the north when the French departed in 1954.18 Even after the two halves were united under a single Communist government in 1975, the economic wheels set into motion by the French continued to turn. In the south, agricultural collectivization was never fully realized as it was in the north,19 in part because countless smallscale private businesses continued to exist.20 Capitalism has had a longer and firmer hold on southern Vietnam, giving rise to the northern perception that southerners care only about money. The general disdain I heard many of my informants express about southern Vietnamese stemmed solely from their association with wasteful good times— dan nhau, “party people.” An American journalist who was in Vietnam

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at the same time I was must have heard and internalized similar sentiments, for he wrote that “the south still has the look not so much of an errant region ‘reunified’ in a nasty civil war, as of a country under occupation by people who speak the same language, look the same, but otherwise come from a different universe” (Aikman 1997, 62). In short, amplified as it was by French and American interventions, the north/south divide in Vietnam has made reconciliation a slow process. Today, northern and southern Vietnamese snipe at each other out of the bitterness left over from the war. There is a very real sense in the north that despite losing, the south has not suffered as much. “The country paid a high price in the war. Everyone,” said Mr. Tong. “If you go south, you will see: they don’t care.” Had I done research in southern Vietnam, would I have found so many people made sick by war ghosts? Perhaps, but I doubt it. It was the North, and not the South, that was bombed back to the Stone Age by U.S. B-52s. All of those victims who were blown to bits became con ma. Soldiers and civilians from both sides and of both sexes died on southern and central battlefields and in other zones of conflict during the war, but it was the dead northern fighters whose remains were typically never retrieved. Southern casualties, being closer to home, were much more often returned to their families and given the proper burial rites to ensure their passage to ancestral spirit status. The problem of war ghosts—if it exists in the south—is much worse for northern Vietnamese because of the ways and the wheres their people died. That all of my informants were Bac Ky is highly relevant to the why being tackled in this chapter. Urbanite or country dweller, man or woman, child or grownup—the one thing uniting all the people I had the privilege to interview for this book was the war and its presence in their lives in the form of illness. Americans might be quick to say that they suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD).21 The Vietnam War certainly qualifies as traumatic, and “for combatants and noncombatants alike, was a period of relentless fear and intense anguish” (Malarney 2001, 58). Yet, PTSD demands that its sufferers have actually experienced the trauma themselves. Many of mine did not—18 percent of them were born after the war ended, and eight were children under the age of ten when I met them.

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Chapter 7 covered the Communist Party’s prohibition on beliefs and practices associated with the otherworld. Because of the ban, young people in Vietnam are unfamiliar with many of the spirit rituals and specialists that older generations grew up being able to openly access. Perhaps because such things were officially forbidden, the college students I met first in Vietnam were utterly fascinated by them. These Vietnamese teenagers were in the same boat as me: we were intrigued by the shadow world but knew very little about it fi rsthand. Together, we went in search of some fi rsthand experience, and so with them, I met others who led me deeper into the shadow world of fortune-tellers and geomancers. At the homes of these young people I got to know their parents and other older Vietnamese, whose personal losses and experiences of the war revealed the extent to which con ma were making the living suffer. I owe much to my young friends, for they opened those crucial first doors for me. Vietnamese need not have been directly involved in the fighting to know something of the war. It is everywhere in their nation, manifested in bomb craters and scars and devastated people. In the media, it is seen in daily television reports listing those still missing from the war and in soap operas dramatizing love among the trenches. It can be heard on the radio in songs about soldiers longing for their mothers. It appears on family altars, in the photographs of some long-gone child or spouse or parent. It is in the armless and legless veterans sitting on cardboard in front of the posh foreign establishments in the hope of begging a few dong. Vietnam is a traumatized state, and no wonder: in a country where the feats of heroes triumphing over the invading Chinese a thousand years ago are still told and heralded, the horrors of a war ended but in 1975 are as fresh today as yesterday. The physical scars, some long healed, some newly born in the grotesque features of a baby poisoned in utero by Agent Orange, are but the most obvious reminders of the war’s legacy. For every ounce of twisted flesh, there is a corresponding emotional wound, and beyond those lie their spiritual counterparts. These are evident in the ailments of my informants, all-too-painful signs of the ongoing confl ict between war ghosts and those who survived them.

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The Depiction of the “Other” Although the primary focus of this book is on those who suffer from possession illness, my intention was never to produce an ethnography of spirit possession. Although such books make up a good section of my library, I am against the overarching theories contained in most of them that serve to explain away sufferers’ experience. My informants did not “benefit” from their possession illness in any material way, 22 as is posited in so much of the anthropological literature. In the sickness and dysfunction afflicted on them by the dead, they were reduced in many ways, and at a time in Vietnam when living conditions had markedly improved. Existing spirit possession theories simply do not apply and are generally dismissive of their subjects’ experiences and beliefs. In this perspective, I reveal myself as a product of the once “new” ethnography, for I wish to “apprehend and inscribe ‘others’ in such a way as not to deny or diffuse their claims to subjecthood” (Mascia-Lees, Sharpe, and Cohen 1989, 12). I propose here no “what’s really going on” explanation and little reference to familiar American ideas to make those of my informants more understandable. Ethnography has “the power to put things in context, and that context is the explanation” (Metcalf 2001, 168). The context and explanation in this ethnography is war. We can all, I believe, consider cultural difference without comparing it to our own society’s norms. Moreover, I think we should abandon such endeavors, lest we get “caught up with the invention, not the representation, of cultures” (Clifford 1986, 1). More important to me than the search for a “real” reason why the people I knew in Vietnam were suffering is the very fact of that suffering and how it was managed. I choose not to assess the authenticity of my informants’ maladies in favor of particularizing their experience of sickness and misfortune and framing it in Vietnamese cultural history. As a teacher and a writer, my goal is always to “link intimate, ethnographiclike detail with portraits of larger, impersonal systems” (Marcus and Fischer 1986, 77). In retelling the stories my informants told themselves and each other and also shared with me, and by embedding the stories in a political-economic framework, I aim to express “what is happening to real social actors caught up in complex macroprocesses” (Marcus and

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Fischer 1986, 82). My favorite ethnographies accomplish just that, and I hope this book has managed to do the same. When I was learning how to conduct ethnographic research in graduate school, what got lost in the nuts and bolts of methodology was any mention of it being an enjoyable experience. For the most part, my sojourn in Vietnam was indeed enjoyable, and so “interviewing” seems an inadequate term to describe talking to people about things that were of great concern, interest, and/or economic viability to them. Nor does “observation” do justice to moments spent amid the clamor of households teeming with children, hungry spouses, drying laundry, and the splendiferous aroma of Vietnamese espresso. “Data collection” is far too dry a term to convey the excitement of witnessing a medium go into trance, become possessed, and then speak with the voice of the dead to an audience of the dead’s family members. While “participant-observation” matter-offactly describes the method I used in doing fieldwork, it fails to capture the emotional aspect of both participating in and observing situations where people desperately wanted succor and an end to their suffering, and could only get it from the spirits of the dead that were both afflicting them and wanted the exact same things. There was terror here, and grief, as well as euphoria and relief. Looking back now, I understand there was also pride. The Glory of Heroes American analyses of the Vietnam War often mention a propensity for armed conflict on the part of the Vietnamese as if—in hindsight—the United States should have known what the outcome would be.23 It is not a natural tendency that explains Vietnam’s history of war but, rather, its relationship with China. From 111 bc until 939 ad, Vietnam was a province subject to the vast empire to the north. A millennium of Chinese rule explains why “war, not peace, was woven into the cloth of Vietnamese history” (Lockard 1994, 14). In fact, it is this long and bitter history between the “Big Dragon” and the “Little Dragon” that has forged a uniquely Vietnamese consciousness.24 A sizeable literature exists on how the “Vietnamese have tended to

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define themselves in terms of their neighbors” (Marr 1971, 7). Most powerful and meddling of all those neighbors has been China, with its large army and expansionist agenda. The ever-present Chinese threat thus made for a militaristic Vietnam that glorified force. Resistance and rebellion against the Chinese are enduring themes in Vietnamese folklore. One of the most famous tales recounts the exploits of the Hai Ba Trung. Two sisters, Trung Trac and Trung Nhi, avenged the killing of the elder’s husband and managed to overthrow the Chinese in 39 ad. They ruled as co-queens until the return of Chinese troops two years later, after which they dramatically committed suicide by flinging themselves in the river. Their sacrifice of life and of traditional Vietnamese femininity in the course of resistance to Chinese tyranny elevated them to a select pantheon of heroes and heroines. Pagodas throughout Vietnam are dedicated to the Hai Ba Trung, as well as to other martyrs to the cause of Vietnamese freedom. Individuals like the Trung sisters who successfully repelled the Chinese—even if only for a short time—are glorified to the point of deification. Gen. Tran Hung Dao is one of those national heroes, and the most powerful symbol of patriotism the Vietnamese have.25 In the thirteenth century, he fought against Mongol and Chinese invaders; seven hundred years later he is considered a heavenly saint.26 The St. Tran cult in recent years has merged with the mother goddess religion of Tu Phu, just the latest fusion of the political and spirit worlds. While those who were killed in the war on the side of the North have not been elevated to the status of deities like Tran Hung Dao,27 they are considered martyrs, liet si. To be associated with the liet si—noble heroes in Communist Party discourse both during and after the war—confers honor on the living. Surviving family members proudly display certificates from the government, which officially recognizes the loss of their loved ones as a kind of merit in and of it itself.28 Therefore, when someone is made ill by a liet si—whose bad death unfortunately turned the deceased into an angry ghost—the victim shares in and lays claim to the martyr’s merit. It is glory by association, in other words. The pride felt by veterans of the war—living martyrs—is shared by those afflicted by con ma. Mrs. Huong, whose dead comrade caused her

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such tribulation, was a veteran as well as a victim. Both statuses allowed her to feel “special,” as she told me. Her neighbor, Dao Hai, was younger and a nonveteran. He’d been plagued for some time by the spirit of his father, killed in battle during the war. He, too, felt good when someone commented on his illness with respectful tones and questions about his father. “It’s as if I fought, too. I was a baby at the time of the war, but I do fight. Yes I do!” I was astounded to hear the following exchange between four-year-old Tam and his middle-aged neighbor: Neighbor: What, you feel sick? Why? Tam: Grandpa and Uncles are playing with me. Neighbor: Oh yes? Tam: They’re playing with me. You can’t see them. Neighbor: Oh yes? Tam: They’re dead now. Neighbor: Oh yes? Tam: Yes, yes, yes. Dead, dead, dead. Neighbor: Heavens. Stop saying that. Tam: No, no, no. Dead, dead, dead. Neighbor: Do you feel sick, grandchild? Tam: Yes. I feel dead. Like Grandpa. I am Grandpa. Neighbor: Stop talking. Come sit here. Tam: No. Grandpa wants to fight like in the war. Grandpa wants me to die like in the war. Neighbor: Come sit, War Hero. Tam: Yes we are! According to his mother, ever since little Tam could walk, he had been “playing” with his dead grandfather and granduncles. This amounted to sweating and hearing voices during the daytime and night terrors in the dark. She worried terribly about her boy, this woman, but also reasoned that even in their anger these con ma would not kill him. “He is theirs,” she told me. She was not referring to the spirit possession but the family ties they shared. These afflicting ghosts were those of his paternal ancestors, and it would be “stupid” of them to kill Tam, for then there would

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be no possibility that their spirits could find peace. Besides, they had been killed in the war, they were fallen martyrs, she said. “Their punishment is a lesson that we should not forget their gift to us. Tam will never forget.” The pride in her voice is something I will never forget, and as she is the primary caretaker for her son, I’m sure Tam will not be allowed to either. The high regard she and her husband held for the tormentors of their son mirrored the way all my informants talked about their ghosts. These are no ordinary angry ghosts, after all. They are the war dead, the martyrs, the ones who sacrificed everything for the nation. There was no shame attached to being made ill by them, unlike when it was known that a victim had angered an ancestral spirit through neglect or bad behavior. The Good and the Sick All of my youngest informants had, no doubt, been socialized by their parents and other older people to idolize the liet si. There was no question, though, that their illnesses were considered a negative thing and something to be cured if at all possible. Tam’s parents took him to a Tu Phu medium outside of Hanoi and were told what to do to help their stricken son. I do not know if they followed the medium’s advice or if Tam recovered. I do know that they and all those who loved people made sick by con ma wanted them to get better. Even as the possession illness of my informants was uniformly perceived as a detriment to their well-being, there was another more positive aspect to their miseries. In Vietnam, suffering sends a message to those who see it: it speaks of the sacrifice and worth of the sick. Tine Gammeltoft’s book on health concerns in rural Vietnam provides this telling passage: Somatic complaints often seem to have effects that prove socially beneficial to women. Weakness tends to call forth social assistance, care and concern. By communicating distress through somatic idioms, women avoid being characterized as rotten daughters-inlaw or as bad wives and mothers. On the contrary, their physical

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weaknesses can only emphasize the fact that they are hard-working, self-sacrificing, and think of others before themselves. (1999, 235) Gammeltoft makes the case for women benefiting from being or claiming to be sick. She writes how their “husbands show a more caring, considerate, and understanding side at times when their wives’ health seems poor” (Gammeltoft 1999, 236). But it is not only women who get socially rewarded for their suffering. Cong is the Vietnamese word for “meritorious service,” and Kate Jellema (2005) writes cogently about how cong forms a vital part of people’s moral identity in Vietnam. To have/be cong means to have worth and to be good. Traditionally, one could acquire such merit by voluntarily doing good deeds without expecting an equal return. With the communist revolution and then the war, the meaning of cong shifted to mean suffering for the nation, voluntarily or otherwise.29 Anyone who lived through the war years suffered in this way and gained cong. Martyrs’ families, even members not yet born during the war, have cong by dint of their loved ones being dead. And my informants, involuntarily suffering from the anger of those who suffered most of all for their nation—the war dead, the martyrs—they, too, have cong. This “valorization of suffering” (Jellema 2005, 240) that came about during the war only strengthens the “cult of melancholy” (Nash and Nguyen 1995, 76) so pervasive in Vietnam, and which plays out in the public valuation of unhappiness. The sentiment was clear in numerous comments made by my informants. Ms. Vi, bloodied after being possessed by her brother, marveled at herself in the mirror. “Look at what a faithful sister I am!” She was being sarcastic as usual, but at another time she told me that “the best wives are always sick from taking care of their families. Show me a sick man and there you see a good man.” Linh was a good man: he’d been ill for years because of his dead, angry parents. “I want to die, but I also think I should live longer to help my mother and father,” he said. “I would give them my life if they’d take it. They don’t take enough of it to kill me, so I know their souls must still care for me, still think I’m good for life.” In Vietnam, suffering signals that someone is good enough—constitutionally and “in their hearts”—to withstand pain. Illness indicates

