The Birth of Vietnamese Political Journalism: Saigon, 1916-1930 9780231528047

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Maps
Introduction
Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere
1. Social Order in the Colonial City
2. French Republicanism and the Emergence of Saigon’sPublic Sphere
Part 2. The “Newspaper Village” as a Political Force
3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923)
4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926)
5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930)
Conclusion
Abbreviations
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

the birth of vietnamese political journalism

The Birth of Vietnamese Political Journalism saigon 1916–1930

Philippe M. F. Peycam

columbia university press  new york

columbia university press Publishers since 1893 new york chichester, west sussex cup.columbia.edu Copyright © 2012 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Peycam, Philippe M. F.  The birth of Vietnamese political journalism : Saigon, 1916-1930 / Philippe M.F. Peycam.    p. cm.  Includes bibliographical references and index.  ISBN 978-0-231-15850-3 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-231-52804-7 (electronic)  1. Journalism—Political aspects—Vietnam—Ho Chi Minh City—History—20th century. 2. Government and the press—Vietnam—Ho Chi Minh City—History—20th century. 3. Press and politics—Vietnam—Ho Chi Minh City—History—20th century. 4. Nationalism—Vietnam—Ho Chi Minh City—History—20th century. 5. Ho Chi Minh City (Vietnam)—Politics and government—20th century. I. Title.  PN5449.V53H645 2012  075.97'7—dc23

2011027412

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. This book was printed on paper with recycled content. Printed in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 References to Internet Web sites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Columbia University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

contents

acknowledgments vii maps xii introduction 1

Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere 1. Social Order in the Colonial City 13 2. French Republicanism and the Emergence of Saigon’s Public Sphere 34 Part 2. The “Newspaper Village” as a Political Force 3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 71 4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 114 5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 149 conclusion 216 abbreviations 223 notes 225 bibliography 281 index 295

acknowledgments

T

his book transpired from my 1999 dissertation at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) at the University of London. The research and writing of the dissertation spanned seven years; four of those years were spent in Vietnam where I had access to numerous untouched archival and press materials. During this period, I, as a young researcher eager to learn about the Vietnamese language and history, had the opportunity to get to know the people and society of this fascinating country. After completing my PhD, the manuscript remained untouched for another seven years. It found a second life while I was living in Cambodia, where I was involved in developing an academic-humanitarian institution, the Center for Khmer Studies (CKS). The revision process was not easy, even though I was living in Vietnam’s closest southern neighbor. The sense of isolation from my former field of study was all the more exacerbated by the sudden passing of my PhD supervisor, Prof. Ralph B. Smith, in December 2000. The unique combination of generous encouragement and challenging demands that I was accustomed to during my years under Prof. Smith’s mentorship was sorely missed.

viii Acknowledgments

Once CKS was sufficiently established, I began the process of reconfiguring the dissertation into a book. A major part of this work was carried out in the tropical heat of Cambodia on the terrace of my wooden house in Siem Reap. It reached completion in Singapore while I was a fellow at the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. The result, I hope, is a more concise and clear account about Vietnam’s fi rst political journalists and their use of print newspapers to challenge authority. Trying to thank all those who helped me in the course of this two-phased journey is a challenge. First, there are the people and institutions that helped me during my research and dissertation in Vietnam, France, and the United Kingdom. I would like to thank Mrs. Hòa of the National Archive number 2 in Hồ Chí Minh City, Miss Hương of the General Scientific Library in Hồ Chí Minh City, and the very helpful staff of the periodical department of the National Library in Hanoi. Thanks are due also to Doctor Võ Vãn Sên, Nguyễn Vãn Lịch, and Mrs. Dung, from Hồ Chí Minh City University’s Center for Vietnamese and Southeast Asian Studies, along with Professors Bùi Khắnh Thế, Tổn Nữ Quỳnh Trân, Nguyễn Đinh Đầu, the late Trần Vãn Giàu, and Phan Giá Bên. I owe this period of intense reflection to those benefactors and in particular to the late writer and historian of the South Sơn Nam (our discussions at Brodard café and at his favorite beer garden in Gô Váp), to the jovial and affectionate Mr. Nguyễn An Tình (son of Nguyễn An Ninh, and an example of intellectual independence on his own), to the chain coffee drinker and two-war veteran Mr. Vũ Gia Phúc (then president of the Hồ Chí Minh City’s branch of the Association des Anciens du Lycée Albert Sarraut). My stay in Vietnam was made all the more stimulating due to an exceptional group of young scholars and professionals in Hồ Chí Minh City, at a time when the southern metropolis was not in fashion among Western scholars: Chũ Quang Tôn, Lê Thị Thành Thủy, Nguyễn Tạo Ngô, my professor of Vietnamese Thầy Minh, Rie Nakamura, Stéphane Dovert, François Tainturier, and Natasha Pairaudeau. In Paris, I could count on the invaluable insights of passionate scholars, including Daniel Hémery Pierre Brocheux, Trinh Vãn Thào, Gilles De Gantès, Emmanuelle Saada, and Nguyễn Văn Kỳ. Prof. Nguyễn Thế Anh guided me in the course of writing my Diplôme d’Études Approfondies at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes. His extreme attention to detail was a match to Prof. Smith’s own rigor in accuracy. I regret not to be able to offer a copy of the

Acknowledgments ix

book to the wonderful and so knowledgeable Madame Quach Thanh Tâm Langlet, the young-at-heart poet, writer, painter, and revolutionary Ngô Vân Xuyết and the true Vietnam-lover, Georges Boudarel. In Aix-en-Provence, at the Archives d’Outre-Mer, I benefited from the effective guidance of Lucette Vachier. In London, I was equally inspired by an exceptional group of scholars and friends from a variety of countries who, like me, engaged in the study of Vietnam around Prof. Smith’s inspiring and congenial presence: the late Judy Stowe, Lê Mạnh Hung, Young Soon Nho, Sud Chornchirdsin, Sophie Quinn-Judge, Webby Kalikiti, Tobias Rettig, Ang Cheng Guan, and others. In the last year, I shared my carrel with Caroline Brassard, also a Vietnam specialist. Professors Ian Brown and Gervaise Clarence-Smith also offered good advice. Other SOAS friends, whom I came to know better during my Cambodia years, include Michel Rethy Antelme, Keiko Miura, William Southworth, and the Thailand specialist Rachel Harrison. Throughout this period, I am the most indebted to my supervisor Prof. Smith, who helped me to shape my ideas into a completed dissertation thesis. But I could not have finished without the support and patient re-reading by Julia Bindman. During the revision phase of the manuscript, I received encouragement and support from other eminent scholars including: Peter Zinoman, Shawn McHale, David Chandler, David Marr, Claire Trẩn Thị Liện, David Lempert, Sarah Womack, Lois de Ménil, Sophie Quinn-Judge, Paul Kratoshka, Pascal Bourdeaux, Tuân Hoảng, Lê Quang Ðỉnh, Judith Henchy, Mariam Lam, David Biggs, Trương Bữu Lâm, Herman Lebovics, Milton Osborne, and certainly other people whom I have missed. Each, in different ways and capacities, contributed to the improvement of the manuscript, sometimes through intense discussion or through their generous time spent in reading and revising parts or the entirety of the text—I would like to express my gratitude to each and every one of them. Of all those who helped to improve the manuscript, I can’t thank Prof. Hue-Tam Ho Tai enough for her guidance through this long, uncharted journey. She read and re-read each chapter one after the other. She was not only vigilant in checking content details, but she also made invaluable suggestions for the reshaping of the book. On so many occasions she gave me her precious time to meet in cafés in Hồ Chí Minh City, between panel meetings at the Association of Asian Studies conferences, or at her home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to discuss the book.

x Acknowledgments

My thanks also go to Chương-Ðài Võ, who went through the manuscript to polish my baroque English and made very helpful suggestions to render the text more effective in a literary sense. My gratitude also goes to Peter Dimock, former executive editor of Columbia University Press, who helped turn the manuscript into a fi nished, publishable piece. Two hours before the text was sent to the Press, Olivier Cunin drew two great maps, contributing to the visual aspects of the book. At the Press, I thank Anne Routon, Editor for Asian History, whose calm, authoritative guidance in the delivering of my first book have been invaluable. I also thank Leslie Kriesel, Assistant Managing Editor, for her hands-on supervision of the production process, and the anonymous editor who spotted inconsistencies in the final text. As for institutional support, I would like to mention the School of Oriental and African Studies, its department of history, its superb library, and its legendary pub. I have very fond memories of this truly exceptional institution, which, in my view, is so much more than the overseas development business school which successive UK governments have tried—so far unsuccessfully— to turn it into. At Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes in Paris, I was able to continue my prolonged and often difficult research in Vietnam thanks to Prof. Nguyễn Thế Anh, who was kind enough to let me skip lectures to concentrate on my work. For three crucial years, in Vietnam and in England, I was lucky to receive financial support through the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Lavoisier scholarship programme. Much later, when I resumed work to turn the dissertation into a book, I benefited from flexible work schedules at CKS. The Center’s fantastic library at Vat Damnak helped me overcome the sense of isolation from the field of Vietnam studies. Finally, I am grateful to the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies in Singapore and its director, Ambassador Kesavapany, who provided me with a visiting research fellowship. I enjoyed the wonderful working environment of the Institute’s library and its dedicated staff. In addition, I have been most fortunate to be able to rely on the constant moral support of Masako Iijima. She has been at times host, advisor, confidante, and compass-bearer through the bumpy years of manuscript revision. And I would also like to thank my parents, Marie Pérard and Pierre Peycam. I have not always kept them informed of my work and I am afraid I may not have the patience to translate the book into French so that my father can read it.

Acknowledgments xi

It is hard to believe that almost two decades have already lapsed since I first thought of undertaking this project. I would like to dedicate this volume to Prof. Ralph B. Smith. I would have liked to give him a signed copy over a glass of wine in one of his favorite Bloomsbury restaurants.

