Year 501 (51 page)

Michael Vickery makes the important point that every time Vietnam has had a chance, however slight, to escape from the conditions left from the cruel and destructive era of French colonialism, the US has stepped in to block that opportunity. When the Geneva settlement of 1954 laid the basis for unification with countrywide elections, the US barred that option, recognizing that the wrong side would surely win. Though the DRV (North Vietnam) was cut off from the traditional food surplus areas in the south, by 1958 it had achieved food self-sufficiency while industry was developing—a prospect of success that caused much dismay among US planners, who urged secretly that the US do what it could to retard the economic progress of the Communist Asian states, with its dangerous demonstration effect. They were particularly concerned over the progress in the DRV in comparison to the failures of the US-imposed regime in the south: US intelligence in 1959 expected development in the South to “lag behind that in the North,” where economic growth was proceeding and was “concentrated on building for the future.” The Kennedy escalation and its aftermath took care of that threat.

After the war, Vietnam was admitted to the IMF, and in a confidential report of 1977, a World Bank team “praised the Vietnamese government's efforts to mobilize its resources and tap its vast potential.” The US made short shrift of that danger as well, blocking any assistance and imposing an economic stranglehold. In 1988-1990, Vickery observes further, “in spite of an extremely unfavorable international position, Vietnam had come through with a surprising economic success,” leading the IMF to present a “glowing report,” the
Far Eastern Economic Review
reported. The response was George Bush's renewal of the embargo; and in the ideological institutions, a revival of lagging fervor over the abuse we endure at the hands of the criminal aggressors.
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There is method in the madness. Apart from the principled opposition to Third World development out of US control, it is important for subject peoples to understand that they dare not raise their heads in the presence of the master. If they do, not only will they be devastated by overwhelming violence, but they will continue to suffer, as long as we deem it in our interests. Current treatment of Nicaragua illustrates the pattern, as of Iraq, where Bush's friend and ally stepped out of line, so we must see to it that tens of thousands of his Iraqi victims die of starvation and disease after the war's end. The West sternly destroys the weapons of mass destruction it provided to this monster when it was profitable and advantageous to do so, while unleashing “the destructive power of another weapon of mass destruction—the effective withdrawal of food and other necessities from the Iraqi people,” two specialists on world hunger observe.
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The lower orders must understand their place in a world of order and “stability.”

In its editorial on Vietnam marking the Pearl Harbor anniversary, the editors of the
Washington Post
note the

abiding irony that the United States lost the war in a military sense but ended up imposing a victor's terms for normalization. It could do so because it remained a country representing dominant global values, powerfully influencing the regional balance and the international economy. This is how all the concessions came to be made by Vietnam.

The statement has merit, though a little amplification is in order. The “dominant global values” extolled by the
Post
editors are the values of those who wield the sword and thereby set the rules.
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It would be difficult to find an example in the 500-year conquest as sordid, dishonest, and cowardly as the carefully contrived display of self-pity on the part of the murderous aggressors who destroyed three countries, leaving mountains of corpses and countless others maimed and orphaned, in order to block a political settlement that they knew their clients were too weak to sustain—a fact that is clear from the internal record, has been developed in detail by military historians, and is recognized even by the most fanatic government “scholars.”
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The “abiding irony” is that this shameful performance proceeds, untroubled, alongside our musings about the defects of the Japanese psyche.

8. A Date which does not Live in Infamy

The irony—to use a word that hardly meets the need—is heightened by another anniversary that did not reach threshold. The 50th anniversary of the “date which will live in infamy” coincided with the 30th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's escalation of the Vietnam conflict from large-scale international terrorism to outright aggression. On October 11, 1961, Kennedy ordered dispatch of a US Air Force Farmgate squadron to South Vietnam, 12 planes especially equipped for counterinsurgency warfare (combat modified T-28 fighter bomber trainers, SC-47s, and B-26 bombers), soon authorized “to fly coordinated missions with Vietnamese personnel in support of Vietnamese ground forces.” On December 16, Defense Secretary McNamara authorized their participation in combat operations. These were the first steps in engaging US forces directly in bombing and other combat operations in South Vietnam from 1962, along with sabotage missions in the North. These 1961-1962 actions laid the ground work for the huge expansion of the war in later years.
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As we have seen, the anniversary did not pass entirely unmarked: Bush chose the occasion—almost 30 years to the day after Kennedy's first major step in this fateful direction—to block the admission of Vietnam to the world community, and the propaganda apparatus orchestrated a revival of its POW/MIA hypocrisies. To the best of my knowledge, the conjunction of anniversaries reached the media three times: Michael Albert (
Z magazine
), and Alexander Cockburn (
Nation, Los Angeles Times
).
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In a world of truth and honesty, that failure could be attributed to the distinction between the two cases, so large as to make the comparison irrelevant and unfair. It hardly makes sense to draw a comparison between Japan's attack on a naval facility in a US colony, after some relevant earlier interactions, and the first major act of aggression against a defenseless civilian society 10,000 miles away. History offers no controlled experiments, but those who seek an analogy might, perhaps, compare Japan's sneak attack to the US bombing of Libya in 1986, carefully timed for the 7pm EST national evening news; the Reagan PR folks borrowed a leaf from Lyndon Johnson, who had ordered the bombing of North Vietnam in retaliation for the alleged Tonkin Gulf incident in August 1964 for 7pm EST, though the military could not oblige in that case. But this comparison too, one might argue, is still unfair to the Japanese. The US attack on Libya was aimed at civilian targets, on fraudulent pretexts; the Tonkin Gulf “retaliation” too was readily detected to be a fraud, outside the compliant mainstream.
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Such thoughts are doubtless too outlandish to pursue. Let us therefore put them aside, though some might find something in them to consider as we turn to Year 501.