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sacrifice; sacrifice is something only a good person would do. This is particularly true as it applies to people made miserable by con ma. As discussed in chapter 2, “devotion to the dead and the spirits is a hallmark of what it means, traditionally, to be an upright, moral person in Viet culture” (Nguyen 2006, 129). This is why offerings to the to tien are made. It is why Hell Day sees huge numbers of people crowding into temples to give food to the wandering con ma. In taking a person’s health and fortune away, an angry ghost is essentially seizing a gift meant for the living. Their victims do not give these things up voluntarily, but they and those around them do view their suffering as an offering of sorts to those killed in the war. “I think it makes him happy,” surmised Huong about her predator, Chat. “That’s why he’s bothered us for so long.” She smiled, gratified in a small way that her pains were not completely for naught. The End, But Not Exactly Mrs. Huong early on in our time together told me, “I feel light in my heart when I talk to you,” a good sign for me as an interviewer and a wonderful feeling for the friend I’d become. It was Huong who taught me the meaning of chia buon—“to lessen sadness by sharing it.” The ghosts also shared their sadness: they did it by spreading their pain. They also sometimes unburdened themselves to their victims, most poignantly when in direct communication with them through mediums. Mrs. Luu spoke to her dead son Cuong after his long-lost remains had been recovered, again using the medium Phuong to do so. “What is it like for you, son?” she asked him about his “life” in the otherworld. Evidently appeased by the special offerings she’d made, dead Cuong replied through possessed Phuong: “It is enough.” It may not be. The cosmic rules governing Vietnam’s otherworld dictate otherwise. No matter what their victims do to placate the con ma, will and the best of intentions cannot turn them into the peaceful ancestral spirits they should have become after death. Most of the ghosts of war are angry and will remain that way for eternity because of their manner of dying. Should they wish to harm the living, even after

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obtaining what they say they want from them, they can. There is simply no cure for what ails the con ma, and therefore any treatment for the ills they cause is impermanent at best. As the rage of the ghosts is ongoing, so too is the threat they present to the Vietnamese. Whether it is “really” con ma responsible for the suffering of my informants, or simply the pride northerners take in their martyrs and the good personhood attached to suffering, it seems likely that war ghosts will plague Vietnam for some time. Until there are no more veterans and others survivors of the conflict, angry spirits will continue to maraud the land of the living. Four or five generations from now, when everyone who grew up listening to the remembrances of their elders is dead, perhaps then Vietnam’s ghosts of war will be laid to rest.

Epilogue

I would be remiss if I failed to present the resolution (or not) of my informants’ ghost problems. For all of them, see appendix 1. Below are the details of what happened to the people whose cases are featured in chapter 4—and to Ms. Vi, who opened the book. The End of the Trail for Huong, Be, and Hien Following their self-diagnosis in January 1997, this trio of comrades visited the medium Phuong in April. She confirmed that their dead comrade Chat was the source of their ailments and that he was directing his anger at being unburied against all who knew him well in life. Chat was uncooperative during the trance session, divulging no information as to what could be done to stop him from causing pain to his victims. Out of possession and trance, Phuong advised the three to revisit the Trail and to perform a funeral service for Chat there. Believing this to be impossible, as Chat had died in Cambodia, Huong and her comrades settled for making Chat a permanent member of their family altars. Mr. Be’s arms felt better in August at around the same time that Mr. Hien’s absentmindedness grew less pronounced. They attributed the lessening of their symptoms to their installation of Chat’s memory inside a pagoda in Hanoi. This occurred on Hell Day in July of 1997, performed and paid for by all three surviving veterans.

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In August 1997, Mr. Be’s nephew was accepted to work as a laborer in Cambodia. On the pretext of visiting him, Mr. Be traveled there in late September. Accompanying him were his brother and his brother’s wife and youngest child, as well as Huong and her husband. While the others spent time with the nephew and did sightseeing around Phnom Penh, Be and Huong traveled to a segment of the Ho Chi Minh Trail made available to the public by the Cambodian government. The funeral service for Chat was performed, ending with a sapling being planted in his honor. On returning to Hanoi, Huong noticed that her nightmares about Chat and the Trail had ended, and she felt better than she had in years. Be’s arms had scabbed over, but they were once again without pain and “not useless.” The two letters I received from Mr. Hien after my return from the field both mentioned that he had not missed a day of work since his comrades had gone to Cambodia. Current Health Status: Unknown.

Secret Brother: Trung Dinh Phu When I met Professor Phu in 1996, he was regularly experiencing pain and hearing the voice of a brother calling out to him in anguish. Cut off from his family during the revolutionary period in the north of the country, it had been decades since he had any contact with them. Mr. Phu had no idea which of his brothers had died and refused to consult a medium to find out. Over the Tet season in early 1997, Mr. Phu anonymously sent a letter and large sum of money to the last-known address he had for his sister in Da Nang. In the letter, he specified that the money be used to “care for the one of the three brothers” who had apparently died. He was certain that if the letter reached his sister, she would know the source, as “the brothers are three only because I am the first of four.” By summer, Professor Phu’s attacks had stopped. He surprised me before I left Vietnam with the news that his cure had made him “open his heart again” and that he wished to now visit his sister and any other surviving family members in person. Current Health Status: Deceased.

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Tortured Mother of Heroes: Ba Hai Old Ba Hai knew very well what was causing her multiple health problems and obsession with death: her own children were the source. Killed at different times and places during the war, they were beckoning her to join them in hell, and she was more than willing to go. A neighbor became so concerned about Ba Hai’s morbid talk that she took it upon herself to rent a car and a wheelchair to transport the Heroic Mother to a medium. Ba Hai acquiesced only because she had “gone crazy” with fleeting happiness when her crippled son announced his intention to marry a local woman. She was determined to be happy for their wedding and so allowed the neighbor to drive her to Hanoi for a meeting with the medium Hoa. After talking to one of the con ma in question, Hoa advised Ba Hai on how to placate her angry children: she would have to pray daily at the temple and increase her offerings on the family altar. Inspired by her living son’s new lease on life, old Ba vowed to do so and did. Her pains lessened and she felt a renewed desire to live. Plans to accompany me to the airport when I left Vietnam fell through, but she—or someone on her behalf—did send me a postcard and continues to write to this day. Current Health Status: Symptoms persist to lesser degree than ten years ago. “Stubborn Man”: Nguyen Van Thach Despite the repeated pleadings of his wife and her fortune-teller friend, Mr. Thach refused to see a medium to get help with his ghost. He was certain that the source of his problems came not from his first wife’s dead relatives but from a man he knew during the war. Dying alone and far from home, the ghost had turned “for help” to Mr. Thach, who was the only one who knew his true identity and cause of death. Twice before, Thach had sent this information to the appropriate government ministry so that they could notify the dead man’s kin. Either they had not yet informed the family or Mr. Thach’s ghost was not that of the man who’d committed suicide while undercover in Saigon during the war. His heart problems and auditory hallucinations continued. “My wife calls me stubborn, but this dead man is even more stubborn than me!” he said. Current Health Status: Unknown.

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Bad Girls Gone Bald: The Bao Sisters “Party people” Bao Ngoc and Bao Chau had for years so disrespected and further enraged the angry ghosts of their half-brothers that their father forced them into the clutches of the medium Tuyet. Whether it was her idea or the spirits’, both sisters were made to shave their heads in a display of regret and mourning. In addition, their stylish clothes were burned and they were forbidden to wear makeup or go out. Their “bad inf luence” friends found other companions, and the young women became homebodies by default. Bao Chau married a man chosen for her by her parents after her university graduation. Both sisters’ problems lessened after their punishment. Current Health Status: Unknown. “Texas Justice”: Sam the American Sam’s nocturnal visit to the medium Tuyet gave him the information he needed about his offending ghost. With the help of his girlfriend, Sam tracked down the home province of the dead man. Together, they went there and met with the official in charge of the local veterans’ office. The number on the identification card in Sam’s possession since 1968 was traced to a small hamlet and to a Heroic Mother who never received the remains of this particular dead son. Accompanied by the official and a reporter from a Hanoi-based newspaper, Sam met the mother in August 1997. He gave her the identity card and made offerings at the family altar, receiving from the mother both her forgiveness and a huge meal. Since then, Sam has sent her a small monthly stipend. He honored the woman by seating her at the head table at his wedding later that year. “She lost her son; I need a mother in this country,” Sam ruminated. “That sounds like Texas justice to me.” His night terrors and glossolalia are gone. Current Health Status: Fully recovered. The Drowning Lady: Thi Thi had grown so used to the monthly panic attacks and dry drownings sent by her dead sister that she resisted the idea of going to a medium.

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She did, though, after the terrified reaction of her children to seeing one of her spells. She asked me to recommend a medium. I told her about the mediums I knew, steering her away from Tuyet because she lived on a boat and Thi was afraid of water. Surprisingly, it was Mr. Ky she chose. Even more shockingly, he accepted. He felt a kinship with Thi since they had both been forever changed by the Christmas bombing of Hanoi: he became able to see the dead then and she lost her sister at that time. In trance, Ky saw the dead sister. She was not alone but holding hands with an older woman. In describing her during their session, Thi recognized the woman as her own mother. They had lost touch long before Thi got married, though she never explained why. Ky’s advice was to reconcile. Months later, Thi worked up the nerve to visit her mother, and they did mend fences. The dry drownings ended and the panic attacks subsided in intensity, leading the grateful Thi to ply the medium Ky with expensive dishes of food since he refused cash payment. Current Health Status: Unknown. The Arachnophobe: Mr. Ai After learning from a fortune-teller about his dead grandfather’s predilection for spiders and thus finally being able to identify the source of his visions and malaise, Ai took the next step and went to a medium. Her recommendation was to construct a bigger and more elaborate family altar. The grandfather wished to be the main attraction of this new and improved ban tho, according to the medium. Ai unveiled the monstrosity in late 1997. Few of us who saw it had ever stopped to think that plastic waterfalls could be made large enough to accommodate such copious amounts of dry ice. Curiously, the only aesthetically pleasing part of the altar was the array of spiders Ai had carefully engraved in the wood. This must have pleased the grandfather, for the images of arachnids that hounded and terrorized his grandson disappeared. In a letter I received in 1999, Ai reported that even his listlessness had gone away. It must have returned, however, for his correspondence ceased in 2002. Current Health Status: Unknown, but improved as of 2002.

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“So Fat Inside”: Mrs. Duong Mrs. Duong often told me she loved me, for I was as fat on the outside as she was on the inside. She had unintentionally slandered a junior comrade during the war, and the young woman had been killed shortly after the ugly encounter. Duong had been ravenously hungry ever since. “Believe me,” she said, “if I was normal and I ate this much, I would be fatter than you!” A glutton not by nature but by the machinations of her long-ago comrade, Mrs. Duong had tried the services of three different mediums. Where they had apparently failed, Hoa succeeded. She told her client something sensible: tell everyone who knew the dead woman that she had been innocent of the accusation of theft made against her by Duong. By contrast, the previous mediums had separately recommended pig feasts, leeches, and eating rocks. Mrs. Duong was working on how to restore her angry ghost’s good name when I left Vietnam. Current Health Status: Unknown.

Modern Woman: Vi I got but a single glimpse of Vi’s mutilated chest, but once was enough. After that time, she let me know whenever her brother’s ghost made an appearance. He was a regular presence in her life, so much so that Vi joked about not needing to make an appointment for him. There was nothing funny about her situation, and she desperately wanted to see a medium. She had in fact made an appointment with one based in Saigon in November 1996. Unfortunately, the waiting list was long and she had not yet gone by the time I left Vietnam more than a year later. Vi herself left Vietnam in 1999. She’d married one of her French clients and moved with him to Paris, where he worked as a chef. During a visit to her country the following year, Vi was able to meet with the medium in Saigon. On returning to France, she followed the instructions this medium channeled and spent over sixty thousand dollars to install her brother’s spirit in a Buddhist temple in the Paris suburbs. Every day in

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perpetuity nuns will pray for his soul. So far, this has been effective. Beautiful Vi stopped ripping her chest and got plastic surgery to repair what had once been ruined. Current Health Status: Recovered; one episode of voices and pain (but no self-mutilation) in 2001.