Indochina 1937

Saigon 1930

Introduction

T

h e y e a r w a s 1 9 2 6 . On A p r i l 4 a n e v e n t o f g r e a t significance took place in the southern metropolis of Saigon that would set off a small revolution in the minds of many Vietnamese. From neighborhoods in and around Saigon, as well as from the northern and central parts of the country, 50,000–70,000 men and women defied French colonial order. Following the precedent set the previous year of a national funeral given to Dr. Sun Yat Sen, founder of the Chinese Republic, they marched in silent protest through the city to pay tribute to the nationalist figure Phan Châu Trinh, who had died twelve days earlier. Trinh was considered then (as he is today by leaders of Vietnam’s one-party state) to be a democratic reformer. He symbolized a path of nonviolent reform—a stark contrast to the dominant course that Vietnamese history was to take during the rest of the twentieth century. The event was not an isolated one. The excitement surrounding Phan Châu Trinh’s return from a long exile in France had been compounded by the public’s indignation over the trial of Phan Bội Châu, the country’s other emblematic nationalist figure, in Hanoi during the summer of 1925. In November 1925 the arrival in Saigon of the first socialist governor general of Indochina, Alexandre Varenne, further added to the uncertain political

2 Introduction

climate that involved the local governor, Maurice Cognacq, and an infuriated Vietnamese and French opposition over his corrupt practices. The Saigon of the 1920s was the center of open anticolonial contestation in Vietnam, and the atmosphere was electrifying. On March 24, 1926, a crowd of ten thousand had gathered at the Saigon port pier to welcome the return of the Constitutionalist Party leader Bùi Quang Chiêu. Hundreds came to listen to his speech following news of the arrest the previous day of three young journalist-activists, Nguyễn An Ninh, Dejean de la Bâtie, and Lâm Hiệp Châu. The demonstrators responded to each event with calm determination, wresting creative political leadership away from the colonial state and gaining a symbolic victory against French rule and its selfassumed legitimacy. These events constituted a decisive episode in the evolution of peaceful public Vietnamese resistance to foreign rule, a resistance that had begun a few years earlier and had been waged almost entirely through newspapers by a number of political journalists whose articles were crucial in rallying the Vietnamese public onto the streets of Saigon.1 The rise of an urban Vietnamese public culture of opposition to colonial rule enabled and enacted through journalism is the focus of this book. A study of the development of a press of contestation and the sociopolitical context of its emergence is of pivotal importance for our understanding not only of modern Vietnamese history but also of the transformation of political culture in societies subjected to Western colonial domination. This study of 1920s’ colonial Saigon could well be repeated with slight variations in a number of urban environments, including British India’s Calcutta, Dutch Indonesia’s Batavia (today’s Jakarta), and the Shanghai of the international settlements. As in Saigon, the European imperial idea or project, with its stated promises of orderly rational progress and the superiority of its values, saw its internal contradictions and weaknesses exposed by an emerging native culture of public inquiry that forced it to occupy a defensive position and ultimately to collapse.2 This study traces the origins of a new mode of political action in Vietnam, a process that echoes Partha Chatterjee’s description of the creative steps taken by the “colonized” to recapture political agency through a combination of appropriation and resistance. Ideological “content” was less important than the construction of new cultural norms of political action. A new “political culture” or “tradition” was defined, and at the heart of that culture were journalism and the rise of public print media.3

Introduction 3

My interest in the subject was inspired by the relevance I saw of Jürgen Habermas’s account of the development of a public sphere in eighteenthcentury Europe to what my research revealed was taking place in colonial southern Vietnam after World War I.4 Habermas used the term “public sphere” to refer to a political framework that lay outside the traditional circuits of authority, within which an educated elite made up of private individuals established itself as a political force to monitor, challenge, transform, and possibly overthrow the ruling power. In Europe, this force took effect in the form of printed pamphlets, essays, and salon politics. In seeking to limit the power of absolute monarchs, members of the rising urban bourgeoisie and fringes of the aristocracy willingly engaged in a rational, argument-based dialogue, thereafter establishing a framework of political accountability, which—in Britain, France, and the United States—ultimately led to the surrender by the central authority of its monopoly over political legitimacy.5 A similar phenomenon, I argue, took root in early twentieth-century Vietnam within the confines of the colonial regime. Established by means of a violent conquest that began in 1859 in the southern part of the country that the French called Cochinchine and expanding northward in the 1880s into the newly created protectorates of Annam in the center, and Tonkin in the north, colonial rule over a dismembered Vietnam meant the subjugation of eighteen million people and the effective effacement of an ancient monarchical state. With the addition of Cambodia and Laos, the three Vietnamese regions (or kỳ) formed the new ensemble of French Indochina, with the northern Vietnamese city of Hanoi as its capital. Though military supremacy created the domination, as in other colonial enterprises, French hegemony was soon justified by an ideological arsenal that claimed the superiority of Western civilization and, in particular, the French republican political model and its right to rule over so-called less advanced people in the name of human progress. This argument, however, gave rise to counterarguments. In the early twentieth century, Western pretensions of unchallengeable supremacy suffered a number of palpable blows: the Japanese victory over Russia in 1905, the butchery of World War I among European nations, the 1917 Soviet revolution in Russia, and, in the Asian French colony, the persistence of opposition to colonial rule at both popular and elite levels. This latter phenomenon arose against the background of major sociocultural transformations, most acutely experienced in the main urban centers of

4 Introduction

Saigon and Hanoi. Opposition crystallized into a historical moment in the midst of World War I, when the fate of France itself hung in the balance in Europe and when a less assured colonial state was trying to hold on to its position by conceding to the Vietnamese population limited, shared responsibility.6 The purpose was to obtain native support for the war effort and, beyond it, for the supposedly mutually beneficial project offered by French republican colonialism. Negotiating some form of consenting relationship with a segment of the Vietnamese population became the strategy pursued by Governor General of Indochina Albert Sarraut (1911–1913, 1917– 1919), one of the most politically astute French leaders of the time. In late eighteenth-century ancien-régime France, the politically and economically weakened monarchy endeavored to justify its role and actions to its population through the use of mass propaganda—thus opening a space for public rational inquiry. A century and a half later, the colonial authorities in Vietnam opened a narrow but real space of public debate, less through “representative” bodies (as in the case of other European possessions such as British India, the United States’ Philippines, or Dutch Indonesia) than through newspapers. This attempt by the French government met with the rise of a newly assertive, urban Vietnamese middle class, particularly in the southern port city of Saigon. The largest urban Vietnamese center and the city most affected by Western influence after more than sixty years of occupation, the capital of Cochinchina was a vibrant multicultural metropolis endowed with a powerful native bourgeoisie. Cochinchina was technically a colonie directly ruled by French republican metropolitan laws, as opposed to the protectorats of Annam and Tonkin, where, in principle, the Vietnamese administration was still in charge. Though most exposed to Western conventions, Saigon had retained substantial economic autonomy from the French. In addition to the conditions that Habermas maintained are necessary for developing a public sphere, Saigon also displayed the socioeconomic conditions that Benedict Anderson has classically depicted as necessary for the rise of nationalist sentiments among the bourgeoisie under colonialism. The critical importance Anderson placed on the colonial city as the central vector of transformation at both the individual and the collective level is born out by the Vietnamese case.7 To examine the dynamics of Saigon’s public sphere, I focus on the work of urban Vietnamese journalists and their pursuit of autonomy. This study illuminates two interrelated historical phenomena presented in separate

Introduction 5

parts. One is the uneasy—yet politically creative—encounter of colonial and indigenous sociopolitical cultures in the context of the colonial city. The other is the development of newspapers and activist journalism during the decade that immediately preceded the rise of rural-based, communist mass movements in the 1930s—a rise that eventually led to the political marginalization of newspapers as the principal tool for transforming the status quo.8 This study emphasizes and reflects the fundamental hybridity of Vietnamese political journalism as it was shaped by the sociocultural and political context of French republican colonialism. Saigon’s public sphere was formed not merely out of the imposition of colonial practices and ideas but also in the context of an established society with its own political cultural foundations and the transformations that resulted from having to live under colonial rule. These factors were exacerbated in an urban center like Saigon, where wealth, education, information, and instruments of power were concentrated. In precolonial Vietnam, social relationships and political expression were determined by what Western scholarship rather imperfectly depicts as Confucian notions of interpersonal loyalty and social harmony based on hierarchical dependency (on the family, the village, or the emperor) rather than on equality between individuals. In the southern part of Vietnam, however, the region most recently colonized by Vietnamese settlers who sought to break away from the rigidity of the northern society, loyalty to the emperor and the village were less strong. Although one’s kin remained the nucleus in which every individual existed socially, there was more room for cultural and political change.9 As we will see in the context of 1920s’ Saigon, the process of redefining the individual’s relationship to others and to the community provided conditions for new forms of social and political consciousness, at least among those elements of Vietnamese society directly affected by the changes.10 What particularly distinguishes early twentieth-century Vietnam from the eighteenth-century Europe of Habermas’s study was a situation in which the power of the colonial state was equally dependent on seemingly disconnected environments—political developments in the metropole, those among the population of French settlers, the colons, and those among the native subjects. Vietnamese public politics was indeed conditioned by the stances of the French colonial administration and those of the colons as much as it was by the already dynamic local history. The evolution of Vietnamese political culture must therefore be considered in relation to what

6 Introduction

was occurring in other French colonies and, above all, in France itself, with the consolidation of the republican regime after a century of political instability. The rise of a modern Vietnamese political culture of contestation, as it defined itself in the colonial context, was, at least in its beginning, closely linked to contemporary French political trends—through Vietnamese who had been educated in the metropole, their contact with the colons’ political practices, and multiple relations with the colonial state and its self-legitimating discourses.11 A contradiction that became increasingly frustrating among Westerneducated Vietnamese was the gap that existed between an official French rhetoric anchored in republican liberal discourse—and its proclaimed embrace of universal progress and human equality—and the daily reality of the political, economic, and social denial of these rights to the indigenous population. The social Darwinist-influenced theories of inequality between civilizations that justified this double standard convinced many Vietnamese to seek the promises of progress, modernity, and survival of the fittest.12 The terms of this debate were laid by the colonizers through the establishment of institutions and practices ranging from schools and “modern” instruments of political education to the romanization of the Vietnamese language and the democratization of cheaply printed information.13 Both this French genesis of Vietnamese modern political awareness and its indigenization are the subjects of the second chapter. Arising from the aspirations of urban, Western-educated Vietnamese, this pursuit adopted original forms of activism, using newspapers as a distinct political force that flourished within the constraints of the colonial legal framework. Cochinchina was directly ruled by metropolitan laws that allowed for freedom of the press and of printed materials, at least in the French language. Beginning in the second decade of the twentieth century, Vietnamese saw that public action carried out within the limits of colonial law, principally through newspapers, presented a possible avenue of political expression to address the French colonial regime. Some chose to use quốc ngữ—the phonetic rendering of the Vietnamese language into a romanized alphabet—to establish their public role as promoters of cultural and social modernization and self-improvement through education. Though restricted by tight censorship, they believed in the importance of public action and anticipated their compatriots’ reception to it. Others chose to write in French, the uncensored language of politics, in newspapers often launched with initial approval from the authorities. Their public expression imitated