The coincidences of 1991-1992 are striking: great indignation on the 50th anniversary of Pearl Harbor, the backgrounds carefully sanitized; sober contemplation of the Mind of Japan and the social and cultural flaws revealed therein; silence on the 30th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's direct attack against the civilian society of South Vietnam. The combination is a rare tribute to the moral cowardice and intellectual corruption that are the natural concomitants of unchallenged privilege.

One last coincidence might be noted, of no small interest in itself. The forgotten 30th anniversary of JFK's aggression happened to be the occasion for an outpouring of adulation for the fallen leader who, it was claimed with some passion, intended to withdraw from Vietnam, a fact suppressed by the media; and had been assassinated for that reason, it was prominently charged. The awed admiration for Kennedy the lonely hero, struck down as (and perhaps because) he sought to prevent a US war in Vietnam, adds an interesting touch to the questions of
hansei
that might find some small place in the 500th year. This 1991-1992 drama proceeded at several levels, from cinema to scholarship, engaging some of the best-known Kennedy intellectuals as well as substantial segments of the popular movements that in large part grew from opposition to the Vietnam war. Much as they differ on parts of the picture and other issues, there is a shared belief across this spectrum that history changed course dramatically when Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963, an event that casts a dark shadow over all that followed. Specific timing apart, the renewal of Camelot enthusiasms is an interesting and enlightening manifestation of the cultural and political climate of the early 1990s.

There is no doubt about the import of what followed Kennedy's 1961 aggression. The nature of his plans and the reaction to them is therefore of great interest. The perception of current reality, the shaping of memories, and ideas about a better future could be significantly affected by the truth of the matter: At one end of the spectrum of views, the murder of the President, however tragic the killing of an individual may be, was an event of indeterminate political consequence, though one may speculate one way or another without firm basis
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; at the other, it was a momentous historical event, with extraordinary long-term significance and ominous portent.

There are many sources of evidence that bear on the question: in particular, the record of internal deliberations is available far beyond the norm. While history never permits anything like definitive conclusions, in this case the richness of the record, and its consistency, permit some unusually confident judgments, in my opinion. The issue has aroused sufficient interest to merit a separate discussion, presented elsewhere, which I will only summarize here. The basic story that emerges from the historical and documentary record seems to me, in brief, as follows.
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Policy towards Vietnam fell within the general framework of doctrine that had been established for the post-World War II global order, and faced little challenge until the general framework was modified in the early 1970s. The US quickly threw in its lot with France, fully aware from the start that it was opposing the forces of Indochinese nationalism and that its own clients could not withstand political competition. Accordingly, resort to peaceful means was never an option; rather, a dire threat to be avoided. It was also understood, throughout, that domestic support for the US wars and subversion was thin. It was therefore necessary to wind the operation up as quickly as possible, leaving Indochina under the control of client regimes, to the extent feasible.

Basic policies held firm in planning circles (and among elites generally) from 1950 into the early 1970s, though by the end questions of feasibility and cost were seriously raised. The Geneva agreements of 1954 were at once subverted. The US imposed a fragile client regime in what came to be called “South Vietnam.” Lacking popular support, the regime resorted to large-scale terror to control the population, finally eliciting resistance, which it could not control. As Kennedy took office, collapse of the US position seemed imminent. Kennedy therefore escalated the war to direct US aggression in 1961-1962. The military command was exuberant over the success of the enhanced violence, and thought that the war could soon be wound up, leading to US withdrawal after victory. Kennedy went along with these predictions though with reservations, never willing to commit himself to the withdrawal proposals. By mid-1963, coercive measures appeared to be successful in the countryside, but internal repression had evoked large-scale urban protest. Furthermore, the client regime was calling for a reduction of the US role or even US withdrawal, and was making overtures for a peaceful settlement with the North. The Kennedy Administration therefore resolved to overthrow its client in favor of a military regime that would be fully committed to military victory. This result was achieved with the military coup of November 1, 1963.

As the US command had predicted, the coup simply led to further disintegration, and as the bureaucratic structure of the former regime dissolved, to a belated recognition that reports of military progress were built on sand. Tactics were then modified in the light of two new factors: (1) the hope that at last a stable basis had been established for expanded military action, and (2) recognition that the military situation in the countryside was a shambles. The first factor made escalation possible, the second made it necessary, even more so as the former hopes were seen to be a mirage. The plans to withdraw, always predicated on victory, had to be abandoned as the precondition collapsed. By early 1965, only large-scale US aggression could prevent a political settlement. The unchallenged policy assumptions allowed few options: the attack against South Vietnam was sharply escalated in early 1965, and the war was extended to the North.

The January 1968 Tet offensive revealed that the war could not be quickly won. By that time, internal protest and deterioration of the US economy vis-à-vis its industrial rivals convinced domestic elites that the US should move towards disengagement.

These decisions set in motion the withdrawal of US ground forces, combined with another sharp escalation of the military assault against South Vietnam and by now all of Indochina in the hope that the basic policies could still somehow be salvaged. Negotiations continued to be deferred as long as possible, and when the US was finally compelled to sign a “peace treaty” in January 1973, Washington announced at once, in the clearest and most explicit terms, that it would subvert the treaty in every crucial respect. That it proceeded to do, in particular, by increasing the violence in the South in violation of the treaty, to much domestic acclaim as the tactic appeared to be successful. The dissident press could tell the story, but the mainstream was entirely closed to such heretical truths, and still is, a ban maintained with impressive rigor.
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These actions of the US and its client again elicited a reaction, and the client regime again collapsed. This time the US could not enter to rescue it. By 1975, the war ended.