Appendix 1 Table of Suffering

This table includes all of the informants I interviewed about their troubles with ghosts, listed in alphabetical order. Ages are how old they were at the time this research was conducted (1996 and 1997). Unless otherwise noted, the status of symptoms is unknown as I was unable to learn the results of treatment efforts. Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Ai, 25, male, Hanoi

Amnesia, listlessness, dread, visions of spiders

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by fortuneteller: possession by dead grandfather

Symptoms lessen after victim erects a larger family altar per medium’s instructions

An, 38, male, Hanoi

Severe respiratory problems, occasional glossolalia

Medium diagnosis: possession by childhood friend

Symptoms stop after wife retrieves figurative remains of dead friend from Gulf of Thailand

An Thien, 3, male, Hanoi outskirts

Violent behavior, sleepwalking

Fortune-teller diagnosis: possession by dead granduncle

Symptoms persist as victim’s parents look for a medium

Anh, 31, male, Thai Nguyen

Amnesia, nightmares, glossolalia

Medium diagnosis: possession by a ghoul

Extra offerings on Feast of Wandering Souls per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Anh, 46, male, Hanoi

Shaking, sleep problems, headaches, inability to concentrate, voices, pain

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead mother and brother

Symptoms stop when victim’s children are made to “properly” honor their grandmother and uncle’s spirits per medium’s instructions

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Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Anh, 54, female, Hanoi

Forgetfulness, violence, out-of-character behaviors, voices

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead father and aunts

Symptoms lessen after victim purchases headstones for each of the tormenting spirits per medium’s instructions

Anh Thu, 18, Female, Hanoi

Voices, nightmares

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandfather and grandaunts

Symptoms stop after victim’s mother (Mrs. Anh, above) makes amends per medium’s instructions

Ba, 62, female, Hanoi

Depression, nightmares, headaches

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead nephew and nieces

Victim raising money to send grandson to retrieve remains in three separate locations per information given by medium; symptoms persist

Ba, 65, female, Bac Ninh Province

Convulsions, head pain, voices, visions of death

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead children

Victim increases offerings to the dead to twice a day per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Ba Hai, 71, female, Bac Ninh Province

Voices, visions of death, sleepwalking, pain

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead daughters, nephew, and niece

Victim increases offerings to twice a day, prays daily at Buddhist pagoda per mediums instructions; symptoms lessen

Bang, 61, male, Hanoi

Inability to close his hands, voices, hallucinations

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim working with medium to identify family members of the dead comrade and precise location of his remains; symptoms have lessened

Banh, 53, female, Hanoi outskirts

Eye pain, voices, listlessness

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead infant

Victim and her husband install memory of dead baby in a Buddhist pagoda for perpetual care per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Bao, 30s, male, Hanoi

Violent behavior, voices

Family’s diagnosis: influenced by a ghoul

Special offerings made at the spot where ghoul was thought to live; symptoms persist; plans made to visit medium

Bao Chau, 21, female, Hanoi

Nightmares, dim vision, shaking

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead half-brothers

Symptoms lessen after victim and her sister shave their heads as penance for disrespecting the dead per medium’s instructions

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

149

Treatment

Bao Ngoc, 22, female, Hanoi

Compulsive behaviors, nightmares, glossolalia

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead half-brothers

Symptoms lessen after victim shaves head as penance for dishonoring the dead, per medium’s instructions

Bay, 23, female, Hanoi

Fainting, voices, hallucinations

Maternal diagnosis: possession by dead grandparents

Victim refuses to “atone” for the behaviors thought to have angered her ancestors; symptoms persist

Bay, 48, female, Thai Nguyen

Voices, shaking, inability to concentrate

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead father

Symptoms stop after victim’s son makes offerings per medium’s instructions

Be, 56, male, Hanoi

Skin disorders, inability to concentrate

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: haunted by dead comrade

Symptoms stop after installing dead comrade’s memory in pagoda, become “no problem” after funeral service in Cambodia (per medium’s advice)

Bich My, 35, female, Hanoi outskirts

Out-of-character behaviors, trance walking

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead uncle

Symptoms lessen through prayers and special offerings to the uncle

Bieng, 64, male, Hanoi outskirts

Violent behavior, voices, chest pain

Wife’s diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead cousin

Symptoms persist, no action taken

Binh, 40s, male, Hanoi

Violent behavior, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by a ghoul

Victim intended to bring a hated acquaintance to the place where the ghoul lived, as a replacement soul

Binh Minh, 2 female, Hanoi outskirts

Night terrors, withdrawal

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandfather and granduncles

Victim’s mother to organize large death anniversary feast per medium’s instructions

Binh Thi, 40s, female, Hanoi

Voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead sister

Victim and family pray daily at Catholic church; victim makes special offerings to her sister; symptoms persist

Bo, 45, male, Hanoi

Voices, coughing up blood

Self-diagnosis: possession by dead son

Symptoms persist; plans made to consult medium

Bon, 50s, male, Vinh

Head pains, dim vision, amnesia, nightmares, voices

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead wife

Victim’s daughter intends to make amends through offerings and prayer per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessened after consultation with medium

150

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Can, 30, male, Hanoi

Impotence, voices

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by fortuneteller: caused by spirit of dead father

Victim intends to stop visiting prostitutes, as fortune-teller advised from her reading of the cards

Cay, 36, female, Hai Phong

Voices, temporary paralysis, temporary amnesia

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead parents

Victim and her siblings intend to relocate parents’ remains to a better location and provide more expensive afterlife lodgings per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen after consultation with medium

Chanh, 20s, female, Hanoi

Heart palpitations, voices, dread

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead grandfather

Victim and family in process of building new family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms have lessened

Chay, 58, male, Hanoi

Crushing pains, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead comrades

Victim feels he has no choice but to suffer the pain his unit mates felt when they died in a bunker and he was the lone survivor; will not see a medium; symptoms persist

Che, 40s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Depression, voices, pain

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Symptoms lessen as victim searches for the child left behind by dead comrade per medium’s instructions

Chi, 19, female, Hanoi outskirts

Temporary paralysis, voices, visions

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of grandmother and greatgrandmother

Victim certain symptoms will stop if she quits the job that brings her into close contact with “bad” people

Chi, 20s, female, Hanoi

Hearing problems, voices

Fortune-teller’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead grandaunt (her namesake)

Symptoms stop after victim vows to remember this spirit “as if her mother” per medium’s instructions

Chi, 43, female, Ha Tay Province

MEDIUM

Chi, 40s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Neck and head pain, dim vision, voices, amnesia

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead sister

Victim and niece must atone for neglecting the memory of the dead sister per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen with each visit to the medium

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

151

Chi, 50s, female, Hanoi

Voices, amnesia

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by husband’s illegitimate child

Victim refuses to include this dead child in her family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Chi, 60s, female, Phu Tho Province

Nightmares, night terrors

Family’s diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead husband and father-in-law

Cured by her daughter’s (Ms. Thuy) rectification of wrongs

Chin, 32, male, Hanoi

Head pain, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandfather

Symptoms stop after victim and his wife name their newborn after the grandfather per medium’s instructions

Chinh, 20s, male, Hanoi

Chest pains, amnesia, voices, nightmares

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead paternal male relatives

Victim “outed” by the ghosts and told to reject homosexuality; victim cannot comply and symptoms persist

Cuu, 70s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Compulsive behaviors, amnesia, voices, obsessive thoughts

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of fi rst wife and children

Victim says he is “too old” to try to get well when his children insist he visit a medium; symptoms persist

Dai Duong, 24, male, Hanoi

Pain, voices, nightmares, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead grandmother and great-grandfather

Symptoms persist, even after victim confesses to family that he stole offerings of food and money meant for these spirits

Dai, 40s, male, Hanoi

Pain, listlessness

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead sisterin-law

Victim and family pray daily at the Catholic church; symptoms persist

Dang, 33, male, Hai Phong

Voices, listlessness

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead parents

Victim and siblings to renovate parents’ grave site per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen after consultation with medium

Dang, 50s, male, Ha Tay Province

Generalized malaise, frequent illness in the form of colds, inability to feel warm, nightmares , (this is also experienced by his entire household of 9 family members)

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead brothers and uncles

Victims are searching for the remains of their relatives with the assistance of the medium; symptoms so far continuing

Dang, 62, male, Thai Nguyen

Voices, amnesia, outof-character behaviors

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead father-in-law

Victim and his children in process of building new family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

152

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Danh, 50s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, voices, hallucinations

Medium diagnosis: possession by southern woman killed by victim

Victim searching for family of this spirit in order to make amends per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Dao Hai, 30s, male, Hanoi

Voices, olfactory assaults

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead father

Symptoms stop after victim constructs jasmine garden in memory of dead father per medium’s instructions

De, 20s, male, Hanoi

Pain, voices, dim vision

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of friend’s dead grandmother and great-grandfather

Symptoms stop after victim’s friend confesses to his family that he stole offerings meant for these spirits

Dien, 68, male, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of one or both of his dead brothers

Refuses to provide his angry ghosts with a spirit bride as recommended by fortune-teller; symptoms persist

Dien, 70s, male, Hanoi

Forgetfulness, obsessive thoughts, visions of death, voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of “all the war dead”

Daily prayers and offerings; symptoms persist

Diep, 18, female, Hanoi and Vinh

Toothache, dim vision

Medium diagnosis: possession by father’s dead fi rst wife

Victim intends to make offerings and amends to offended spirit and to stop smoking per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop after visit to medium

Dinh, 40s, male, Hanoi

Voices, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead schoolmates

Monthly visits to spot where schoolmates were killed, offerings laid; symptoms persist

Doan, 70, female, Hai Phong Province

Chest pain, voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead son

Victim waits to join her son in the otherworld; symptoms persist

Doc Lap, 14 male, Hanoi

“funny smells,” voices, amnesia

Parents’ diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead grandfather

Victim’s father makes a garden for the spirit per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Duc, 40s, male, Da Lat

Voices, headaches, depression

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead mother

Victim agrees to reconcile with wife per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Dung, 23, female, Hanoi

Glossolalia, out-ofcharacter behaviors

Medium diagnosis: possession by mother’s deceased fi rst husband

Victim includes her mother’s fi rst husband on her own family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

153

Treatment

Dung, 54, male, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, violence, voices, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of man who fi rst owned victim’s pedicab

Victim refurbishes the pedicab and has a calligrapher paint the dead man’s name on it; symptoms lessen

Dung, 60s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Out-of-character behaviors, voices, difficulty breathing

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of husband’s dead cousin

Victim gives money to dead cousin’s closest family members; symptoms persist

Dung Anh, 16, female, Hanoi

Skin problems on face, voices

Grandmother’s diagnosis: caused by spirits of granduncle and his family

Victim is relying on her father to fi nd appropriate Buddhist scriptural solution and is saving money to visit a medium

Duong, 55, female, Hanoi outskirts

Perpetual hunger, voices, dim vision

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead comrade

Victim working on having dead comrade’s good name rehabilitated per medium’s instructions

Duyen, 20s, female, Hanoi

Burning face, voices, nightmares, chest pain

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandmother and great-grandparents

Victim ends relationship with Swiss boyfriend per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Ha, 20s, female, Hanoi

Neck pain, voices, feeling of dread

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead mother

Victim and her aunt (who raised her) must make amends to the offended mother per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen with each visit to medium

Ha, 29, female, Hanoi

Anxiety, voices, shaking

Medium diagnosis: possession by husband’s dead grandfather

Victim names her newborn son after the spirit per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen

Ha, 41, female, Hanoi

Pain in head, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead cousin

Victim makes $500 offering of food to all angry ghosts on Hell Day per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Hai, 33, male, Hanoi

Nightmares, sleepwalking, occasional dim vision

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead grandfather

Efforts to make the grandfather “comfortable”; symptoms persist

Hai, 45, female, Hanoi

Voices, hair loss

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead son

Plans made to consult medium; symptoms persist

Hai, 60s, female, Vinh

Nightmares, amnesia, voices, burning sensation on skin

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead adopted daughter

Victim intends to see a medium; symptoms persist

154

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead grandmother

Victim makes a point of praying to/for her grandmother everyday, plans to see a medium to persuade grandmother to leave her at peace

Hang, 22, female, Hanoi

Depression, voices, temporary paralysis, hearing problems

Hang, 28, female, Hanoi

MEDIUM

Hang, 40s, female, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead mother-in-law

Victim’s husband agrees to a reconciliation per medium’s instructions; lesser symptoms persist

Hanh, 29, female, Hanoi

Violent behavior, voices, nightmares

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead father

Victim has her father’s ashes rememorialized per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Hanh, 38, female, Hai Phong

Voices, headaches, temporary paralysis

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead parents

Victim and siblings to renovate parents’ grave site per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessened after visit to medium

He, 55, male, Hanoi outskirts

Out-of-character behaviors, excessive salivation

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim writing letters and making appointments with officials to rehabilitate the name of dead comrade per medium’s instructions

Hien, 42, male, Hanoi

Voices, listlessness

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead parents

Victim considering getting married per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Hien, 47, male, Hanoi

Listlessness, inability to concentrate, trance walking, amnesia

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: haunted by dead comrade

Symptoms lessen after installing dead comrade’s memory in pagoda; disappear after funeral service in Cambodia (per medium’s advice)

Hien, 51, male, Ha Tay Province

Night terrors, voices, pain

Medium diagnosis: possession by woman killed by victim

Victim and friend looking for relatives of dead woman per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessened after visit to medium

Hiep, 40, female, Ha Bac Province

Nightmares, obsessive thoughts

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead boyfriend

Victim cannot include her dead boyfriend in her family altar for fear of offending her husband; symptoms persist

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

1 55

Treatment

Hiep, 44, female, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, amnesia, pain in rear end

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead fi rst husband

Victim refuses to be “threatened” by dead husband; symptoms persist

Hoa, 18, female, Thai Nguyen

Nightmares, voices, amnesia

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead grandfather

Victim and family building new family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Hoa, 40s, female, Hanoi

MEDIUM

Hoa, 60s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Out-of-character behaviors, violence, amnesia, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by unidentified dead enemy

Victim continuing to see medium to identify source of problem; symptoms persist

Hoang, 38, male, Hanoi

Amnesia, automatic writing, voices, hallucinations

Mother’s diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead uncle and his family

Victim pursuing Buddhist scriptural solutions; symptoms are rare

Hong, 50, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, compulsive behaviors

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead mother

Victim and sister attempting to have their mother posthumously honored with Heroic Mother title per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop after visit to medium

Hong, 50s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Out-of-character behaviors, glossolalia, violence, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead husband

Victim decides to never remarry per dead husband’s wishes made known through nightmare

Hung, 60s, male, Hanoi

Inability to concentrate, , sleepwalking, headaches, voices, hallucinations

Medium diagnosis: possession by American killed by victim

Victim cannot meet with the dead American’s children per medium’s instruction; makes efforts to befriend all foreigners and this lessens his symptoms