Introduction 7

the political rhetoric of the French press, and they positioned themselves in relation to the colonial government policy. Not many years later, a significant number of younger journalists assumed a more radical role as they openly challenged the colonial regime and the contradictions of the Republican rhetoric. Navigating between two worlds of cultural references and using new forms of social interactions available in the colonial port city, their public political action became increasingly dramatic at both the individual and the collective level.14 Direct confrontation with the colonial regime reached its highest point in 1926. The events of that year sparked a radical evolution—if not a small revolution—that changed these journalists’ roles and, for some, ended their commitment to peaceful reform through the power of the pen. The promise of subverting the status quo through public politics began to fade in their eyes. What emerged in its place was the realization that other means and strategies were necessary—including the power of the gun—and the conviction that history was on their side. Others held on to their faith in print, at least for the purpose of engaging in the intellectual debates that their political actions had inevitably begun. The 1920s, therefore, saw both the birth and the demise of Vietnam’s first attempt at mounting a public political challenge through use of the “bourgeois” medium of print and its associated politics of deliberative and polemical persuasion: its creators conceived a rational public sphere of educated political debate both as a means of challenging colonial domination and as an end in itself. Nevertheless, it is important to keep in mind that Saigon’s public political debate cannot be considered as fully representative of the political will or popular sentiments of Vietnam. Journalists themselves were only a microcosm of the Vietnamese urban community and its emerging interests and social networks. I map the rise of new forms of public debate and organization by profiling individuals who exerted their action around and through newspapers and by tracking changes in their public discourse and actions. In describing Saigon’s public sphere socially and culturally, this book discusses a range of individuals rather than a few remarkable figures. Their stories are presented to situate their role as activist journalists in its particular historical context and to highlight how individuals of different backgrounds came to view their responsibility toward the wider community. This approach combines individual biographies with comparative techniques borrowed from sociology. It renders a sense of the plurality of individual

8 Introduction

destinies while establishing patterns of social and political development. I use the same biographical approach to tell the story of a number of key journalists and the newspapers they worked for and to show the links between their worldviews and the development of newspapers as instruments of political expression. I hope that this approach, rather than the arrangement of artificially descriptive themes, will convey the internal fabric of Vietnamese modern political culture and its transformations in the context of Saigon under colonial rule. For this investigation I have made use of newspapers and the archives of the Sûreté, the French colonial political police. Saigon in the 1920s expressed its political and social culture as text in the newspapers of the period. As a source, they require a peculiar kind of reading, providing both understanding of political developments and insight into the concerns and habits of everyday life. By monitoring and recording the day-to-day fortunes of a community or the parallel vicissitudes of particular individuals, newspapers are irreplaceable witnesses of change. Combined with information collected from other sources, offer unique insight into the ways individuals acted, interacted with each other, and used the public sphere. Information from the Sûreté is used to corroborate what is found in the newspapers. The fact that newspapers—like a number of individual journalists—received constant attention from the colonial police, recorded in the form of archival files, makes a study of these records all the more important since they contain information not available in the newspapers themselves. The files were chiefly of two types: annual reports and firsthand testimonies by informants. The annual reports, which were regularly produced from 1922 on, covered political events that took place in Saigon and Cochinchina. Beginning in 1927, monthly reports were added, a sign of the colonial authorities’ growing anxiety. These reports were sent to a handful of political and judicial administrators of the colony, contributing to shaping the way in which the highest circles of the colonial government perceived the native society. Most of these reports are found at the Centre des Archives d’Outre-Mer (CAOM) in Aix-en-Provence. I also use firsthand intelligence reports (Notes d’information) found in the Trung Tâm Lưu Trữ Quốc Gia 2, or Vietnamese National Archives Center no. 2 (NA2), in Ho Chi Minh City.15 The bulk of these Cochinchina Sûreté documents are still kept in Saigon. Although not always easy to access, they provide a vivid account of the journalists’ daily activities and lives, often due to the informants’ intimacy with their targets of surveillance. Spies and informers were not al-

Introduction 9

ways professionals; they were sometimes activists who accepted money and gave information to Sûreté officers on an ad hoc basis. Much of the biographical information contained in this book originates from these hitherto untouched sources. The goal of this book is not only to reconstruct a historical milieu that was as cultural and social as it was political. It also aims to chart chronologically the historical moment in which steps taken by a number of public individuals created a new space of political expression amid “the contingencies and contradictions of colonial rule.”16 These actions marked a rupture with the feeling of unease and powerlessness that characterized the first decades of European occupation. They were multifaceted, made up of borrowings, compromises, and adaptations, and were not always expressed in directly political terms. However, the opposition between colonized and colonizing and, with it, a Vietnamese collective, alternative consciousness became gradually more apparent, engulfing the Saigon political scene in radical political contestation. For many people in southern Vietnam who lived through these years, the tribulations of Saigon journalists left a memory of untarnished innocence and of endless possibilities—the true ferment out of which future revolutions would come. For contemporary readers looking to the future, this study argues in favor of a political narration that is anchored in the local, contextualized experience. This study confirms Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler’s important point that “political possibilities do not just lie in grand oppositions, but in the interstices of power structures, in the intersection of particular agendas, in the political spaces opened by new and renewed discourses and by subtle shifts in ideological ground.”17 It shows how tenuous, multiform, and contingent are the pathways along which historical events often develop. To know the past in the complexity of its unfolding, my study emphasizes, one must resist the temptations of teleology.

Part 1 The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

chapter 1

Social Order in the Colonial City

A

s France and its empire became engulfed in the First World War, the colonial port city of Saigon found itself developing into, to paraphrase Henri Lefebvre, a “space of possibilities.”1 Within its boundaries, a complex process of imposed acculturation and social interactions led to new expressions of Vietnamese consciousness on both an individual and a collective level. Gottfried Korff has referred to this creative aspect of the colonial city as “internal” or “internalized urbanization,” which is concerned with mentalités “formed in the communicative relational system of the metropolis [that have the role of] acting, thinking and feeling in the process of urbanization.”2 For many Vietnamese internal urbanization meant new forms of social interaction and a dynamic with the hinterland that reconfigured social and cultural awareness, which brought important consequences for the shaping of a new imagined and experienced community.3 The kind of interactions experienced in the colonial city emphasized individual mobility, flexibility in dealing with changing modes of work and life, and accustoming oneself to a new praxis of time, new hierarchical categories, and a new set of values deemed under the colonial order to be “modern,” “rational,” and therefore legitimate. Internal colonial urbanization affected and involved different

14 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

groups of the urbanized population at different times and in a variety of ways. It grew through a simultaneous dialogue between the city and the people, from the specific challenges of the urban environment to its inhabitants’ sociopolitical positions, and their responses and actions in turn influenced and even shaped the colonial and postcolonial urban environment. The history of the colonial metropolis shows how the experience of urbanization, with its heterogeneity and inherent contradictions, opened new spaces of freedom and pluralism.4

Historical Developments Saigon5 was a typical Southeast Asian city.6 Before the arrival of the French in 1859, it belonged to the southern region of the Vietnamese empire, originally annexed from Cambodia in 1698. The port city was incorporated into a regional commercial seafaring network led by Chinese merchants who were in direct contact with other major maritime commercial centers like Malacca, Singapore, and Batavia (Jakarta), as well as Guangzhou and Hong Kong. With its Chinese component in Cholon (in Vietnamese Chợ Lớn, literally “large market”), the urban center was the region’s main commercial hub.7 A defining feature that survived into the colonial period was its position as a political, commercial, and cultural center. Prince Nguyễn Ánh, the future emperor Gia Long, founder of the Nguyễn dynasty in Huế, chose Saigon to be the cornerstone of his political strategy of reconquest of the country against the Tây Sơn insurgency.8 Despite—or thanks to—these events Saigon became closely integrated within the Vietnamese polity to develop into an official center in its own right, where, for instance, civil service examination sessions at the provincial level were held.9 The twin centers of Saigon and Cholon, six kilometers apart, already formed a major urban spatial system partially filled between them by a collection of more than forty hamlets. In the last decades before French occupation, this ensemble represented a population estimated at more than one hundred thousand inhabitants.10 In contrast to Hanoi, its northern rival, Saigon’s main characteristic was its extreme heterogeneity and fluidity. The port city was indeed the meeting point of economic and social refugees from rural Cochinchina and from the northern and central parts of Vietnam, and a large Chinese community had been settled there since the seventeenth century. Distributed into small

Social Order in the Colonial City 15

centers within the Saigon-Cholon perimeter, the precolonial “Saigonese” population was not entirely cut off from its rural environment. Rice paddies, communal land, and hydraulic plans were still a distinct feature of the place, while land and water connections were bordered by small market centers, the xóm làng chợ.11 Of this population was born a distinct urban society with a culture different from that of the rural environment. Next to the country people of the delta area, the dân nông thôn, existed the city dwellers, the dân thành thị, more popularly called kẻ chợ (literally, “market individual”), who might be not only mandarin, military, businesspeople, artisans, coolies, workers, servants but also rice or vegetable croppers and wholesalers at the same time. This heterogeneous population was largely influenced by the important presence of the Chinese Minh Hương. In the precolonial period, the Minh Hươngs were those of Sino-Vietnamese extraction or those Chinese assimilated into the community of Vietnamese subjects under the Nguyễn kings. Chinese migrants freshly installed were called người Hoa Kiều. They were compelled to appear on registers kept according to their region of origin (this form of control was continued during the French period). Besides the Chinese, a number of foreign traders and travelers, Arabs, Malays, Indians, and Europeans, regularly visited the port city. In this heterogeneous urban environment in which individualism, pragmatism, and openness to strangers flourished, the character of the Saigonese kẻ chợ slowly forged itself. That character was revealed in the vocabulary, popular beliefs, and attitudes pervading everyday life best described by the southern writer Sơn Nam.12 After the fall of the city in 1859, Saigon became the cornerstone of the new French expansionism in the Far East. With the subsequent conquest of northern Vietnam in 1884 and the historical city of Hanoi becoming the new capital of the French Indochinese Federation a decade later, Saigon remained the capital of the old territory—legally a French colony—of Cochinchina, as well as Indochina’s main economic hub. With a population of 232,100 in 1918 and 324,000 in 1931, the urban complex of Saigon-Cholon was Indochina’s most populous center.