Huong, 20, female, Hanoi

Depression, voices, shaking hands, amnesia

Medium diagnosis: possession by exboyfriend’s dead grandfather

Victim cannot marry exboyfriend per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen after visit to medium

Huong, 39, female, Hai Phong Province

Voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of unrelated baby who died in victim’s arms

Victim makes daily prayers and offerings for the dead baby; symptoms persist

Huong, 45, female, Hanoi

Nightmares, out-ofcharacter behaviors

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: haunted by dead comrade

Victim performs funeral service for dead comrade in Cambodia (recommended by medium); symptoms stop

1 56

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Huu, 26, male, Hanoi

Pain, voices, dim vision

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead family members

Victims makes increased and richer offerings; symptoms persist; victim intends to see a medium

Huu, late 80s, male, Hanoi

Obsessive dreams, shaking

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of all those lost in war

Victim considers condition “normal”; symptoms persist

Huy, 35, male, Rach Gia

Pain in the ears, hallucinations

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: , possession by dead brother

Victim and wife to send money to brother’s child, per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessened after visit to medium

Khinh, 50s, male, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, including drawing and tormenting cats

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by fortuneteller: caused by spirit of dead brother

Victim does not resist the possession; symptoms less destructive

Kim, 29, female, Hanoi

Forgetfulness, obsessive dreams

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead father

Victim makes amends to her father for forgetting him (as relayed by the father through the medium), new family altar installed; symptoms stop

Kinh, 60s, male, Hanoi

Sleepwalking, amnesia, hallucinations

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead comrade

Victim planning trip to Central Highlands to retrieve remains per medium’s instructions

Ky, 37, male, Hanoi outskirts

MEDIUM

Lam, 41, male, Ha Giang Province

Glossolalia, out-ofcharacter behaviors, pain in feet

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim makes large money gift to dead comrade’s family per medium’s advice; symptoms lessen

Lam, 60s, male, Ha Tay Province

Voices, nightmares, out-of-character behaviors

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead parents

No treatment sought; symptoms persist

Lan, 50, female, Thai Binh

Nightmares, voices, temporary paralysis

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim and friend search for the child of the dead comrade per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist but are less frequent

Lien Anh, 15, male, Thai Nguyen

Out-of-character behaviors, episodes of rage

Medium diagnosis: influenced by a ghoul

Family searches for a spirit priest to perform an exorcism; symptoms persist

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

157

Treatment

Lien Anh, 46, male, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, dread

Self-diagnosis: caused by unknown spirit of war dead

Victim has wife cook special rice and pork dishes for offerings to all angry ghosts; symptoms lessen for some days after offerings then return

Lieu, 30, female, Ha Giang Province

Frequent waking trance states

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead father

No treatment options offered by medium; symptoms persist

Linh, 58, male, Hanoi

Head pains, voices, visions of death, temporary paralysis

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead parents

Victim wants older brother to take over making parents’ death anniversary per tradition; brother claims poverty; symptoms persist

Loi, 18, male, Hanoi

Nightmares, glossolalia, amnesia, convulsions

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead half-sister

Victim’s mother refuses to comply with medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Luu, 66, female, Hanoi

Pain in back and arm, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead son

Son-in-law retrieves remains of the son per medium’s information; symptoms stop

Ly Hoa, 62, female, Ha Giang Province

Pain in left side, voices

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead brother

Thirty days of special offerings made at the family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Mai, 22, female, Hanoi

Fainting spells, voices

Parents’ diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead siblings

Victim encouraged to honor siblings with a family altar (she lives in a dorm); symptoms lessen when she erects one but return when roommate steals the offerings

Mai, 28, female, Hanoi outskirts

Out-of-character behaviors, amnesia, episodes of rage

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead uncle

Victim advised by medium to make pilgrimage to uncle’s village to make amends and offerings

Mai Ly, 49, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, back pain, temporary paralysis, hallucinations

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead daughter

Victim working with veterans’ group and medium to locate area where daughter died so she can retrieve her remains per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen after visit to medium

158

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Manh, 60s, male, Hanoi

Back pain, compulsive behaviors

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead child

Victim’s wife refuses to comply with medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Minh, 25, male, Hanoi

Inability to concentrate, skin disorders

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead aunt

Victim told by ghost through medium to stop flirting with his cousin (ghost’s daughter); symptoms stop when he does so and makes special offerings

My Anh, 10, female, Hanoi

Nightmares, anxiety about dying

Parents’ diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead brother

No treatment sought; symptoms persist

My Anh, 13, female, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, inability to sleep, chest rash

Family’s diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead grandfather

Victim made to sleep at grandfather’s grave site as penance for disrespecting him; symptoms persist

My Duong, 24, female, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, voices, compulsive behaviors

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead father

Victim kowtows hundreds of time to her father’s image per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

My Hanh, 5, female, outside Hanoi

Nightmares

Parents’ diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead grandfathers

Victim does penance with silence and fasting; symptoms stop

My Huong, 20, female, Hanoi

Shaking, voices, inability to concentrate

Family’s diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead aunt

Victim prays daily at Catholic church in Hanoi, intends to perform volunteer work; symptoms persist

My Lan, 34, female, Hai Hung Province

Nightmares, amnesia

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by mother’s dead Amerasian son

Victim’s father admits that his wife had borne an Amerasian child and he forced her to abandon him. Per medium’s instructions, spirit installed in family altar; symptoms stop

Nang, 30s, female, Hanoi

Pain in ears, voices, frequent startle reflex

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead parents

Victim and husband must make special daily offerings to atone for their neglect per medium’s instructions; symptoms return when victims get negligent

Net, 30s, female, Ha Bac Province

Out-of-character behaviors, obsessive thoughts, pain in arms and abdomen

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead father

Victim learned through the medium that the burial plot for her father does not contain his remains; symptoms persist

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Net, 48, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, pain, dim vision

Nhan, 57, female, Hanoi

MEDIUM

Nu, 60s, female, Hanoi

MEDIUM

Pham, 50s, male, Hoa Binh

Diagnosis

159

Treatment

Medium diagnosis: possession by woman killed by victim’s husband

Victim’s husband looking for relatives of this spirit in order to make amends per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Listlessness, excessive sweating, voices, hallucinations, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead brother

Victim cannot pay for medium but wants to; symptoms persist; victim enters monastery for peace of mind

Phi, 15, male, Hai Hung Province

Voices, temporary paralysis

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by grandmother’s dead Amerasian son

Family secret revealed and the spirit is included in the family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Phong, 20, female, Hanoi

Shaking, inability to concentrate, sleep problems

Medium diagnosis: Victim performs prayers possession by dead and apologies and makes grandmother and uncle offerings to her relatives’ spirits per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Phong, 60s, male, Hanoi

Voices, pain, out-ofcharacter behaviors

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead wife

Victim must renounce sex with prostitutes, per medium’s instructions; status of symptoms unknown

Phu, 65, male, Hanoi

Head and neck pain, lightheadedness, voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead brother

Victim sends money for offerings to the memory of the dead brother; symptoms stop

Phuc, 50s, male, Ha Tay Province

Voices, nightmares, depression, out-ofcharacter behaviors

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim organizing journey with friends (also victims) to retrieve remains of dead comrade per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop after consultation with medium

Phuong, 36, female, Hanoi

MEDIUM

Phuong, 46, female, Hanoi

Nightmares, headaches

Medium diagnosis: possession by husband’s dead fi rst wife

Victim must provide special offerings to this spirit per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

160

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Phuong, 59, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, constriction of chest, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead son

Victim certain dead son is angry that junior member of family is being sent to Australia for school; extra offerings do not work; symptoms persist; victim wishes to see a medium

Que, 50s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, hallucinations, pain in the hands

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead mother

Victim working to have her mother reclassified as a Heroic Mother per medium’s instructions; all symptoms but hand pain stop

Quyen, 18, female, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by woman killed by victim’s father

Victim’s father in process of locating this spirit’s living kin in order to make amends per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Rai, 30s, male, Hanoi

Temporary blindness, hallucinations

Medium diagnosis: possession by wife’s dead parents

Victim must make regular offerings of (expensive) rice wine and sweets, as well as weekly offerings of hell money, and keep candle and incense lit at all hours per medium’s instructions; victim not consistent in doing these things, symptoms periodically return

Ro, 39, male, Hanoi

Violent behavior, throat pain, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead sister and mother

Victim is considering suicide and consulting a medium

Rong, 40s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Amnesia, trance walking, enhanced hearing

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead younger brother

Victim and family organized large death anniversary feast for the slain brother; symptoms stop

Sam, 47, male, Hanoi

Night terrors, enraged glossolalia, convulsions

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by enemy fighter

Victim visits the mother of his possessing spirit to return the son’s property and makes offerings at their family altar; symptoms stop

San, 16, male, Thai Nguyen

Nightmares, amnesia, voices, glossolalia

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead grandfather

Victim and family in process of erecting new family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms have lessened

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

161

Treatment

Sang, 23, male, Hanoi

Nightmares, voices, listlessness

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead great-grandfather

Victim unable to comply with medium’s instructions due to his father’s Communist beliefs that offerings to the dead are wasteful; symptoms lessen when victim and brother make expensive offerings at a pagoda

Si, 11, male, outside Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, nightmares, convulsions

Parents’ diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead grandfathers

Victim does penance with silence and fasting; symptoms stop

Sinh, 63, male, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, pain, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead son

Victim certain that dead son is angry that a grandson is being sent to Australia for college, but unsure what to do; symptoms persist

Ta, 30s, female, Hanoi

Depression, voices, out-of-character behaviors

Self-diagnosis: caused by angry war ghost (unidentified)

Victim not permitted by husband to seek medium; symptoms persist

Tac, 50s, male, Hanoi

Forgetfulness, compulsion to squeeze dirt in his hands, headaches

Self-diagnosis: caused by “all” the war ghosts

No treatment sought; symptoms persist

Tai, 68, female, Thai Nguyen

Chest pains, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead husband

Victim’s grandson makes offerings/amends per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Tam, 4, male, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, night terrors, excessive sweating, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandfather and granduncles

Victim’s father to organize large death anniversary feast for all three dead relatives at once per medium’s instructions

Tam, 36, male, Hanoi

Nightmares, voices, dread

Girlfriend’s mother’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by girlfriend’s dead father

Victim’s girlfriend refuses to marry him per medium’s instructions to not marry; symptoms persist

Tam, 40s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Amnesia, sporadic violence

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead parents

Victim cannot afford to make expensive offerings and mount a “huge” death anniversary feast per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

162

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Tam, 60s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, glossolalia, nightmares, choking sensation, visions

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by fi rst wife’s dead Amerasian son

Victim, per medium’s instructions, tells his children that their mother gave birth to an Amerasian and he forced her to abandon the baby (who subsequently died); spirit now installed in family altar; symptoms lessen

Tan, 50s, male, Hai Phong Province

Nightmares, voices, sleepwalking, amnesia, dim vision

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim and friends (also victims) planning journey to Central Highlands to collect remains of their friend per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Thach, 63, male, Hanoi and Haiphong

Heart palpitations, voices, sound of a bell ringing

Self-diagnosis after consulting fortuneteller: caused by spirit of dead comrade

Victim sends burial location and circumstances of death to the authorities to pass on to the dead man’s family; symptoms persist

Thanh, 5, male, Hanoi

Glossolalia, night terrors

Medium diagnosis: possession by father’s childhood friend

Remains of father’s friend are “retrieved”; symptoms stop

Thanh, 17, male, Phu Tho Province

Dim vision, inability to concentrate, violent behavior

Family’s diagnosis: caused by spirits of father and grandfather

Victim is cured by his sister’s (Ms. Thuy) rectification of her wrongs

Thanh, 19, male, Hanoi

Shaking, inability to concentrate, sleep problems

Medium diagnosis: Victim and his sister (Ms. possession by dead Phong) beg forgiveness grandmother and uncle from and make special offerings to their forebears per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Thanh, 20, male, Hanoi and Thai Nguyen

Listlessness, nightmares, dread

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandfather

Victim makes amends and special offerings per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Thanh, 57, female, Hanoi

Temporary inability to walk, temporary blindness

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead daughter

Victim working on reconciling with her living daughter per medium’s instructions; intends to organize large death anniversary feast; symptoms persist

Thi, 35, female, Hanoi

Depression, episodes of panic

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead sister

Victim reconciled with her mother per medium’s recommendation; symptoms have lessened

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

163

Treatment

Thien Binh, 8, male, Hanoi outskirts

Night terrors, withdrawal, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead ancestors

Victim’s older sister per medium’s instructions keeps candles lit at all times for the ancestors and provides them with special foods everyday for one lunar mon th; symptoms stop

Thinh, 20, male, Hanoi

Temporary paralysis, voices, heart palpitations

Grandparents’ diagnosis: caused by spirit of victim’s dead uncle

Victim wishes to see a medium to speak directly to offending spirit; symptoms persist

Thieu, 50s, male, Thai Nguyen

Twitching, headaches, amnesia

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead sister

Victim continues meeting with medium per dead sister’s wish to “be in contact” with him; symptoms have lessened

Thieu Anh, 12, female, Hanoi

Nightmares, anxiety about dying

Parents’ diagnosis: possession by dead brother

No treatment sought; symptoms persist

Thoi, 38, male, Hanoi

Forgetfulness, amnesia

Family’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by mother’s dead Amerasian son

Family secret is revealed and illegitimate brother’s soul is installed in family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen

Thu, 50s, female, Bac Thai Province

Obsessive worry, nightmares, voices, glossolalia

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead husband

Victim’s daughter refuses to marry despite medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Thuong, 21, male, Hanoi

Obsessive dreams, voices, temporary paralysis and amnesia

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead great-grandfather

Victim unable to provide spirit with extra offerings per medium’s instructions, because his father is a Communist who believes that is wasteful; symptoms lessen when victim makes offerings at local pagoda