The City as Colonial Apparatus In the political economy of early twentieth-century Western imperialism, three defi ning features shaped the character of a colonial city: the

16 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

construction or imposition of a modern state apparatus, the introduction of the métropole’s system of education, and the integration of colonial possessions into the world economy. Nowhere was the conjunction of these factors more apparent in French Indochina than in its largest metropolis, Saigon.13 Through colonial rule, the French imposed modern forms of state control on the indigenous population. The administration and centralization of control itself was associated with the construction of the European model of the nation-state.14 One of the main functions of the colonial state apparatus was to enforce rational scrutiny of the local population through political administration and its legal framework and through the organization of official coercion. Confronted with the total withdrawal of imperial administrators to Huế after refusing to pay allegiance to the foreign invaders during the early years of the conquest of southern Vietnam or Cochinchina (from 1860 to 1867), the French had to set up their own direct administrative system. They recruited and trained natives and an unusual number of French staff, many from Corsica and the southern Indian French territory of Pondicherry who had settled in Saigon. Based in Saigon, Cochinchina’s colonial administration was headed by a governor and an elected assembly, the Colonial Council. A network of provincial French administrators was dispatched across the territory of Cochinchina, which remained divided into its original six provinces.15 Within a few years, the foundations of the metropolitan legal system were laid. The French code pénal was promulgated in 1880, and Napoleon’s code civil was enforced in 1883. A year earlier, quốc ngữ—the Roman transcription of Vietnamese that replaced the Chinese characters—was made the official form of writing in Cochinchina apart from French. By the turn of the century, the colonial administrative apparatus in southern Vietnam was firmly established, commanding most aspects of the organization of the indigenous population. By 1900, each European civil servant was in charge of an average of eight thousand Cochinchinese inhabitants.16 Originally established by violent means, the colonial regime, as a sovereign and disciplinary power, ultimately relied upon the “modern” modes of coercion described by Foucault.17 The French colonial army in Cochinchina was supplemented by forty-one posts of gendarmerie and a local garde civile. In 1917, in the context of the global conflict, this coercive machinery was completed with the creation of the Sûreté Générale de Police, which, owing to its modern capacity to centralize information about native individuals,

Social Order in the Colonial City 17

assumed an increasing influence on government policy. In 1922 the Sûreté’s political section, whose Cochinchinese headquarters were in Saigon, was directly linked to the “direction of political affairs” of the government general.18 In a trend similar to that experienced in Dutch colonial Indonesia, the Sûreté asserted its ascendancy over “native policy” as a whole, making colonial administrators increasingly “dependent upon a system which provided only police types of information.”19 Legal discrimination vis-à-vis natives also served to control and coerce. The Régime de l’Indigénat (separate legal status for the indigènes—natives—and the French) and the creation of the much-feared criminal courts aimed at indigènes deemed politically subversive gave an expression of expeditious, repression-driven justice. In addition, a solid network of prisons was developed, from Saigon’s Maison Centrale to a penal colony on the island of Poulo-Condore. The colonial state was first and foremost a “police state.”20 Categorizing, classifying, and assigning the natives hierarchically was an obsession of the colonial administration. A direct consequence of colonial rule was the imposition of categories in a complex hierarchy based on the notion of racial and cultural inequality, as generally presented in official government documents. Cochinchina’s population was divided into three main categories: “French citizens,” “natives” (sujets protégés français), and “foreigners.” If in theory all French citizens enjoyed the same rights, in practice colonial society nurtured subtle distinctions between individuals of metropolitan origin, those originating from other colonial territories, the métis (Eurasians), “naturalized” Vietnamese, and the indigènes citoyens français (individuals from French territories in India who had been granted French citizenship on condition of renunciation of their caste—loi Crémieux, 1870). The indigènes/“natives,” legally “French subjects,” were themselves differentiated according to ethnic origin.21 In Cochinchina, the categories included the ethnic Vietnamese (Kinh), the mixed Vietnamese—Chinese (Minh Hương),22 the Khmers from Cochinchina (Khmer Krôm), the Chams, and the hill tribes (Moïs). The third category was that of foreigner. It included the Chinese (by far the largest community of foreigners in Saigon), the Indians from British India (Malabar), and the subjects of other European colonies. Social categorization and racial discrimination prevailed throughout colonial Cochinchinese society, extending from differences in salary among employees with the same position and qualifications, to differences in educational curricula, to dual judiciaries and electorates, to de facto “whites only” clubs.23

18 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

Bureaucratic practices of the colonial administration contributed to social atomization and individualism. Much effort went into defining the legal status of individuals and to codify their social behavior. The état civil statute—the recognition of one’s existence as an “indigenous French subject,” introduced in Cochinchina in 1883, along with application of both the code civil and the code pénal—enforced the notion of personal responsibility. This trend was reinforced by the strict imposition of individual accountability for taxation. As early as 1880 a direct personal tax was introduced, and the holding of a carte d ’ impôt personnelle as an instrument of individual control was made compulsory in 1884. The atomization of the indigenous society and increased individualism were the logical consequences of these direct and pervasive measures of colonial social control.24 The category of individuals most exposed to the culture of the colonial state and from which many of Saigon’s future intellectuals emerged was that of the Vietnamese drawn into the French administration. With the withdrawal of the mandarins from the outset of the colonial period, the French need for native collaborators opened up a whole new avenue of social promotion for Vietnamese. The first indigenous administrative colonial personnel included interpreters, secretaries, and militiamen. The Catholic interpreters Paulus Hùynh Tịnh Của and Petrus Trương Vĩnh Ký, who ended their careers as đốc phủ sứ (the highest possible rank for a native to acquire in the Cochinchinese administration), or Trần Bá Lộc, a condottiere in the service of the French army, were early examples of the emerging Cochinchinese elite. The recruitment of these Vietnamese cadres was often haphazard, as Alexander Woodside has noted: “[b]efore 1900, cultural change in Vietnam was linked to the scramble by individuals for arbitrarily offered social rewards, an individualistic pattern which hardly disappeared after 1900.”25 Many of Cochinchina’s Vietnamese civil servants active in the 1920s started working in the early years of the century. The journalist-novelist Hồ Văn Trung, for example, became a secretary in 1906. In regular contact with French officials, he was promoted to the position of private advisor to the governor of Cochinchina sometime after 1917. For this new generation of high-ranking Vietnamese functionaries, the completion of higher education was the rule. A graduate of the Agronomic Institute in Paris, Bùi Quang Chiêu began working for the government in 1897. In 1923 he was director of the Agriculture Service and had French staff under his supervision. So, too, did Lưu Văn Lang, a chief engineer at the Public Works (Travaux Publics) Department, who started his professional career in 1902. However, despite

Social Order in the Colonial City 19

having an education on a par with Frenchmen, Vietnamese officials remained barred from high appointments. By the end of the First World War, the mass of Vietnamese civil servants employed in Cochinchina still held subordinate positions. The bulk of these fonctionnaires indigènes comprised teachers in Franco-Vietnamese elementary and primary schools and lowranking office clerks such as secretaries, interpreters, or low-level technicians. This growing number of Vietnamese civil servants did not bring with it widespread social elevation. Nevertheless, for a long time, a position in the colonial administration was, together with education and wealth, considered by the Vietnamese as a sign of social prominence.26 In spite of physical proximity within the city, the expansion of the colonial administrative apparatus led to increasingly impersonal relations between French and Vietnamese civil servants. As in the case of neighboring Cambodia, “improvements” in colonial administration such as the introduction of typewriters or automobiles had the unintentional effect of further reducing social and professional contact between French administrators and the people they were intended to oversee and protect.27 A decree dated September 1899, unifying the civil services of all of Indochina, ended the requirement for French functionaries to speak Vietnamese. This increased social distance and alienation naturally created dissatisfaction, especially among the urbanized youth.

Colonial Education The spread of modern education by the colonial state represented a critical factor in the state-enforced transformation of Vietnamese society, particularly in the city. Along with the establishment of the administrative and judicial regimes, in 1879 the authorities set up a network of schools in Cochinchina for the Vietnamese population considered or commonly referred to as “Franco-Vietnamese education.” By the 1920s, the impact of the educational policy was much more extensive in Cochinchina than anywhere else in Vietnam. Alongside a system reserved for the French, a centralized hierarchy of “Franco-Vietnamese schools” was in place in much of the colony by the end of the nineteenth century. In the early 1920s, Franco-Vietnamese education was organized by grades: “elementary” (three years), “primary” (three years), “primary superior” (three to four years), vocationally oriented “primary superior” (four years), and “secondary” (three years). Each of

20 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

these grades was strictly regulated by age groups, using a uniform array of textbooks and other instructional materials, creating among the pupils a “self-contained, coherent universe of experience.”28 Bilingualism also characterized colonial education, with French and Vietnamese (and its romanized transcription, quốc ngữ) serving as the main vehicles of instruction. The use of Vietnamese was confined to the lower echelons of the system, while French assumed prominence from primary education on up. In 1913 and 1914 Cochinchina had 53,000 pupils enrolled in primary institutions (82 percent in the public sector). In 1922 and 1923 this figure had risen to 90,000.29 The pyramidal nature of colonial education established a geographical hierarchy along the same lines as those of the administration. The main institutions, which had the most highly qualified teachers, were concentrated in the Saigon area. The apex of the system was represented by the Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat. Originally exclusively aimed at French students (including Vietnamese with French nationality), Chasseloup-Laubat admitted a very few Vietnamese students, most of them from wealthy families. The high school or lycée also ran a distinct “native section” that provided elementary and secondary education. In 1929 it was moved to the newly built Lycée Pétrus Ky, thus physically separating French and native pupils, as was already the case with the teaching curricula. Below the Saigon lycées were two Franco-Vietnamese collèges located in Mỹ Tho and Cần Thơ. Other important Franco-Vietnamese schools in Saigon included the École des Jeunes Filles Indigènes, a school for girls named after the Emperor Gia Long, and the Gia Định School of Teachers (école normale). The Institution Taberd, a Catholic school founded in 1874, and the Collège Franco-Chinois, reserved for Chinese pupils (beginning in 1925), were also major French institutions.30 Avowing republican principles of meritocracy while excluding direct competition between natives and French students, Franco-Vietnamese schools were supposedly designed to give both the elite and the mass population the same instruction. The education they provided, however, was in fact extremely competitive and clearly differentiated along social and urbanrural lines. Simultaneously, a new structural division appeared: beginning in the 1920s, a spontaneous trend toward sending Vietnamese students to metropolitan schools and universities developed among members of the Cochinchinese socioeconomic elite. They either paid for this education or, in some cases, were able to obtain government scholarships. These disparities in access to Western education inevitably led to social separation between people who were unschooled, those educated in tradi-