Thuong, 30s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Anxiety, shaking

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead mother

Victim’s mother’s spirit is installed in pagoda for perpetual care per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Thuong, 60s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Compulsive behaviors, inability to concentrate, voices

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead infant

Victim and his wife install the memory of their baby in a pagoda per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

164

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Thuy, 8, female, Thai Binh

Nightmares, voices, glossolalia

Medium diagnosis: possession by father’s dead relatives

Victim’s mother trying to regain custody of her and her brother per medium’s instructions; status of symptoms unknown

Thuy, 26, female, Hanoi

Paralysis, inability to concentrate, dim vision

Family’s diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead father and grandfather

Victim makes amends at family altar and provides the dead with elaborate home in the afterlife; symptoms stop

Thuy Duyen 27, female, Hanoi outskirts

Inability to concentrate, listlessness, depression

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead mother-in-law

Victim makes special offerings to this spirit, and spirit is installed in pagoda per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Tien, 19, male, Hanoi

Rash, malaise, impotence

Family’s diagnosis: possession by dead mother

Victim ends relationship with girlfriend; symptoms stop

Tien, 65, male, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, amnesia, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead comrade

Victim tells comrade’s grandchildren about their relative’s moment of death per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Tinh, 12, male, Thai Nguyen

Night terrors, hallucinations, ringing in ears

Parents’ diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead great-grandmother

Victim makes special offerings to this spirit; symptoms stop

To, 50s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, amnesia, chest pains

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead wife

Victim installs wife’s memory in pagoda and makes special offerings and begs forgiveness, per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Toan, 32, female, Hai Phong

Voices, temporary paralysis

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead parents

Victim and siblings to renovate parents’ grave site per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen after visit with medium

Toi, 6, male, Thai Binh

Nightmares, voices, glossolalia

Medium diagnosis: possession by father’s dead relatives

Victim’s mother trying to regain custody of him and his sister per medium’s instructions; status of symptoms unknown

Tong, 60s, male, Hanoi outskirts

Obsessive dreams, voices, hip pain

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead cousin

Victim working with medium to locate remains; symptoms lessen after each meeting

Trac, 50s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Inability to concentrate, nightmares, amnesia

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead brother

Victim’s brother’s remains are recovered and funerary rites performed per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

165

Treatment

Trang, 28, female, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, voices, headaches, temporary paralysis

Medium diagnosis: possession by children’s father’s dead relatives

Victim working to regain custody of her children per medium’s instructions; symptoms persist

Trang, 34, female, Hanoi outskirts

Nightmares, voices

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead father and uncles

Victim planning large death anniversary feast to make amends for offending these spirits per medium’s instructions

Trung, 60s, male, Hanoi

Eye problems, headaches

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead nephew

Victim attempts to appease the ghost by informally adopting the child of a poor relative; symptoms persist

Tuc, 48, male, Hanoi outskirts

Fainting and nausea,

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead wife

Victim includes soul of dead wife’s unborn baby on his family altar per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Tung, 40, male, Hanoi

Obsessive thoughts, voices, impotence

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead girlfriend

Victim vows to remain unmarried per medium’s instructions (and ghost’s demands); symptoms persist

Tuyet, 30, female, Hanoi

MEDIUM

Tuyet, 64, female, Hanoi

Out-of-character behaviors, depression, voices, eye pain

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead fi rst husband

Victim, per medium’s instructions. berates the children and grandchildren of her fi rst husband for not caring for his memory properly; symptoms held in check

Tuyet My, 33, female, Hanoi

Dim vision, breathing problems

Mother’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead father

Victim, refuses to marry her boyfriend per medium’s instructions; symptoms “not a big problem”

Ty, 22, male, Hanoi

Inability to concentrate, amnesia, nightmares

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead mother

Victim installs mother’s memory in Buddhist pagoda; symptoms lessen

Van, 20, female, Hanoi

Inability to concentrate, hallucinations

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead grandfathers and greatgrandmother

Victim makes special offerings and remembrances per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen

Van, 33, female, Rach Gia

Voices, temporary deafness

Husband’s diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead brother-in-law

Victim and her husband to give fi nancial support to dead man’s child per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessened after visit with medium

166

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

Treatment

Vang, 50s, male, Hanoi

Compulsive behaviors, trance walking, amnesia, pain in abdomen and head

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead fi rst wife and sons

Victim’s current wife and children do penance and make offerings per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Vi, 17, female, Hanoi

Voices, nightmares, shaking

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead granduncle

Victim must make sure this spirit is given better offerings by the rest of her family per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop after fi rst visit to medium

Vi, 27, female, Hanoi

Self-mutilation, voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead brother

Victim installs brother’s spirit in Buddhist temple in France per medium’s instructions; symptoms stop

Vi Thu, 50s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Pain, hallucinations, amnesia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead brothers

Victim attempts to honor these spirits; symptoms persist; she intends to see a medium

Viet, 42, male, Hanoi

Nightmares, inability to concentrate

Maternal diagnosis: caused by spirit of dead brother

Son-in-law retrieves remains of the son per medium’s information; symptoms stop

Vinh, 34, male, Hai Phong

Amnesia, voices

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead parents

Victim and siblings to renovate parents’ grave site per medium’s instructions; symptoms lessen after visit to medium

Vo, 64, male, Hanoi

Inability to concentrate, pain in leg

Medium diagnosis: possession by dead brothers

Victim provides home for nephew’s children per information provided by medium; symptoms lessen

Vu, 60s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, difficulty breathing, pain

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by dead children and spouse

Victim intends to visit area where husband died and perform funeral ritual for him per medium’s instructions

Vuong, 77, female, Hanoi

Generalized pain, voices, hallucinations

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead children

Victim cannot make the kinds of offerings she’d like because of fi nancial constraints; symptoms persist

Xuan, 40s, female, Hanoi

Amnesia, automatic writing, glossolalia

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of the dead who want her to relay messages

Victim wishes to learn how to control these episodes as mediums do; symptoms persist

APPENDIX 1

Informant

Symptoms

Diagnosis

1 67

Treatment

Xuan Anh, 23, female, Hanoi outskirts

Compulsive behaviors, constant worry, voices

Self-diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead ancestors

Victim is certain that symptoms will stop if she returns to her home province to live with her family; no plans made to do so

Xuong, 84, male, Hanoi

Out-of-character rage and violence, pain in legs

Family’s diagnosis: caused by spirits of dead children

Victim refuses any treatment or advice, saying that he deserves to share their pain; symptoms persist

Xuyen, 20s, female, Hanoi outskirts

Voices, nightmares, amnesia, depression

Self-diagnosis, confi rmed by medium: possession by husband’s dead male relatives

Victim using various homeopathic fertility treatments per medium’s instructions that she “must” have a child; symptoms persist

Appendix 2 Chronology of the War

August–September 1945: The Birth of Communist North Vietnam Taking advantage of the diversion created by the Japanese surrender to the Allies on August 15, the Viet Minh Nationalist Front enters Hanoi and seizes power from the defeated Japanese and Vichy French regime. On September 2, Ho Chi Minh—as president of the National Liberation Committee that has taken control of Hanoi—declares the independence of Vietnam, now called the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. He reads its new Declaration of Independence, which states that “nothing is more precious than independence and liberty.”

1946–1954: The French War in Vietnam Charged with maintaining order in chaotic Vietnam at the end of World War II, the British Expeditionary Force, going against U.S. advice, helps to return the French to Saigon in 1946, thus beginning a period of widespread violence in both North and South Vietnam. The Viet Minh wages its guerrilla war with strong popular support, drawing the French army out of its base in Saigon and hamstringing it in the provinces. The Viet Minh are supplied with arms, training, and ideological training by first the Soviet Union and then overland from China after its own communist revolution in 1949. Their French opponents are backed by American money, though the United States has no faith in France’s ability to stave

170

APPENDIX 2

off communism in Southeast Asia and is not happy about the prospect of France retaining a valuable piece of colonial property after they themselves vacated the Philippines. Perhaps this is why agents of the Office of Strategic Services—precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency— provide Ho Chi Minh with arms and intelligence throughout this period. By 1951 France has withdrawn completely from the North, which faces the double task of fighting a technologically superior enemy on the southern front and reshaping the traditional Vietnam of the north into a shining example of communist propriety. To that end, the new ideology is promoted in The New Ways, fi rst published in 1947, a guide to the correct behavior of the ideal citizen in the new Vietnam. Trung Dinh Phu, an eighteen-year-old student in Hanoi, gets swept up in the revolutionary fervor. He delays getting his degree in order to assist the Viet Minh in various areas around the north. His parents, successful merchants in Hanoi’s old quarter, are made to forfeit their fabric shop in 1952. Phu’s zeal and ingenuity earn him the respect of his compatriots, who later on remove from his identity papers the exact nature of his family origins, particularly the information that his mother is Catholic.

1954: The End of the French Colonial Era General Navarre of France stages an all-out battle at Dien Bien Phu, a remote mountain command post, thinking to lure Gen. Vo Nguyen Giap, Ho Chi Minh’s chief of staff, to his final defeat. Instead, the fifty-four-day siege is broken by the Vietnamese, who suffocate the fort with nearly forty thousand troops. Seemingly impossible quantities of matériel are moved to the site by 260,000 laborers on foot, by bicycle, and leading donkeys. France vacates Vietnam shortly afterward, and in July 1954, the Geneva Accords divide Vietnam at the 17th parallel: Ho Chi Minh’s Democratic Republic of Vietnam in the north, Emperor Bao Dai’s Frenchand-U.S.–backed Republic of Vietnam in the south. Elections to reunite the two halves are slated for 1956. As part of the agreement, both Vietnams accept a three hundred–day moratorium during which people may relocate safely from the north to

APPENDIX 2

171

the south, or vice versa. Nine hundred thousand North Vietnamese make the long journey south, fearing persecution by the Communist government. More than half are Catholic, and many of the rest are Vietnamese-born Chinese, French sympathizers, or members of other “suspect” groups. Trung Dinh Phu’s parents are among their numbers. They take Phu’s younger sister and brothers with them and settle in Saigon, where they eventually rebuild their business. Fewer than a hundred thousand relocate from the south to the north. Of the number who make the journey from the North, fifteen thousand are veteran Viet Minh fighters and other hardcore Communist sympathizers. They settle in the cities and villages of the South, where for years to come they will organize against the southern regime. They are the original Vietcong. In December, Nguyen Van Thach takes the bus from his home city of Hanoi to the provincial capital My Tho in the Mekong Delta. Twenty-five years old, Thach has studied in Beijing and is sent by his commander to the South, where he poses as a Viet Hoa—a Vietnamese national of Chinese origin—for more than two decades.

1955–1963: The Ngo Family Reign After ousting playboy emperor Bao Dai and getting himself named president with the help of his powerful brothers, Ngo Dinh Diem announces in 1955 that reunification elections will not take place. The United States begins a program of direct aid to his government. President Diem’s self-centered and self-styled method of rule—“personalism”— alienates ever-larger segments of his government and the population. After moving to Saigon’s Chinatown in 1962, Nguyen Van Thach marries and starts a family while continuing to report on the black marketeering of his neighbors, many of whom are themselves informers for the Americans. The United States, desperate to be seen as helping a worthy Saigon regime fight the good fight against the Communist menace, finally agrees to depose Diem. He and his brother are killed in a coup on November 2, 1963. Meanwhile, in the Democratic Republic in the north, sweeping and harsh land reforms fail, resulting in famine and peasant uprisings. As

172

APPENDIX 2

early as 1959, North Vietnam calls on the people of South Vietnam to begin an armed struggle, planning and laying out what later becomes known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail under military jurisdiction. Trung Dinh Phu is an instructor at Hanoi University, where he encourages his students to focus not on the early failure of the socialist reforms but on the struggle to liberate the South from imperialist aggressors. Vietcong insurgents and National Liberation Front forces in the south employ a deadly mix of guerrilla tactics, propaganda, and staged battles to destabilize the Diem regime and the various “puppet” governments that follow.

1964: The Point of No Return On August 4, after the infamous Gulf of Tonkin incident, the U.S. 7th fleet carries out the first bombing of North Vietnamese targets. Operation Rolling Thunder, as the campaign is eventually called, continues unabated for the next three years. In the town of Vinh, young Nguyen Thi Phuong is by her mother’s side when the air raid sirens go off. There is not enough time to reach safety. Phuong’s mother is struck in the head by bomb debris and dies in front of her four-year-old, gibbering incoherently and spitting up blood. The shock blast from the bomb compresses the child’s eardrums and she loses her hearing for several weeks. Phuong does not begin to speak properly until she is eight years old. The United States Congress passes the Gulf of Tonkin resolution, authorizing President Lyndon Johnson to “take all necessary measures.” The first of these is an embargo, which remains in place for thirty years.

1965: The Splashy American Entrance and Escalation on Both Sides U.S. marines land on the beach at Da Nang on March 8. Although nearly twenty thousand Americans are already “in country” serving as technicians and military consultants, this event heralds the official beginning of the unofficial U.S. war in Vietnam. By the end of the year, the number of U.S. military personnel in Vietnam jumps to 385,000.

APPENDIX 2

173

On June 21, Directive 71 is issued by the North to establish an “antiU.S. National Salvation Assault Youth Unit.” Hundreds of thousands sign up, including Nghiem Thi Huong of Hanoi. She is sent to serve in a shock brigade on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, where she and her team are responsible for the repair and maintenance of a ten-mile stretch of mountain road. Huong is one of seventy thousand women who provide support along the Trail, along which entire regiments of the northern army move to enter the southern republic. Already, most of the rural areas in the South are held by the Communists.

1966: The North Rises to the Challenge As the war escalates, Ho Chi Minh makes a personal appeal to his people to directly support the regular troops. The entire country mobilizes: women take over jobs abandoned by men in the cities and form militias in rural areas; teenagers man antiaircraft guns in northern villages; students drop out of school to join volunteer youth brigades and are sent to work in combat and transport support units along the Trail. Food production continues uninterrupted even with the massive bombing: it’s enough to supply the troops heading south and the insurgents already there, as well as Communist rebel factions in Laos and Cambodia.