Social Order in the Colonial City 21

tional village schools, those educated in Franco-Vietnamese schools, and those educated in French schools. This fragmentation affected Cochinchinese society at both the collective and the individual level. As Gail Kelly has noted about the whole of Vietnam: While urbanization and economic class already divided the society, school curriculum tended to reinforce these cleavages by providing different referents of knowledge, views of culture and language, to the urban classes attending Franco-Vietnamese schools. If internalized by school populations it left little basis for dialogue between individuals educated in FrancoVietnamese schools and the remainder of the society.31

Vietnamese who embarked on secondary and higher education in Cochinchina experienced Western acculturation to the fullest. Based on the metropolitan model, the Franco-Vietnamese curriculum emphasized “moral behavior in individualistic rather than collective terms.”32 Moreover, France was offered as the main frame of reference for the new Vietnamese elite. The integration of this French-educated Vietnamese fringe into Cochinchina’s society was increasingly problematic. Their learning tended to cut them off from the rest of society and sometimes from their own families as well. Equipped to cope with the new environment created by the colonial regime and trained to take on individualistic worldviews, they found they could live only in big cities like Saigon. This was especially true for some of the retours de France, who had graduated from French lycées and universités. Integration into the market for professional employment, dominated by the administration and French private companies, was not, however, based simply on education. In an environment plagued by racial discrimination, favoritism, and opacity, the dramatic increase in the number of young graduates of the expanding Franco-Vietnamese education system was not accompanied by an equivalent rise in the number of job opportunities.

Integration Into the Global Economy The accelerated integration of southern Vietnamese society into the global economy was another factor of social transformation introduced by French rule, with its concentration in Saigon. This intensification of capitalist

22 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

relations resulted in further individualizing society while engagement with the global economy led to the development of new social categories.33 Under French domination, rice production and its commercialization in Saigon-Cholon was the economic driving force of Cochinchina, which became a major world exporter. Economic colonization of new rice-growing areas in the western part of the Mekong Delta (Miền Tây) effectively quadrupled the amount of cultivated land. The creation of large estates was encouraged. Besides a number of French commercial societies to which some of the largest estates were conceded, the trend generally benefited a category of entrepreneurial Vietnamese notables who were well prepared to take advantage of these new opportunities. In the meantime, the rise of a speculative rice economy driven by capital and credit in the hands of foreigners, such as the Chinese (transport, milling, commercialization), Indian Chettys (money lending), and French (milling and export), reduced the autonomy of a growing number of peasants who became tenants. In parallel with the rice economy, new export-based activities such as the production and commercialization of rubber after 1910 and semi-industrial production concentrated in the Saigon metropolitan area also expanded international business activity in Cochinchina.34 In the city, an important socioeconomic consequence of French colonization was the introduction of individual salaries—fixed regular payments— by the colonial administration and by private Western companies. At the same time, the tax policy enforced by the regime accelerated the transition to a monetary and individual-based economy. The precolonial tax assessment, based on the village unit, was replaced by one calculated according to adult individuals and individual holdings of land, which included the direct personal tax introduced in 1880. Money, as a result, took on a more important role in relationships, contributing to the devaluation and even disappearance of old ties based on personal reciprocity.35 Along with a French education and a position in the administration, money and entrepreneurship became accepted attributes of social prominence in colonial Saigon. One major consequence of these economic changes was the emergence of distinct socioeconomic groups with differentiated values and behaviors.36 An identifiable economic bourgeoisie developed primarily as a result of the conditions described earlier. In this category were, first, those who owed their new social status directly to the French. Because their family members had helped the French in the early years of the conquest and were rewarded with large areas of land, the southern Vietnamese bourgeoisie in the 1920s

Social Order in the Colonial City 23

included many powerful landowners who had made their fortunes in money lending. One Western observer even suggested that “the French have created not a bourgeoisie but a plutocracy.”37 Some of these Cochinchinese “dynasties,” which lasted until the end of French rule, counted among the richest Vietnamese. This historic Cochinchinese “aristocracy,” no larger than a dozen families, later included individuals who made their own fortunes without French intervention or favor. Such was the case with the Minh Hương (Vietnamese of Chinese descent) Trần Trinh Trạch. Born into a poor Chinese family from Bạc Liêu in 1873, Trạch enrolled in the local Franco-Vietnamese school and from there joined the colonial civil service as an interpreter between Chinese merchants and French administrators. Soon he saved enough from his commissions as a middleman to establish himself as a moneylender and land developer. Trạch’s land was acquired from borrowers who were unable to meet their obligations to him. In 1929 he owned 15,000 hectares (or 37,000 acres) and was one of the richest landowners in Cochinchina.38 Cochinchinese in origin and often wealthy through landownership, most of the members of this economic bourgeoisie resided in Saigon. They adopted Western dress and other external symbols and were culturally modern but socially exclusive. In contrast to the urban Cochinchinese bourgeoisie, the socioeconomic category described as “middle class” or “white collar” was quite heterogeneous. It included several social strata and varied greatly according to material conditions, education, status, and self-image. Minor entrepreneurs, functionaries, teachers, and office employees were all included in this category. The upper stratum of this middle class shared the interests of the bourgeoisie in acquiring land. For instance, in the middle of his successful literary career, the writer and journalist Hồ Văn Lang made his first major investment by purchasing 40 hectares (100 acres) of rubber plantation in 1926.39 Integrated into the “modern economy,” Saigon’s upper-middle class received a Franco-Vietnamese education and the bourgeois taste for Western customs. The economic constraints within which the latter operated constituted the main difference between the haute bourgeoisie and this middle class. These constraints stood as a bar to equal status with the French and precluded access to higher education and the right to vote in the Colonial Council. Not surprisingly, this group was very sensitive to discrimination on the part of the French colonizers.40 Among those most exposed to economic hardship were the educated young who had recently arrived in the southern metropolis in search of a

24 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

job. They often took low-paid positions such as teachers in private institutions or worked at newspapers. Some, like the Tonkinese journalists Dejean de la Bâtie and Nguyễn Phó, who shared a room in near penury, lived in precarious conditions.41 The situation for the two young men was not far removed from that of the coolies, hawkers, rickshaw men, and artisans who inhabited Saigon. Among them were a large proportion of semivagrants. Often referred to as bụi đời [dust of life], they were described by the communist newspaper of the 1930s, La Lutte, as the “starving people from the countryside taking refuge in towns.” 42 Owing to the lack of heavy industry, urban industrial workers, as they are generally understood in the industrial European context, were limited in number. Notable exceptions were the thousand or so workers employed at the Ba Son shipyards, or arsenal, which represented the first mechanized factory and was Indochina’s largest French industrial plant.43 Made up of ethnic Vietnamese and Chinese, its workforce was Vietnam’s first group of industrial workers. Along with France’s growing military power in Asia, the Ba Son facilities had expanded—since their creation in 1864—to service large battleships. During World War I, many of the workers were sent to France to work in military industrial plants, where they came in contact with their metropolitan counterparts and encountered European workers’ labor organizations. Members of the Ba Son industrial community, as a result, were perhaps more “capable of situating themselves within a broader sociopolitical context, and willing to fight for their interests in due time” than the average Saigonese workers.44 In the mid-1920s, a number of labor conflicts began to occur at the shipyard, starting with the well-publicized August 1925 strike over perceived arbitrary decisions made by the French director.45 The importance of the Ba Son workers within the social fabric of the city, however, should not be overestimated. Most Cochinchinese industrial workers were employed in small- and medium-scale businesses of fewer than one hundred workers, a majority of them semi-industrial processing factories in Cholon. “Coolies” rather than industrial workers, their social relations were structured along patriarchal lines similar to those of rural workers rather than according to “the extensive Shanghaian proletarian type” described by Hémery, thus limiting their sociopolitical “potential.”46 Tensions among these new social sectors are difficult to discern. Some were revealed in the series of strikes that took place at the end of 1927, in which Vietnamese workers sometimes took action against their French and Vietnamese employers. For instance, the Ba Son shipyard strike seems to

Social Order in the Colonial City 25

have been connected to communist insurgency. Most other movements, however, seemed to express social rather than revolutionary concerns.47 More than a perceived tension among the emerging socioeconomic categories of southern Vietnam, it was, by the 1920s, the unequal degree of integration into the colonial social framework—with its combination of economic, generational, educational, geographic, and symbolic fissures—that was the main cause of strain and alienation felt by many individuals. A real class consciousness or social esprit de corps existed only among the economic landowning bourgeoisie. Its awareness of itself as a social group was matched by a relative atomization of the rest of society. A growing sense of alienation and dissatisfaction was perceptible among the new sectors of young, urban, French-educated, low-ranking civil servants, those most exposed to the strains of colonial modernity.

Physical Constraints By 1910, the physical pattern of colonial Saigon was established after considerable delays due to improvisations and setbacks in the previous decades. Indeed, from the beginning of French rule, the colonial authorities lacked consistency in shaping a coherent development policy. Too often they yielded to the temptation of ostentatious monumentality with comparably less effort put into developing a basic infrastructure. A general laissez-faire attitude favored multiple land speculative practices and corruption.48 In spite of these early shortcomings, Saigon emerged on the northern bank of the Sài Gòn River, physically centralized with a functional area devoted to administrative, economic, and military services. This centralization was always balanced by the importance of the city’s Chinatown, Cholon, located six kilometers southwest. Almost as populous as Saigon proper, Cholon was the heart of the manufacturing and commercial activities. Its Chinese inhabitants contributed to the centrality of the metropolis in the whole of Cochinchina even while French influence remained limited.49 The erratic urban-planning policy nevertheless revealed a clearly delimited perimeter of what had become the official center of colonial Saigon; the Ville Basse, or “Lower City,” displayed all the features of a modern French town. Institutions such as the governor’s palace, administrative offices, the post office, the prison, police and military headquarters, schools, and hospitals were prominent. In this functional space of representation, it was the