1967: “Bomb them back to the Stone Age!” Before ending Operation Rolling Thunder, the United States steps up its bombing attacks on the North. The number of sorties flown this year alone soars to 108,000. Nearly 100 percent of the bridges in the North have been destroyed. Dragon’s Jaw Bridge, which has been bombed continuously for years, remains standing and becomes a symbol to Vietnamese and Americans alike of North Vietnamese courage and staying power. In Haiphong, North Vietnam’s major port, fisherwoman Nguyen Vo Kieu flees to the outskirts of the city with her surviving child to await the end of the bombing. Although she is pregnant, Kieu joins the other women in her volunteer militia unit in collecting the dead. Her daughter, Tuyet, is born prematurely amid the rubble and makeshift body bags.

1 74

APPENDIX 2

1968: The Tide Turns In January, the U.S. Marine garrison at Khe Sanh is surrounded by forty thousand North Vietnamese regulars. This is part of the wider Tet Offensive, a surprise attack by combined northern army troops and National Liberation Front forces throughout South Vietnam. Although the geographic objectives of the offensive fail and North Vietnam experiences heavy losses, the negative psychological effect on the American troops is invaluable. Before the two-and-a-half-month siege at Khe Sanh is broken by massive U.S. airpower, nineteen-year-old Sam McAllen has his arm blown off by an enemy AK-47. He hears about the end of the siege on the medical transport plane taking him home to Texas.

1969: The Death of Uncle Ho and the Beginning of the American End There are more than half a million U.S. soldiers in South Vietnam when President Richard Nixon, bowing to domestic and international pressure, announces his plan to reduce the American presence. Called “Vietnamization,” this policy calls for a gradual withdrawal of U.S. troops and a beefing up of the southern troops that will replace them in the ground fighting. In the North, Ho Chi Minh dies on September 3. Trung Dinh Phu, now a full professor, mourns with other evacuees from his university and cancels his make-do, outdoor classes for weeks. At a southern base camp, northern propagandist Nghiem Thi Huong delays her return up the Ho Chi Minh Trail to grieve with her comrades. Meanwhile in Saigon, Nguyen Van Thach’s tears of sadness are taken for joy by his celebrating in-laws. From his convalescent bed in an Austin, Texas, veterans’ hospital, Sam McAllen hopes the war will end now that the heart of the northern cause is dead.

1970–1971: Bombing South . . . The U.S. withdrawal continues unabated. To make up for their loss and stem the tide of northern army troops pouring into the less-protected

APPENDIX 2

175

South, the U.S. increases its bombing of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, including those parts of it that cross over into Laos and Cambodia. On her third trip down the Trail, Nghiem Thi Huong loses two of her closest friends to malaria and the B-52s. Tran My Duong is stationed on the Trail for all of 1971, in charge of keeping a vital passage clear for troops to pass. Only one of the twelve younger women under her command is killed, after which time Duong is unable to satisfy her hunger even when she has eaten her fi ll.

1972: Bombing North . . . With the Paris Peace talks stalling, President Nixon orders the Christmas bombing of Hanoi. For twelve days and nights, American B-52s rain bombs on the capital. Orphaned Le Viet Ky, twelve, witnesses the destruction of the Foreign Studies University in Hanoi’s Dong Da district from his vantage point in the steeple of a nearby Catholic church. The sonic blasts from the bombing keep the church bell thrumming and ringing continually during the Christmas campaign, damaging Ky’s eardrums. Afterward, Ky finds he must walk slowly at all times to avoid falling over. Another child in Hanoi, Nguyen Anh Thi, has also survived the bombing but loses her younger sister to drowning in one of the many false air raid warnings following the end of the Christmas campaign. The ferocity and timing of the bombing outrages the world and turns public opinion in the United States against Nixon. This has the effect of bringing the Americans back to the negotiating table, hats in hand.

1973: Bowing Out The Paris Peace Accords are signed in January, and by March 30 the last U.S. troops leave Vietnam. Congress cuts off money to the southern government, which is unable to withstand the encroaching northern forces. Troops of the North Vietnamese Army take up positions in the provinces surrounding Saigon. Trung Dinh Phu, the former professor who is now a seasoned army major, awaits orders in a village two kilometers away from where his parents, unbeknownst to him, have taken refuge

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from the troubles in the city. Tran My Duong, who had led an all-female repair crew on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, has now retired from military service. She marries a man recommended to her family by a family friend, feeling lucky to find a husband who accepts her eating disorder.

1974: Checkmate Approaches An entire province near Saigon is liberated by forces of the National Liberation Front and the North Vietnamese Army. The two-year push to victory envisioned in Hanoi is hastened by the sorry state of the South Vietnamese Army and the indestructible supply line maintained from the North via the Ho Chi Minh Trail. In the combat zone, Trung Dinh Phu and Nghiem Thi Huong play their parts in this last year of the war. Elsewhere, Nguyen Van Thach, Nguyen Thi Phuong, Sam McAllen, Le Viet Ky, Tran My Duong, and young Dinh Anh Tuyet await what is obviously the end.

1975: The End of the War As the northern troops close in on Saigon, thousands of South Vietnamese flee the city. More than 175,000 people with close ties to the United States leave the country altogether in the final days of the southern regime. On April 30, the Liberation (or Fall) of Saigon occurs and paves the way for the official reunification of North and South Vietnam as the Socialist Republic of Vietnam one year later.

NOTES

Preface 1. The country was divided in 1954, and this brought about the civil war in which the Americans participated between 1963 and 1973. The communist war of revolution began in 1945 and ended only with the reunification of the two halves of Vietnam in 1975. 2. Agence France-Presse 1995. 3. Nyland and Pol 2000, 142. 4. Vietnam has certainly made great economic strides, as will be discussed in chapter 8. The media images, however, were mainly of black marketeers. 5. Taylor 2004b, 3–8. 6. Gough 1990. 7. Metcalf 2001, 180. 8. Martin 1987, 4. 9. 1996 and 1997 are the ethnographic present for this book. I have no doubt that the war continues to be front and center in public discourse and national consciousness in Vietnam in 2008. 10. See appendix 1 for a list of every informant and their ailments.

1. The Problem 1. Most of the guests staying at the guesthouse were enrolled in a Vietnamese language and cultural exchange program at the university. The four-story guesthouse was home to various Japanese, Taiwanese, Australian, Korean, French, Swiss, German, Egyptian, and American visitors. The program most of them participated in ran from four to eight weeks, thus there was a regular turnover of clientele. 2. Services at the guesthouse were spotty at best, and some staff were known thieves. 3. Chapter 8 discusses the Renovation in detail. 4. Chi translates to “big sister.” I called her em (little sister), in keeping with the Vietnamese pattern of addressing others in kinship terms. Other forms of address do

178

5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22.

NOT E S TO PAGE S 3 –11

not reflect kin (or fictive kin) relations, such as dong chi (comrade). I was severely scolded for calling someone dong chi by a person who believed only Vietnamese— particularly those who had served in the war—should use that term. After that, I used kinship terms to address people. The use of pronouns is tricky for the foreigner in Vietnam, in that how one addresses others and refers to oneself depends on age, gender, profession, and intangibles like the perceived wealth/class/merit of the person to whom you are speaking, plus whether or not you wish to be rude. The total number of such people is unknown. I personally interacted with hundreds and, from them, learned of countless others. My research was limited to Hanoi and a few nearby provinces, but I expect many southern Vietnamese face similar problems, since the concept of angry ghosts—and the war itself—is not limited to the northern part of the country. Specific cases of ancestor spirit-induced illness are discussed in chapter 2. Malarney 2002, 96. See appendix 1 for the full range of disorders. Ann Gold puts it best: spirit possession is the “temporary domination of a person’s body, and the blotting of that person’s consciousness, by a distinct alien power of known or unknown origin” (Gold 1988, 35). Bourguignon 1965, 41. In 74% of them, according to Goodman, Henney, and Pressel (1974, xv). They used various terms to say this, including bi ma am (to suffer from an uninvited invasion of spirits), benh ta (sickness caused by ghosts), and nhap hon (ghost incarnation). Many even used the phrase len dong, which refers to the invitation by mediums to be “mounted” or ridden by spirits—despite their not being mediums themselves. Suryani and Jensen 1993, 183. The list of diagnostic symptoms of possession is taken from Suryani and Jensen 1993. Crapanzano and Garrison 1977; Eliade 1964. The spirit of her brother, during possession. Indicating her abdomen and chest. Bourguignon 1976; Lewis 1971. See Luong 2006 for a tidy overview of the anthropological research done in Vietnam since the end of the war. H. T. Nguyen 2002; Norton 2000; and all the contributors to Fjelstad and Nguyen 2006 are the most prominent. In Vietnamese the party is called Lao Dong (Vietnamese Workers’ Party). Lao Dong is “equivalent to the Communist Party in the USSR in its all-pervasive influence and power” (Business International 1974, 163). This man was, after all, a Communist Party member and government official who met with me for a formal interview.

2. Foundations 1. Most notably Jamieson in Understanding Vietnam (1993). 2. These are: Buddhism, Hoa Hao, Cao Dai, Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, and Islam.

NOT E S TO PAGE S 11–16

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3. See Fjelstad and Nguyen 2006 and Taylor 2004a. 4. Better known in the West as “Montagnards.” Some of the Viets I knew called these ethnic minorities moi, or “savages.” For more, see Hickey 1982 and Keyes 1989. 5. Gombrich 1987, 311. 6. Taoism arrived fi rst, in the fourth century bc. Confucianism was next, becoming official dynastic policy in Vietnam in the eleventh century ad. Centuries after its introduction by Chinese monks, Buddhism—the Mahayana branch—was proclaimed Vietnam’s official state religion in the mid-twelfth century ad. 7. Kendall and Nguyen 2003, 35. 8. Swearer 1987, 351. 9. See Nguyen 1967; Taylor 1983. 10. Jamieson 1993, 9. 11. The Communist state attempted to destroy the sacred aspect of the dinh space; their efforts were not entirely successful. Thien Do describes contemporary religious/ supernatural uses of the dinh in Vietnamese Supernaturalism: Views from the Southern Region (2003). 12. Kleinen 1999, 14; Malarney 2002, 41–42. 13. Geibel 2001, 85. 14. T. C. Nguyen 2002, 129. 15. Taylor 2004a, 26. 16. See appendix 1 for Tuc’s case. 17. This Catholic gesture made amid preparations for a Buddhist ritual, and during a discussion of animism, is not paradoxical in Vietnam. Care of the dead is considered an act of fi lial piety, something to which all Vietnamese aspire. People do not view it as “religious.” 18. Lambek 1981, 29. 19. Luong 1992, 73. 20. If the deceased was a smoker, and sometimes even if not: Western cigarettes brands are often placed on the altar as luxury items designed to honor the dead by the very fact that they are expensive. 21. Bradley 2001, 199; B. V. Pham 199, 221. 22. Larsson and Endres 2006, 155. 23. I am generalizing in order to briefly make my point about the role ancestor spirits play in Vietnamese life. Anyone who has been to Vietnam, or even anyone who takes the time to think about humanity, knows that there is an incredible range of variation when it comes to what people believe and how they actually behave. Obviously, people in Vietnam may buck social expectations, and many resent the pressures put on them by their families to do this or that, marry him or her, and so forth. I am talking about patterns, themes, trends: those exist, too, and are the meat and potatoes of anthropology. 24. Tang 1985, 3. 25. Tai 1992, 15. 26. Tai 1992, 15. 27. In fact, Vietnamese “can be said to be without pronouns in the usual sense” (Luong 1984, 292). 28. For example, teenagers would often call me Ba (old woman) as a mark of respect rather than the more age-appropriate chi (older sister), as in Ba di dau a? (Where are you going?).

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29. Examples include: em (younger sibling), anh (older brother), chi (older sister), chu (uncle), di (aunt), con (child), and chau (grandchild). There are more, but these are the most common ones used to talk about yourself and others. Luong 1988, 241. 30. D. McCoy 1992, 251. 31. B. V. Pham 1999, 29. 32. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule, and sometimes men will live with their wives’ families, especially in refugee and immigrant communities outside of the home country (see Erickson 1988). In Vietnam, such men are lauded for their “sacrifice,” their wives envied by other women. I knew a fair number of such couples, and they all claimed to enjoy the arrangement: the wife’s family acquired the young husband’s labor, the son-in-law was pampered by the mother-in-law, the wife got to stay close to her beloved parents. 33. Nghiem 2004, 297. 34. Gammeltoft 1999, 70. 35. As well as other dead relatives. 36. For examples from elsewhere in the world, see Blacker 1975; Fry 1976; Gold 1988; Koss 1977. 37. They were allowed one small meal in the morning. 38. Stonequist 1937. 39. I never did learn what was so objectionable about the young woman, though Tien hinted that it had to do with sex. 40. Vietnamese New Year, the most important holiday in the country. Officially, Tet runs for the three days leading up to New Year’s Day, but people often take two to four weeks during the Tet season to visit family. 41. Her father had died from a recurring infection he caught when he was a soldier in the American war. His father had died fighting the French in the Central Highlands in the 1950s. Both their bodies had been recovered and buried according to custom, so they were not angry ghosts. 42. This situation counters everything taken as “normal” and proper in ancestor worship (that the eldest son is responsible for the upkeep of his line’s ancestors). Thuy and I were both aware of that, but she consciously handled it as she understood any eldest son would have.

3. Revelations 1. As evidenced by the ministry official’s concern that war ghosts were a “public health menace.” 2. See Bertrand 1996; Do 2003; Malarney 1996; H. T. Nguyen 2002; and Pham 2006. 3. Marcus and Fischer 1986; Visweswaran 1993; Mascia-Lees, Sharpe, and Cohen 1989. 4. Jacobson 1991. 5. Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995. 6. Abu-Lughod 1991; Narayan 1993. 7. See Behar 1993; Narayan 1993. 8. Rosaldo 1989. 9. Morris 1993, 28.