26 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

monumentality of the public buildings that vividly contrasted with the light “native” constructions found elsewhere.50 Françoise Choay, in her analysis of European urbanism, distinguishes two categories of functional zoning found in European cities. The “space of contact” inherited from European medieval urbanism and the “space of spectacle,” which began in the Renaissance.51 In the colonial context of segregation, the former category was associated with the native quarters, which were characterized by their high-density occupation, where slums and new shophouses cohabited with Buddhist pagodas (chùa), Catholic churches, and traditional communal houses (đình). European residential areas, by contrast, tended to be integrated into the official space of representation, where the buildings, referred to as “villas” (even when their status did not justify it) were still subject to strict regulations of aesthetic monumentality and perspective. In Saigon, the Lower City was in fact merged into the French residential quarter, “le Plateau,” where large and impressive villas were regularly aligned.52 Specific attributes of a French city, such as the cathedral overlooking the central axis of Catinat Street, tree-lined avenues, and public parks, reminded the French colons of their home country, while it asserted the colonial ideal of a “France of Asia.” As Wright has stated, “In Indochina even more than in metropolitan France, the instability and weakness of political authority encouraged grandiose and vain acts of assertiveness. Civic architecture tried to convey the impression of authority and continuity where they by no means existed.”53 On the fringe of the French residential area were two distinct Vietnamese residential zones. The quarter of Phú Nhuận, consisting of elaborately decorated French-style villas for the bourgeoisie, developed in continuation of the French quarter. To the north and east of the French cemetery lay the more distinctively Vietnamese districts of Tân Định and Đa Kao, inhabited by junior civil servants and employees of French companies—many of them Catholic. This separation, though not formally instituted, resulted nonetheless from a policy employed by the authorities to locate the indigenous population away from the Europeans. Though some members of the southern Vietnamese bourgeoisie ventured to establish their residential dwellings in the French quarter, with time, the consolidation of the Lower City and the Plateau accentuated the material difference and social distance between the Europeans and the vast majority of the Vietnamese. Another striking feature of Saigon’s city center was that it bore almost no indication of the Vietnamese presence before the French conquest—a

Social Order in the Colonial City 27

phenomenon reminiscent of what the Vietnamese had previously done with reminders of Khmer society in the region. All remains of the former imperial citadel had been removed.54 It was only in the mid-1920s that the colonial authorities initiated a timid policy of protecting traditional Vietnamese architectural findings, while new urban structures began to feature a distinctive “Oriental” style. These references to Saigon’s Vietnamese heritage were part of a policy to integrate it into the pattern of “modern” colonial urbanism. In 1923, such a policy had been encouraged by Ernest Hébrard, director of the Indochinese Urbanization Directorate, who, following the model set by his colleague Antoine Prost in Morocco, sought to conciliate Western functional modernization with “native” cultural traditions.55 The best examples of this recomposed indigenous architecture, the Blanchard de la Brosse Museum (1926–1929) and the Lycée Pétrus Ky (1927), were built by French architects.56 This reluctance of the French to endow Saigon with a Vietnamese character contrasted with their efforts to develop a distinctive native “Khmer quarter” in neighboring Phnom Penh or in Morocco, where Résident Général Hubert Lyautey built “traditional” médinas in the cities of Rabat and Casablanca.57 In many ways, Vietnamese visitors coming to Saigon for the first time would feel that they had entered an alien environment. Photographs of the period show the area empty of the reassuring Asian street life still found in Cholon and even in Hanoi. Authors such as the scholar Paul Mus, who observed colonial roads crossing in the Vietnamese countryside, believed such alien organization of space was conducive to psychological strain.58

Space of Heterogeneity Arbitrarily structured by the discriminatory nature of colonialism, Saigon had long been home to people from a variety of nations and regions. Of all of the cities in Indochina, it had by far the highest proportion of inhabitants who were from “outside”: Europe, China, and India, as well as the different regions of Vietnam. This diversity increased dramatically with colonization. The number of people of Chinese origin was considerable. Until the economic Depression of 1929–1930, they represented almost half the total number of inhabitants in the twin cities of Saigon and Cholon: 140,000 Chinese in comparison to 145,000 Vietnamese in 1921; 125,000 Chinese and 159,000 Vietnamese in 1928.59 This massive presence of economic migrants from

28 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

China contrasted with the socially better established Minh Hương—SinoVietnamese who had lived in southern Vietnam for generations. In the eyes of many Vietnamese and even Minh Hương, these newcomers from mainland China, the Hoa Kiều, were notorious for their aggressive entrepreneurship, opening small businesses that soon competed with local establishments. Among this heterogeneous group, the Teochiu language community was the most populous. Their sheer number in the city and in the Cochinchinese hinterland guaranteed them considerable influence over the Vietnamese population. In the economic and social spheres alone, Chinese trading activities—including not only smuggling, piracy, and banditry but also “clean” commercial practices—were constituent of the socioeconomic development of the Mekong Delta. In the political sphere, Vietnamese looked with fascination at the way members of the Chinese community organized themselves into secret societies (hội kín), such as the notorious Heaven and Earth Society (Thiên Địa Hội). In Saigon, especially, Vietnamese journalists were inspired by and envious of the way the Chinese displayed solidarity with their mainland cocitizens. In short, the familial and communal-oriented economic, religious, and political activities of the Chinese community in Cochinchina, as well as the cohesion its members displayed at times, were both admired and feared by the Vietnamese living in the city.60 Along with Saigon’s Chinese, the city was also home to an Indian community of some twelve hundred members who were active businesspeople and moneylenders.61 Both Chinese and Indian communities were divided into dialect- and religion-based associations.62 Although limited, racial tensions between the Vietnamese and members of these communities existed, as demonstrated by two anti-Chinese commercial boycotts in 1915 and 1919.63 Anti-Indian sentiments held by the Vietnamese culminated in incidents such as the “Rue Vienot affair” in June 1928, when an angry crowd smashed a textile shop run by Muslim Indians following perceived ill treatment inflicted on a Vietnamese by the shop owners.64 The fact that the Chinese and Indian immigrants enjoyed a legal status distinct from that of most Vietnamese exacerbated frustrations among those classified and hence disenfranchised as indigènes. Almost exclusively concentrated in Saigon proper, the French population was an important and growing minority. In 1921 Europeans made up 5.6 percent of Saigon. Seven years later the proportion had jumped to more than 10 percent.65 Although this presence may seem limited, it was sufficient to effect the overwhelming display of a Western-style social life in the city:

Social Order in the Colonial City 29

“[w]e number only 5[000] to 6000 Europeans in Saigon. But all those Europeans are masters, bosses, surrounded by domestics, and as a result they create an activity at least equivalent to that of a metropolitan town of 2[00,000] to 300,000 inhabitants.”66 The physical proximity of a number of Vietnamese to the French accustomed them to day-to-day Western ways. As Saigon’s French community grew more populous and less exclusively male in its composition, relations between the two groups became more distant and superficial. In comparison to the early years of colonization, there was a general reluctance among the French to learn Vietnamese. Contacts became more hierarchical. The few Vietnamese the Saigon colons encountered were domestics or subordinates at work. In fact, during the 1920s the urban Vietnamese grew more familiar with and receptive to Western culture, while Saigon’s French community increasingly became too insulated to engage in any real kind of exchange.67 Among the rather heterogeneous Vietnamese population in close contact with the French colons were domestics (the “boys”), mistresses (con gái), and métis, or Eurasians. Comprising 13.22 percent of the French population in Cochinchina in 1921, of whom 60 percent lived in Saigon, Eurasians represented an important social element of the colonial city matrix. In a society as stratified as Saigon, métis played an influential role, although their situation as “outsiders” in each of the two communities contributed to the general climate of incomprehension.68 One of the métis who felt the pressure of this ambivalence acutely was the political columnist Eugène Dejean de la Bâtie, the child of an affair between a high-ranking French diplomat of aristocratic blood and a Vietnamese shopkeeper from Hanoi. Although illegitimate (i.e., born out of wedlock), Dejean was recognized by his father and consequently granted French citizenship. While in his early twenties, he came to the forefront of the rising radical Vietnamese opposition to colonial rule. Together with the movement’s iconic figure of the 1920s, Nguyễn An Ninh, in 1923 he launched the most virulent political opposition newspaper thus far published, La Cloche Fêlée (The Broken Bell). In the following years, Dejean directed or contributed to most French-language antigovernment newspapers and was for a short time imprisoned in 1926. His exposure to the Saigon public political scene did not reduce the degree of suspicion his status as métis provoked in the increasingly radicalized French and Vietnamese political circles. This led to intense strains within himself as he publicly explained in a moving article published in 1927.69 As an “enfant de la Colonie,” he ultimately chose to embrace the official French republican

30 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

integrationist ideology, thus departing from the Vietnamese nationalist movement, which, more than many, he helped develop.70 Other individuals deeply affected by the collision of the two cultures found in Saigon were those Vietnamese who had spent an extensive period in France or had reached a high degree of acculturation through French education. Some had even lost proficiency in their own mother tongue. Among them was Phan Văn Trường, a lawyer educated in Paris and director of the newspaper L’Annam and who had lived in the métropole for about fifteen years.71 Graduates of the Paris Law Faculty, the intellectuals Dương Văn Giáo and Diệp Văn Kỳ had lived in the French capital for thirteen and six years, respectively. The young Nguyễn An Ninh, who had studied in Paris for three years, was considered by the Parisian intellectual Léon Werth to be “the most European” of the Vietnamese he had ever met.72 Not only were the three men “Westernized” in their education, but they also brought with them a distinct Parisian attitude most perceptible in their public activity in Saigon. Dương Văn Giáo, in particular, epitomized the Parisian bourgeois liberal intellectual, at ease in the salons and the Freemason lodges of the French capital and married to a French woman who was a professor of history and an active feminist. His style annoyed some of his fellow activists, who pointed to his estrangement from the social reality experienced by the majority of his compatriots.73 Many of those Westernized “Saigonese” originated from notable southern families and from other modern cities like Hanoi. They contrasted with the mass of their compatriots newly arrived from the surrounding countryside or those originating from the impoverished northern and central regions of the country. Saigon’s Vietnamese population had indeed grown more diverse, especially as the city’s opportunities attracted an increasing number of people from Tonkin and Annam. Sûreté and newspaper accounts often mentioned the growth of businesses run by northerners, especially after the 1919 anti-Chinese economic boycott. “Tonkinese bazaars” were said to thrive, while most of the domestics employed by the French also originated from the north.74 Registered Vietnamese from Bắc Kỳ (Tonkin) and Trung Kỳ (Annam) residing in Saigon-Cholon numbered more than 5,000 in 1921. Their numbers had dropped to 3,700 and 530, respectively, in 1931 due to the economic recession.75 Urban consciousness was slowly taking shape among those Vietnamese who themselves had emerged out of the new centralized, functional, and hierarchical sociopolitical order. This new urban identity was based on the