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10. Bourguignon 1996. 11. Defined as “any person who was fathered by a citizen of the United States (an American serviceman, American expatriate, or U.S. Government Employee [Regular or Contract]) and whose mother is, or was, an Asian National” by the Amerasian Foundation, Inc. http://www.amerasianfoundation.org/ (accessed October 15, 2004). 12. Abu-Lughod 1988; Collins 1991; Obbo 1990. 13. McLaren 1991, 151. 14. Literally, “Vietnamese mixed with American.” 15. Johnson 2002, 19. 16. There are close to one hundred thousand Amerasians according to Yarborough 2006. 17. See DeBonis 1994; Felsman and Felsman 1986; McKelvey 1999; Nguyen 2001; Rutledge 1992; and Yarborough 2006. 18. The dividing line between North and South Vietnam, established in 1954 at the Geneva Convention. 19. Luong 2006, 372. 20. Nordstrom and Robben 1995. 21. Jenkins 1984; Kovats-Bernat 2002; Wolf 1996. 22. By “officially” I mean “technically.” The ban on all beliefs and practices deemed superstitious was not consistently enforced, and in any case, was resisted by the population. More on this and the surreptitious continuation of practices geared toward the supernatural world in chapter 7. Bradley 2001; Kleinen 1999; Luong 1992; and Malarney 1996. 23. Deciphering this shorthand has been a challenge, at times more so even then translating passages from Vietnamese. 24. Block wardens are snoops who inform on their neighbors to the police. Block wardens are either formally paid or otherwise informally rewarded. 25. Warren 1988. 26. Indeed I became a true “native” when, seeing a large Vietnamese woman on a motorbike from my vantage point in a crowded bus, I was surprised into saying “Beo!” myself. It was such a rare spectacle. 27. Ministry of Education and Training figures for 1997–98. http://www.wes.org/ca/ wedb/vietnam/vmedov.htm (accessed October 12, 2004). 28. The figure is from the U.S. State Department from a report on College Education Programs in Vietnam, compiled for President Clinton’s visit to Vietnam in November 2001. http://usembassy.state.gov/vietnam/wwwheduc.html (accessed October 12, 2004). 29. From the same U.S. State Department report. 30. The figure is for 2006 and comes from the U.S. State Department’s webpage on Vietnam. www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/4130.htm (accessed June 10, 2007). At the time of my research, per capita annual income in Hanoi was approximately three hundred dollars. 31. To be precise, there were 2.8 million college applicants in 1998. 32. Depending on the school’s particular “political task in the development of the national economy” (Tran 2002). 33. Kim (2004, 180) asserts that “the father’s party membership has a statistically significant positive effect on sending his children to high school, but not to college.”

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Children of party cadres do indeed have an edge, if my informants are to be believed. Perhaps this was their perception only; perhaps that was the reality in 1996–97. 34. As well as three unsuccessful exorcisms. 35. Gammeltoft 1999, 42–43.

4. The Living and the Dead 1. That would be April 30, 1995. 2. See appendix 2, “Chronology of the War,” for more information on certain events in the lives of some of the people in these cases, as well as others mentioned throughout the book. 3. Short for Viet Nam Doc Lap Dong Minh (Alliance for the Independence of Vietnam). 4. The head pain happened five or six times a year. 5. Anh means “brother” but is commonly used to refer to males older than the speaker, though not quite as old as the speaker’s father. 6. The dead son was stillborn. He is the only one of her lost family members who did not die either in battle or in the bombing. 7. When asked if he legally divorced his fi rst wife, Mr. Thach again just smiled and whistled. 8. Since the war, northern Vietnamese have criticized those in the south for their moral corruption and decadence—the southern collaboration with the Americans being but the most obvious sign of this. See Thomas and Drummond 2003, 8–9, for one example. 9. Southerners broadcast their own stereotypes. Northerners are depicted as provincial puritans: harsh, cold, and austere. “Diana,” a transplanted southerner working at a spa in Hanoi, said Bac Ky (northerners) don’t spend money. They eat rice and sleep when the sun goes down. Boring.” Other people from the south regaled me with stories about northern soldiers in Saigon after the end of the fighting in 1975. Howling derisively, they related how the nha que (bumpkin) northerners did not understand what toilets were for and so kept live fish in them. 10. This preference for whiteness is pervasive. “Dark skin is bad,” one woman told me. “Makes you look like you’re from the country. Worse, Cambodian.” People made many unkind remarks about the occasional dark-skinned tourist, the darker complexioned hill people, and anyone who did not take care to shield themselves from the sun. The women of Hanoi are famous in Vietnam for their light-skinned beauty and “noble” appearance, and even outdoor laborers cover themselves from head to toe so they do not darken from exposure to the sun. 11. The Vietcong is the Communist army based in South Vietnam, which had both guerrilla and regular army units, as well as a network of cadres and was closely connected with the government of North Vietnam. 12. Here was a typical exchange: Adolescent Postcard Seller: “You buy, you buy, you buy!” Me: “No, I live here. I don’t need postcards.” APS: “You buy, send home you family. Send home you boyfriend. Haha, you no have boyfriend.”

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Me: “No.” APS: “Fuck you, fat mama!”

13. As he said this he pointed to the identity card of the Vietnamese man he had kept as a souvenir of service during the war.

5. Afterlives 1. Or linh hon, which is how most of my informants referred to ancestral spirits. Linh hon also means “soul.” A living person thus has a linh hon, which then hopefully becomes an ancestral spirit after death. I suspect my informants used linh hon with me rather than the more correct to tien because I used linh hon constantly in my fi rst months of fieldwork. 2. B. V. Pham 1999, 19. 3. Bradley 2001, 168. 4. Unno 1987, 321. 5. Malarney 2001, 75. 6. Malarney 2001, 65. 7. City dwellers generally come from the country, or at least a large part of their family does. Most people are buried in the rural provinces next to their parents. 8. That is, there is no negative impact in terms of the ancestors getting angry with them. 9. Malarney 2001, 71. 10. Also called the Changing the Clothes of the Dead Day. 11. There is, of course, local variation in funerary rites; I have provided the major elements only. For an in-depth look at the funerals performed by villagers in northern Vietnam, see Malarney 2002, 108–47. Malarney is right to point out that there is no universally standard set of rites. 12. Daughters may carry this out if there are no sons or if sons are underage or incompetent, though daughters are considered a less-than-proper substitute. See chapter 6 for a fascinating exception to this rule. 13. Rarely do surviving family members shirk their duty with regard to funerary rituals, given the lifelong pressure to exhibit fi lial piety. 14. Malarney 2001, 59–60. 15. Malarney 2001, 60. 16. Funeral rites for the missing or incomplete dead are held, but the rituals are incomplete. As such, they are incorrect and do not work to transform the deceased into an ancestral spirit. 17. There was no mirth in this staccato laugh of Mr. Tac’s . . . nor any bitterness. On this occasion, it was an attempt to disguise the break in his voice as he talked about his beloved ba ngoai (maternal grandmother). 18. Word used by Mr. Linh of the Department for Martyrs and War Invalids. 19. Vo 1997. 20. Turner 1998, 111. 21. In 1972. 22. While the North was heavily bombed, the actual fighting during the Vietnam War took place in the central and southern regions.

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23. The only informants to do this were ones who were being affl icted by the angry ghosts of relatives, not those of strangers or friends. 24. She insisted the dirt “smelled like blood,” which convinced her that it was from the spot where Duc died. 25. Men far outnumbered women as regular army troops, although women are estimated to have made up 80 percent of the Vietcong insurgency (personal communication, Mr. Mot of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Hanoi, November 1996). 26. Prados 1999, 183. 27. Relatives of all kinds do, in fact, incorporate younger and laterally related kin into their family altars. This does not usually have the desired effect of appeasing the dead: fully a third of my informants suffered possession by the spirits of distantly related kin (meaning not a sibling, child, or parent). Curiously, some of my informants who were possessed by the ghosts of strangers or friends were “cured” when they included these unfortunate souls in their altars. 28. B. L. Nguyen 1997. 29. Tai 2001, 191. 30. Tai 2001, 4. 31. Bibby 1999, 153. 32. Tai 2001, 167. 33. McGregor 1988, 72. 34. Olson and Roberts 1991, 274. 35. Boothroyd and Pham 2000, 12. 36. Woodside 1999, 158. 37. Fforde 1999, 50. 38. Dodsworth et al. 1996, 28. 39. Kerkvliet and Selden 1999, 104. 40. Kleinen 1999, 111. 41. Bidani 1986, 23. 42. Boothroyd and Pham 2000, 12. 43. Woodside 1999, 42. 44. Kerkvliet and Selden 1999, 105. 45. Dong is Vietnamese currency. The 1980 rate of exchange comes from Olson and Roberts 1991, 275. 46. SarDesai 1992, 128–31. 47. Tran 2000, 10. 48. By far, the majority of my informants were plagued by the ghosts of soldiers killed in battle or civilian casualties. A few people were haunted by the spirits of people who died in other ways. Mr. Thach’s angry ghost was that of a man who committed suicide, for example, while Mr. An (see end of chapter 7) was terrorized by a childhood friend who’d drowned in the exodus of boat people in the late 1970s and early ‘80s. Such deaths were still attributed to the war: the suicide because the man feared being revealed as a spy during the war; the friend who drowned would not have been on a boat in the fi rst place had the war not been waged and the Communists been the victors. 49. According to the United Nations Population Fund 1997, 57% of Vietnamese were under twenty-five years old in 1997.

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50. Most seemed to think there was safety in numbers; indeed, the field was fi lled to capacity throughout the day. 51. The circumstances of her brother’s death and the details of his corpse were given to Mrs. Ly Hoa by surviving members of his unit. 52. Becker 1996, 270. 53. Mueggler 2001, 3. 54. Mueggler 2001, 199. 55. Trankell 2003, 32. 56. Ebihara and Ledgerwood 2002, 275. 57. Bertrand 2001. 58. Becker 1996, 270. 59. Bertrand 2004, 166.

6. Problem Solving 1. Mrs. Luu was not alone in her fear: most of my informants expressed anxious or fearful feelings during and in anticipation of their encounters with mediums. It was not the contact with a malevolent ghost that was so frightening to them but, rather, the sight of the medium in trance. Although their faces are sometimes covered for the entire ceremony, the change in the mediums’ demeanor and voice while in trance is quite unsettling to some. 2. When said with a rising tone, ma means “mother.” Although me is used most commonly in Vietnam for “mother,” northerners also use ma, especially when calling for their mothers. It is coincidence that a toneless ma means “ghost.” 3. She was referring to a Montagnard. The area where Cuong was killed is in the Central Highlands, which is heavily populated by Vietnam’s ethnic minorities. 4. In 1971. 5. The exchange rate at the time of my research was approximately 11,000 dong to a single dollar, making this fee less than three dollars. 6. Malarney 2002, 96. 7. Fjelstad and Maiffret 2006, 123; H. T. Nguyen 2002, 20. 8. Gammeltoft 1999, 130; Sowerwine 1999, 133. 9. H. T. Nguyen 2002, 100. 10. H. T. Nguyen 2002, 103; Pham 2006, 48. 11. Endres 2006, 78; Fjelstad and Maiffret 2006, 123. 12. Malarney 2002, 96; H. T. Nguyen 2002, 1. 13. Do 2003, 81. 14. Bertrand 1996, 276; Malarney 1996, 551. 15. Malarney 2002, 99. 16. H. T. Nguyen 2002, 1. 17. Mr. Huu does not remember the sum but said “it was a large pile of paper money” and the gifts were fabric and rice. 18. By making special offerings to the con ma, or using a medium, or by the concerned family’s chanting of ”Via lanh thio; via du thi di” (Good spirit come in please; bad spirit go away). 19. The husband also recovered and took a second wife. Mr. Huu surmised with good humor that it was to “protect himself from the number one wife.”

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20. Pham 2006, 47. 21. Laderman 1997, 339. 22. The gods, goddesses, and other spirits of Vietnam’s the gioi khac also speak through them. 23. These were the top five demands made of my informants by the con ma hurting them. 24. Eliade 1964; Lewis 1971. 25. Nachtigall 1976, 319. 26. Peters 1981, 11. 27. The typical Vietnamese medium does, in fact, have regular contact with particular spirits and spirit guides. The mediums I met and witnessed at work were not typical, for reasons that are discussed in chapter 8. 28. Shamans also use these techniques. 29. Eliade 1964. 30. Lewis 1971. 31. Fjelstad 2006, 98. 32. Nguyen 1983. 33. Do 2003, 90. 34. Endres 2006, 80–81; Norton 2006, 68; Pham 2006, 33. 35. Soucy 2003, 131. 36. Prime examples are Boddy 1988; Lewis 1971; Ong 1987. 37. See Blacker 1975; Kendall 1985, 1988; Suryani and Jensen 1993. 38. Harvey 1979, 3. 39. Nguyen 1967, 66. 40. Taylor 1999, 4; Tetreault 1991, 13. 41. Tai 2001, 170. 42. B. V. Pham 1999, 39. 43. Andaya 2000, 1. 44. Lockard 1994, 13. 45. Tai 1981, 98. 46. Tinker 1999, 19. 47. Tran 1999, 113. 48. Kapferer 1983, 96. 49. Bertrand 1996; Endres 2006; Larsson and Endres 2006. 50. Norton 2006, 59. 51. Endres 2006, 88. 52. Norton 2006, 67. 53. As of 1995, and at the time of my meeting them in 1997, their ailments were getting worse. 54. Malarney 1996, 543.

7. “Superstition” in a Secular State 1. Overseas Vietnamese. 2. She did not mean that literally, but used the pronoun for me to indicate that I was younger than her. She specifically told people who asked that I was the daughter of a distant cousin who had made it to America.