Social Order in the Colonial City 31

degree of integration of individuals into the colonial system. Its conceptions and values were spread “from above,” especially through newspapers, but also in the day-to-day exercise of power relations through education, commerce, and administrative authority. As we have seen in the case of the métis or of members of the Frenchified Vietnamese intelligentsia, this rise of collective urban identity developed alongside cultural alienation at the individual level, especially for those most exposed to the two cultures. As in other colonial metropolises like Calcutta, Jakarta, Shanghai, or Algiers, Saigon provided a new “social prism” through which colonized individuals forged their individual identities. Intergenerational relations in the 1920s were also affected by this crystallization of an urban identity. Tensions between age groups, particularly in the higher social strata, were provoked by the social prominence enjoyed by Vietnamese recruited by the French at the turn of the century. Established as an indispensable link between the foreign rulers and the Vietnamese population, this category of “colonial mandarins” maintained itself at the top of society until the end of the 1920s and beyond, even after their formal retirement. One such case was Võ Văn Thơm, born in 1868, who retired from his job as interpreter in the judicial system in 1915 but remained an active colonial councilor until the late 1930s. While few opportunities for careers of responsibility existed in the colonial administration for young Vietnamese, people like Võ Văn Thơm effectively kept members of the new generation outside even though they were better equipped to adapt to current conditions. With regard to Saigon-based political activism, the 1920s were rife with tensions among three particular generations. Established figures, such as the director of the newspaper Trung Lập Báo (Impartial), Lương Khắc Ninh (born in 1862), and men of the following generation, such as columnists Hồ Văn Trung (born in 1885) or Nguyễn Phan Long (born in 1889), existed alongside those who challenged their positions. This third group comprised young men in their twenties or even teens, like the activists Bùi Thế Mỹ (born in 1904) or Vũ Đình Dy (born in 1905). What is interesting about these age divides was that each of these generations was the product of colonial rule, though at different stages in its development. Accordingly, their values and interests diverged greatly. In the context of the colonial city, a “counterculture” among the younger generation took shape as a rejection of the restrictive and discriminative colonial order, to be sure, but equally as a reaction against the dominance of an elder Vietnamese social and political

32 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

elite—a clear symptom of the erosion of the traditional structure, in which elders were respected. The forces brought about by the colonial regime—the imposition of a modern state apparatus, the introduction of French education, the opening of southern Vietnamese society to the global economy—led to radical changes in the ways life in 1920s’ Saigon was experienced and understood by the city’s old and newly settled inhabitants. For those most exposed to and affected by the changes—the young, French-educated members of the social middle class and bourgeoisie—new spaces of individual agency emerged beyond family structures and conventions of conduct that had hitherto restricted the affirmation of the “self.” These spaces, together with a new material culture that emphasized “efficiency,” “punctuality,” “mobility,” as well as interpersonal communication, consumerist gratification, and coexistence with a plurality of cultural and social groups, contributed to the realization—or illusion—of individual freedom at a time when society found itself constrained by the inherent limitations of colonialism. A sense of frustration and alienation was pervasive among a growing segment of the Vietnamese urban society. It is this successive combination of social atomization, individual self-realization, and sense of alienation that in the end triggered the search among Vietnamese for new practices of social engagement and the emergence of the public figure of the “intellectual.”76 As it emerged in the 1920s amid Western-educated young and middleaged urban Vietnamese, the term “intellectual” (nhà trí thức) became widely used among French and Vietnamese, first to personify social and economic success and later, increasingly, to designate the educated, actively engaged articulate person whose individual responsibility it was to represent and embody the collective interests of the Vietnamese. Until the Great Depression at least, the Saigon intellectuel essentially derived from the socioeconomic strata made up of the landowning bourgeoisie ( giai cấp tư sản) and the petty bourgeoisie (giai cấp tiểu tư sản) or the “middle class” ( giai cấp trung) of civil servants, teachers, and, increasingly, journalists. A product of the transformations described earlier, the Vietnamese Saigon intellectuel chose to be active by using modern forms of expression, especially newspapers. In this new social role, the journalist-intellectual could combine echoes of the Confucian prestige attached to the scholar, or nhà nho —“transmitters (and embodiments) of moral teachings”—with the respect derived from the aura of Western modernity embodied in the figure of the liberal bourgeois “honnête homme” or the French “intellectuel engagé.”77The latter figures had gained

Social Order in the Colonial City 33

new prestige since the Dreyfus affair, their individual commitment to public action on moral grounds transcending established power and the play of interests.78 This new sociopolitical incarnation of the intellectual-journalists and of their readers and followers must therefore be associated with the emergence of a specifically urban political consciousness in Vietnam in the early 1920s.79

chapter 2

French Republicanism and the Emergence of Saigon’s Public Sphere

R

ecent interest in alternative histories of modern Vietnam, “beyond teleology,” encourages us to reexamine what conventional historiographies have considered a failure: the experiment of a Vietnamese political culture rooted in plurality, multiple cultural influences, and nonviolent, argumentative scrutiny.1 This political genealogy mixed French colonial republican discourse and colon (colonist) populist traditions with remnants of Confucian Vietnamese behavior. A unique blend or métissage facilitated the autonomy of individual political action and, with it, the introduction of new forms of expression and topics of debate. This culture found its original expression in political newspapers in the metropolis of Saigon, the place most affected by foreign influences. Urban Vietnamese politics were shaped in counterpoint to official colonial discourses that invoked French republican ideals and to the political and economic activities of the European colons. Yet, early Vietnamese expressions of “modern” political action reflected concerns that were independent of imposed French ideas. This combination gave rise to the sociopolitical figure of the activist-journalist of the 1920s and 1930s, the embodiment of Vietnam’s new public political culture and its entry into an era of massmedia politics. As much as the subjects it treated, Vietnamese journalism in

French Republicanism 35

the 1920s created a contested field in which the colonized’s reinterpretation of imposed foreign ideas led to their appropriation for nationalizing purposes.2

French Republicanism The new urban social strata of colonial Cochinchina operated within a cultural and political framework constructed by the French. As we have seen, this framework organized governing institutions, legislation, and mechanisms of communication between the métropole and the colony. A discourse of republicanism pervaded all of the functional aspects of French rule after the reestablishment of the republican regime in the métropole in 1871. These “French origins” of a new Vietnamese political culture not only affected the daily lives of the Vietnamese but also imposed a self-legitimizing official narrative in relation to which future Vietnamese actions responded or shaped themselves. Until the Vietnamese were able to invent their own “modern” political discourse, the colonizers had a critical hold over Vietnamese politics. There were two developments of particular significance. First, the French internal debate over the nature of Gallic colonialism and policies subsequently adopted by the administration in the colony. Second, the political values shared by the French settlers, or colons, in Vietnam, with particular attention to their attitudes toward the indigenous population. Starting in the 1880s, an official discourse developed to justify France’s second colonial expansion, of which Indochine arguably represented the most significant prize.3 It was rooted in the construction of modern republican nationalism by the métropole’s new ruling elite after the fall of the Second Empire and the crushing of the Paris Commune. The colonial œuvre (literally, colonial artful achievement), as it was called, was intimately tied to the republican project of shaping France as a modern nation-state and to contemporary debates in Europe over the idea of “nation.”4 The question of the status of the colonized “natives” was linked to that of French “national” purposes, including territorial expansion that had integrated into France the border province of Savoie just three years after Cochinchina was annexed.5 With the second wave of colonial expansion, a new system of philosophical values and political principles was promoted by the new regime. This “republicanization” of France’s colonial policy was at first only partially supported by the republican camp itself.6 In fact, it was on the occasion of a

36 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

parliamentary debate on the “Indochinese question” in December 1885 that a fusion between the republican and colonial visions crystallized into a new consensus that held sway in the following decades.7 Under the new regime, French colonial expansion was to contribute to the universally liberating process unleashed by the French Revolution of 1789, its faith in reason and its proclaimed principles of the “rights of man.” Colonial conquest was presented as a quest for an all-embracing egalitarian destiny that would promote the “French model,” by definition unique, universal, and superior.8 To justify this expansion to the French population, a myth of the “greater France” was constructed as an imagined national narrative beginning with the French kings. Colonization was presented as a collective “modern” project that would transcend the social and political divisions of the national body and express the universal nature of the French nation with its mission to bring under its wing populations and cultures as varied as Bretons, Basques, and Provençals, as well as Algerians, Senegalese, and Vietnamese. The colonial project was associated with the ideals essential to French republicanism: faith in progress through science; the equality of all; and the messianic conviction of France’s exceptional destiny, as expressed by Ernest Renan in his definition of la nation.9 The republican civilizing imprint was strongly linked to its revolutionary origins in the appeal to the myth of universal “fraternity.” Colonial conquest claimed a “humanitarian” duty to “civilize” and “educate” the “natives” through a policy of gradual cultural transformation. This “civilizing mission” recast the republican ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity in official discourses and monuments that consecrated France’s colonial presence and held out the promise that, at some unspecified future point, these ideas would be the possession of the “natives,” too, once they reached the requisite level of “civilization.”10 We now underestimate the impact this discourse, with its theoretical coherence and its pseudoscientific foundation, had upon social elites in France’s colonies. These elites had been deeply affected by the trauma of their countries’ subjugation and were daily confronted with evidence of the apparent superiority of the Western model of social and political organization.11 Despite early contestation, a colonial consensus among members of the French political elite had emerged by the end of the nineteenth century. Then, in the wake of World War I, the fiction of a human and geographical realm in which the republican ideal could be engineered into existence served as the mirror of an outcome deeply desired for the métropole at a

French Republicanism 37

time of great uncertainty, to the point that the reality of the violence imposed upon the colonized peoples was all but lost to view. The conservative end of the French political spectrum had rallied behind the imperial fervor of the republicans and the moderate Left, contributing to the production of this consensus, even if some disagreements persisted over how to run the colonies. Concomitantly, there emerged in the French political mentality a fusion of the “colonial” with the “national,” to the point that, at the beginning of the 1920s, to be anticolonial was considered to be anti-French; conversely, to desire French grandeur meant to legitimize “greater France” and its imperial nation-state model.12 This reality affected both French and colonized peoples under the tricolor. Proud republican citizens (citoyens) could become colons while boasting about their republicanism; they could proclaim their faith in the principle of equality while practicing colonial racism. They could claim their quest for the universal while limiting it to white people and to a minority of “evolved” colonized people through well-organized discrimination. Conversely, and for at least a time, native French subjects (indigènes sujets français) in the colonial republic could feel that they belonged to the French national “family” and its messianic historical genealogy—and believe that their ancestors were the Gauls, as they were taught in republican schools—while they were in practice denied the basic rights granted to French citizens. Comparing their situation to that of natives of territories ruled by other European colonial powers, the French colonial sujets perhaps felt more intimately a sense of conflicting identities, in which their “inviolable rights” to human dignity were philosophically proclaimed but de facto denied.13

Colonial Policy in Vietnam Following the return to a Republican regime in France in 1871, the issue of the colonies in the Far East divided the political spectrum. The mood in the métropole became, ironically, a greater threat to the continuation of the French presence in Indochina than Vietnamese efforts to resist it. The fall from power of Prime Minister Ferry in 1885 over his policy of territorial expansion in Tonkin was a perfect illustration. It was by only a few votes that the French advance was eventually authorized by Parliament the following year.14 At least theoretically, France’s presence in Indochina and its will to defend the colony were constantly under question in the métropole.