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3. After, of course, a little bit of haggling “for fun.” 4. Tuyet said her going rate for non-Vietnamese was 100,000 dong, about nine dollars, at least twice what she was paid by Vietnamese clients. 5. August 1997. 6. Mediums traditionally wear red cloths over their faces when they go into trance. Tuyet deliberately used white on this occasion, even though white is the color of death. The second time I met with her, she explained that she did so in order to frighten us. 7. The mass grave was covered with lye, and the remains “disappeared.” 8. By this time, I had already returned to the United States. 9. When North and South Vietnam ended their hostilities in 1975 and were reunified under the helm of the socialist north, the ban on “superstitious” practices was extended southward. 10. Originally published in 1947, Doi Song Moi (The new ways) is still in circulation: my copy was published in 1977 (Tan 1977). 11. Malarney 2002, 81. 12. Blacker 1975, 127. 13. Harvey 1979, 3–11. 14. Lan 1985, 205. 15. Lan 1985, 7. 16. Do 2003, 96. 17. Post 1988, 142. 18. Most notably Khac Vien Nguyen in Tradition and Revolution in Vietnam (1974). 19. Including that they “both are essentially philosophies of social relations that stress obedience, discipline, selflessness, and government by an educated elite trained in political philosophy” (Lockard 1994, 18). That elite could just as easily be made up of cadres as mandarins. 20. B. V. Pham 1999, 13. 21. Jamieson 1993, 5. 22. Kerkvliet 2002, 194; Kleinen 1999, 95–96; Luong 1992, 196. 23. Hoang 1958, 7. 24. These were lands held in reserve, and the income generated from them was given to widows, orphans, and the poor, and also to pay educational fees for village children and compensate village administrators for doing paperwork (T. C. Nguyen 2002, 128). 25. Basic families were those of poor peasant stock who had benefited from the land reform campaign. For the three togethers, see Kleinen 1999, 99. 26. Hoang 1958, 5. 27. Zinoman 2001, 37. 28. Dang and Beresford 1998, 8. 29. Tetreault 1991, 15; Le and Sloper 1995, 9. 30. Kleinen 1999, 60. 31. Kerkvliet 2002, 201. 32. Luong 1989, 753. 33. Luong 1992, 169. 34. The best source of information on the attempt to secularize funeral and other rites—as well as how the Vietnamese resisted the changes—is Shaun Kingsley Malarney’s Culture, Ritual, and Revolution in Vietnam (2002).

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35. The party avoided “commandism,” preferring instead to cajole the people with slogans, poems, songs, and stories (Malarney 2002, 68–71). 36. These were not paintings hanging in museums far from the lives of the average peasant but rather took the form of “posters, stamps, calendars, and newspaper illustrations” (Taylor 2001, 110). 37. According to U.S. military minds analyzing the American loss years after the fact. 38. Bergman 1974, 112. 39. Karen Gottshchang Turner, using an old Vietnamese adage in the title of her book, Even the Women Must Fight: Memories of War from North Vietnam (1998). 40. Malarney 2001, 49. 41. See Pham 2006. 42. The amount, $150, was not small at any time in Vietnam. 43. Malarney 2001, 53–54. 44. These monuments do not include those who died fighting for the southern cause (Tai 2001a, 191). 45. The delay was permanent, and the remains of this man were never returned to his family. 46. See all of the authors contained in Karen Fjelstad and Hien Thi Ngyuyen’s Possessed by the Spirits: Mediumship in Contemporary Vietnamese Communities (2006). 47. For more on Tu Phu, again see the collected works in Fjelstad and Nguyen 2006; also see H. T. Nguyen 2002 and Taylor 2004a. 48. Less than five dollars. 49. A word used to describe not practicing by both Phuong and Tuyet. 50. After borrowing money from friends, Mrs. Luu sent her son-in-law Loi to the location given by Phuong while in trance. Loi returned to Hanoi with soil and bone fragments from the spot. These “remains” were placed in a fabulously expensive urn and buried. Cuong, the ghost, is no longer so angry, and his mother no longer suffers as she did.

8. Revivals 1. H. V. Tran 2000a, 1. 2. Specifically, these were: a liberal foreign investment law in 1987, the dismantling of centralized industries and the establishment of land-use rights in 1988, and the end of the cooperative system of agriculture in 1990. 3. Dodsworth et al. 1996, 4. 4. See the chapters by various authors in Drummond and Thomas 2003 and Taylor 2004b. 5. Detailed by several scholars, most memorably for me by Malarney 2002 and Taylor 2004a. 6. Human Rights Watch 2002. 7. Humphrey 1982, 425; Kligman 1988, 151; Lane 1981, 81. 8. Jomo 1998, 16. 9. Nguyen 1989, 37. 10. Sidel 1998, 39. 11. Stern 1998, 103.

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12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

189

Brigham 2000, 90. Do 1996. Kolodko 2000, 69. See Malarney 2002. Nguyen 1999, 9; Tran 2000c, xii. O’Rourke 2002, 95. T. T. Pham 1999, 120. Dodsworth et al. 1996, 9. Specifically, the right to transfer and rent land, change the way land is used, and use it as security for mortgages. Vu 1999, 150. Ho and Tran 2000, 53. Dang 1999, 25. Nyland and Pol 2000, 162. Boothroyd and Pham 2000, 34, 58. Taylor 2004b. So said all of my informants, but I quote here Mr. Huu. Either their own, or belonging to someone in their household and which they could use when needed. Mr. Hien was featured in chapter 4, along with Mr. Be and Mrs. Huong as a victim of Chat, a close friend and comrade who died along the Ho Chi Minh Trail in 1971. B. V. Pham 1999, 225; Nguyen 2006, 137. He used the term chay tui, which means “broke” in the vernacular but literally translates to “burnt pocket.” Money burning through one’s pocket always struck me as an elegant way to describe being broke. Jellema 2005; Leshkowich 2006. H. T. Nguyen 2002. Pham 2006, 44. Larsson and Endres 2006, 158. Ngo 2006, 27. Endres 2006, 85; Taylor 2004a. Laurel Kendall discusses the link between popular religion and entrepreneurship in East Asia as a whole (Kendall 2006, 179). Karen Fjelstad relates how competition between Tu Phu mediums in California led to accusations of sorcery (Fjelstad 2006, 108). H. T. Nguyen 2002, 55–57. Norton 2000. The longest session I witnessed was three hours, two of which were devoted to small talk. The medium at that particular session was Mr. Ky, his client a niece. It was the small talk and not the possession that left him “drained of life.” In Tu Phu practice, the opening and closing of the red veil signals the descent of a spirit into the medium and its subsequent departure (Ngo 2006, 27–28). Endres 2006, 91–92; Norton 2006, 62. Less than one dollar. Sufferers are usually accompanied by family members for support. Mr. Ky served as a medium rarely and, in any case, did not charge a fee. Eliade 1964.

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48. For more of the circumstances surrounding the death of Phuong’s mother, see the year 1964 in appendix 2 . 49. See 1972 in appendix 2 for more information on this year in Ky’s life. 50. See 1967 in appendix 2 for more details. 51. Tuyet’s misty-eyed demeanor as she told this tale was at least as shocking as the twist to it: she was a hard-edged “loudmouth” according to those who met her. I have to agree. 52. Hoa’s grandmother’s own grandmother and grandaunt. 53. Vo 1997.

9. Conclusion 1. Words are verbatim, albeit translated by me or my assistant, Tien, from the Vietnamese. 2. Specifically, 18% were between the ages of 0 and 20, 28% between 21 and 35, 21% between 36 and 50, 29% between 51 and 65, and 4% were over 65. 3. This figure includes 2 million Southern civilians, 2 million Northern civilians, and 1.1 million military killed. 4. The last four statistics courtesy of Agence France-Press 1995. 5. Downs 1991, 17. 6. Turner 1998, 151. 7. H. C. Nguyen 1997. 8. Personal communication, Ca Van Tran of Vietnamese Assistance for the Handicapped. 9. Agent Orange statistics come from Stellman et al. 2003. 10. Pham 1997. 11. Moser 2000. 12. Last three statistics courtesy of the Hatfield Group 2003. 13. Reuters 2004. 14. Personal communication with Hope Wallis, director of the Refugee Resettlement Program of Syracuse, New York. 15. Olson and Roberts 1991, 276. 16. Kingsbury 2002, 15. 17. Marr 1973, 101. 18. Graetz 1998, 18. 19. Luong and Unger 1999, 120. 20. Kielstra 1986, 69. 21. Characterized by “prolonged spells of anxiety or depression; outbursts of apparently senseless rage; chronic insomnia, nightmares, emotional distancing, intrusive obsessive memories and fl ashback, painful survival guilt or impaired memory, chronic irritability” (MacPherson 1984, 188). 22. Such as an increase in material goods (e.g., Boddy 1988), prestige and power (e.g., Lewis 1971), or release from physically damaging psychological stress (e.g., Ong 1987). Certainly, there are ethnographies that do not overlook the subjective experience of possession or dismiss it out of hand. My favorites of these are Stoller 1989 and Lan 1985.

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23. 24. 25. 26.

191

See the preface for some of these sources. From, among others, Buttinger 1958. Pham 2006. St. Tran is conflated by some Tu Phu disciples with the Jade Emperor, one of the three ruling deities in the Religion of the Four Palaces (H. T. Nguyen 2002, 51). 27. Other than, of late, Ho Chi Minh (H. T. Nguyen 2002, 51). 28. Jellema 2005, 241. 29. Jellema 2005, 231–35.

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Index

Amerasians, 26–30 ancestral spirits, 3, 13, 113–114 anger of, 17, 24 good death as cause of, 55–57 victims of, 18–24 worship of, 14–17, 55, 69 angry ghosts, 3, 11–13, 24, 33–34, 41, 76–79, 85, 113–114, 121 bad death as cause of, 55, 57–64, 66 generated by the war, ix, xiii, 9–11, 34, 53, 59–64, 66, 128, 136–137 victims of, 3, 25, 35–53, 61–63, 68–69, 73– 76, 85, 99–100, 102–106, 113–114, 117, 128, 132–137, 139–145, 147–167; See also Do Thanh Ai, Ly Thi Vi, Nghiem Thi Huong, Nguyen Anh Thi, Nguyen Van Thach, Sam McAllen, Tran My Duong, Tran Thi Bao Ngoc and Bao Chau, Trung Dinh Phu, Vo Thi Hai ban on supernatural practices, 8, 85–86, 91– 96, 98–102, 108, 110, 121, 129 Cambodia confl ict with Vietnam, 66 ghosts from Khmer Rouge period, 70–71 China confl ict with Vietnam, 66, 131–132 religious influences from, 12, 15–16 wild ghosts from famine period, 70 communist party policies, 17, 65–66, 86, 91–98, 107–112. See also Renovation, policies of con ma. See angry ghosts

Do Thanh Ai, 49–50, 52, 143, 147 Doi moi. See Renovation exorcists, 76–78, 86 funerals traditional, 55–57, 95 secularized, 95–96, 98, 108 Heroic Mothers, 53, 97–98 Ho Chi Minh Trail, 35–38, 51, 59–63 illness causes of, 3–4, 33, 76–77, 120 remedies for, 76–77, 80, 120 suffering as merit, 132–136 len dong. See mediums, practice of len dong Ly Thi Vi, 1–3, 6, 25, 52, 113–114, 135, 144–145, 166 McAllen, Sam, 5, 47–48, 89–91, 101–102, 142, 160, 174, 176 mediums, 76, 78–92, 99–102, 114–121 Dinh Anh Tuyet, 81, 87–91, 101–102, 117–120, 142–143, 173, 176 Dinh Thi Nu, 102, 104–106, 118 gender of, 82–84 Le Viet Ky, 84, 101, 118–119, 175–176 Ly Lan Chi, 118 Nguyen Thi Hoa, 81, 101–102, 116–118, 120, 141, 144 Nguyen Thi Phuong, 73–76, 78–81, 100–102, 118–119, 136, 139, 172, 176

206

INDE X

mediums (continued) of Tu phu (the Religion of the Four Palaces), 100, 115–117 perceptions of, 82–85, 115–120 Pham My Hang, 79, 118 Pham Thi Nhan, 118 practice of len dong, 80–81, 84, 90–91, 100–101, 115–117 secrecy of, 87–90, 99–102, 116–118 trance, 80–82, 84, 86 traumatic experiences of, 119–120 merit, 132–136 morality Confucian ethics, 15–16 good personhood, 16–17, 98, 133–136 in the face of capitalism, 108–109, 114–116 mother goddess religion. See Tu phu Nghiem Thi Huong, 35–41, 52, 132–133, 136, 139–140, 155, 173–176 Nguyen Anh Thi, 48–49, 142–143, 162, 175 Nguyen Van Thach, 44–45, 141, 162, 171, 174, 176

resurgence in supernaturalism due to, 100, 107–110, 114–115, 121 traditionalism and national culture, 108–110 shamans, 80–81, 119 spirit possession, 4, 80–82, 113–114 attribution of, 52–53, 76 explanations for, 83, 113, 130 specialists in, 8, 76, 78–82, 84–86, 99–102, 114–115, 119; see also exorcists; mediums symptoms of, 4–8 traditional treatments for, 8, 77–82, 84–86, 100, 120 tam giao (the triple religion), 11–13 thay cung. See exorcists the gioi khac (the other world), 11–13, 41, 109 to tien. See ancestral spirits Tran My Duong, 50–52, 144, 153, 175–176 Tran Thi Bao Ngoc and Bao Chau, 45–47, 142, 148–149 Trung Dinh Phu, 41–43, 52, 140, 159, 170–172, 174–176 Tu phu (the Religion of the Four Palaces), 100–101, 115–117

obesity, 30–33 post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 128 Renovation, 107–115, 118 economic conditions after, 107–108, 110–115, 118 economic conditions before, 65–66, 111–112 improvements in living conditions due to, 107–115 policies of, 107–112

Vietnam War chronology of, 169–176 life after, 65–66, 68–69, 112–113, 125–127 martyrs of, 97–98, 132–135 Vietnamese casualties of, xi, 33, 59, 64, 125 Vo Thi Hai, 43, 52, 141, 153 women position within the family, 17, 83 sacrifice and suffering of, 134–135 social status, 83–84, 94–95