38 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

Before the war of 1914–1918, the idea of exchanging Indochina for AlsaceLorraine in a deal with Germany had even been advanced in some circles in Paris.15 Many French politicians likewise put forth the idea of “giving up Asia for Africa” in a widely distributed pamphlet published in 1909.16 The unstable administration of Indochina—from 1886 to 1926 there were fi fty-two changes in the governorship of Indochina and thirty-eight in Cochinchina—reflected the lack of political coherence in Paris over its Southeast Asian “possession.”17 The debates in France about whether to incorporate the “natives” through “assimilation” or “association” had direct consequences for Indochina, particularly Vietnam.18 Endorsed as official colonial policy in the 1880s, the project of assimilation was the logical political expression of the republican ideal of universal equality. In theory, it meant the incorporation of the colony within the body politic of France. The creation of the Franco-Vietnamese educational system, the imposition of the French penal code, the establishment of a mixed elected representative body, the Colonial Council, in 1880, and the decree of 1881, which established a procedure for the naturalization of Vietnamese as French citizens confirmed the goal of assimilation. This supposed ideal found a more bureaucratic expression in Governor General Paul Doumer’s 1897–1902 policy of imposed state centralization, realized through the creation of the “Union indochinoise.” None of these measures, however, were really meant to go beyond empowering an extremely limited number of indigeǹes with rights otherwise exclusively enjoyed by French citizens. At the turn of the century, the assimilationist model began to fall victim to a concerted attack in France. Influential intellectual figures such as Léopold de Saussure and Paul Leroy-Beaulieu asserted the differences among races and cultures and the fatal consequences of transplanting foreign ideas. They advocated instead an “associationist” policy based on respect for the cultural integrity of the colonized populations. For all its implied appreciation of the indigenous culture, the policy of association was in fundamental conflict with the republican ideal of equality among individuals as advocated by the formal policy of assimilation. In its application, association could be interpreted either restrictively by “neotraditionalists” or liberally by indigènophile French citizens. As it won widespread support in Paris, the new policy was adopted by colonial administrators of liberal inclination.19 Regularly publicized in the French colonial press, this largely theoretical Parisian debate took on urgency in Indochina with the news of Japan’s victory over the Russian fleet in May 1905. The embarrassing defeat of the Rus-

French Republicanism 39

sian forces at the hands of an “advanced” Asian nation had a profound effect on both the Vietnamese and the French colons.20 Among the French, some were persuaded that to guarantee Indochina’s defense against potential invaders, the colonial administration had to seek the active support of the Vietnamese population.21 Japan’s victory over Russia provided an opportunity for Vietnamese nationalists to attribute the former’s success to a long process of modernization rendered possible by the dynamism and openness to Western ideas and techniques of Japan’s independent government since the beginning of the Meiji era. Vietnamese nationalists contrasted Japan’s situation with the despotism and archaism of their own monarchy. The most famous advocate of this analysis was the scholar Phan Châu Trinh, a graduate ( phó bảng) of the traditional civil service exams who came from central Vietnam. For Trinh, seeking violent confrontation with the French to achieve independence, as many of his scholar compatriots advocated in the monarchist cần vương (save the king) resistance movement, was unrealistic and dangerous.22 He urged instead social and cultural “modernization” (hiện đại hóa) through the adoption of Western ways. The official party line of French republican colonialism, with its promises of enlightened progress, had conditional support among some members of the scholarly Vietnamese. In March 1908 outbreaks of violence in central Vietnam erupted as peasants protested against French taxes. The movement, which spread from the central provinces of Quảng Nam, Bình Định, and Hà Tĩnh, lasted almost three months and bore the influence of modernizers like Phan Châu Trinh. In June the French discovered a secret plan to take the city of Hanoi after an attempt to poison the inhabitants of the French military garrison there. That same year, police uncovered an active underground network in Cochinchina. Both the Hanoi poisoning attempt and the underground network were linked to an organization operating from Japan, the Association for the Modernization of Vietnam (Việt Nam Duy Tân Hội). Its founder was Phan Bội Châu, the other important figure in Vietnamese modern nationalism at the time. In contrast to Trinh, Châu was hostile to the French policy of association. His goal was immediate national liberation, and he sought only practical routes to independence. Châu embodied an intuitive and traditional form of refusal to accept Vietnam’s acquiescence to external rule.23 Although he was well known to the French authorities, until the events of 1908 they had no idea that his plans had such far-reaching influence. He thereafter

40 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

became the most dangerous Vietnamese enemy of the French colonial state. In the face of these simultaneous, yet unconnected events, the confidence of the French was severely shaken. The colons were fast in calling for a bloodbath. The colonial authorities reacted by swiftly rounding up nationalists. Trinh was among those arrested and taken to Poulo-Condore Island in May 1908. A major offensive against Châu’s organization, both inside Indochina and abroad, also began. Even peaceful initiatives taken by Vietnamese reformists—such as the private Tonkin Free School (Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục) in Hanoi, which, since 1906, had offered “modern” education in parallel to the French system—were suppressed.24 The forceful determination with which these repressive measures were carried out contrasted with French uncertainty over indigenous policy. These events were not well received in Paris, where France’s colonial policy was once again the subject of serious deliberation. This period corresponded to the rising influence of Socialist politicians like Jean Jaurès in the French Parliament’s Lower House, the Chambre des Députés. Following the resolutions made at the International Socialist Congress of Amsterdam in 1904, he and fellow Socialists severely criticized France’s treatment of its colonial possessions (though they did not call for French withdrawal from its dominions). Representatives of the center-left Radical Party also showed liberal inclinations toward natives.25 On April 2, 1909, a resolution on Indochina was passed by the Chambre des Députés, which directly contradicted the repressive measures of the native policy of the new governor general, Anthony Klobukowsky, by reasserting its commitment to a policy of association.26 The release of a highly critical report in 1911 by Deputy Maurice Violette on the Indochinese administration’s policy led to yet another change in leadership and orientation in the colony. Against the background of the Franco-German colonial crisis over Morocco, the appointment of the Radical Party politician Albert Sarraut as governor general of Indochina in June 1911 signaled that Paris was seeking a political arrangement with indigenous nationalists.

Sarraut’s “French-Vietnamese Collaboration” The emergence of Saigon’s public political culture in the 1920s owed much to the political impetus given by Governor General Albert Sarraut. Sarraut

French Republicanism 41

was twice appointed head of Indochina, 1911–1913 and 1917–1919, each time at a critical moment—the Chinese revolution of 1911 and the war in Europe in 1917. Although he devised the “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration” or Pháp Việt Để Huề program during his first tenure, it is useful to focus on Sarraut’s policy as a coherent whole throughout both terms of office. The newly appointed, thirty-nine-year-old governor general brought to Indochina the style of a young Third Republic journalist and politician well accustomed to public action and propaganda techniques.27 Reflecting on the events of 1908, Sarraut saw that Vietnamese national consciousness was a compelling force among the educated fringes of society. He also recognized that nationalists were divided in both their objectives and their strategy: independence or modernization, direct action against the colonial regime or reformist strategy under the French. He chose to take the initiative by distinguishing between those nationalists likely to cooperate and those completely opposed to the colonial regime. His lucid assessment of the situation was apparent in his reports to the Ministry of the Colonies: “I have always estimated that Indochina must be protected against the effects of a revolutionary propaganda that I have never underestimated, by carrying out a double action, one political, the other repressive.”28 Sarraut’s strategy was to deliver an attractive—yet vague and one-sided— perspective to the nationalists by presenting the colonial project as a necessary period during which the economic and social modernization of Vietnam would require French protection and supervision as part of a mutually beneficial partnership before full Vietnamese sovereignty could be restored. This conception was in line with the paternalistic republican discourse of mission civilisatrice, while it also supported the associationist orientation of marking political differentiation between the natives and their protectors. During the transition period, some Vietnamese would be invited to participate in the decision-making process via a new plan called “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration,” which the governor general characterized as “the most complete form of French colonial policy in Asia.”29 Sarraut’s frank style in presenting French intentions was unprecedented. It was poised to win over many Vietnamese, modernists at heart, who had been tempted to resort to direct confrontation with the French. The young governor general led the way with symbolic measures, such as the appointment of Vietnamese as “administrators” in 1912 and the reopening of Hanoi University in 1913. Tonkin’s Native Counsel Chamber, which had been shut down by his predecessor, was reopened, albeit with a more

42 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

restricted role. In Cochinchina, the Conseils de Province, established in 1912, gave rural notables an opportunity to “assist” the administration. To show his commitment to the economic development of Indochina (mise en valeur), Sarraut launched a widely advertised public loan of 90 million francs, the largest since the Doumer era. In this matter, as in many others, Sarraut’s core skill was his capacity to publicize his policy and to reach out to a targeted Vietnamese audience, well beyond the colon community. Meanwhile, Sarraut was determined to neutralize active native opposition to French rule. In response to earlier Vietnamese initiatives, he introduced sophisticated forms of political surveillance. To suppress dissident movements, the colonial coercive machinery was reinforced with the centralization of all Indochinese police forces and an emphasis on intelligence gathering. This policy culminated in 1917 with the creation of the Sûreté Générale Indochinoise, which had its own budget and its own prerogatives. The Sûreté was to exert a major influence on future French policy toward the “natives.” A distinctly manipulative and repressive angle was added, which in the long term affected—and poisoned—perceptions of Vietnamese political initiatives among leaders of the colonial administration.30 Similarly, Sarraut cracked down on anti-French networks outside Indochina, especially in republican China, where he paid a surprise visit in November 1913.31 Sarraut’s “Vietnamese strategy” had a far-reaching objective. Anxious to guarantee the sustainability of French rule, he was one of the first colonial leaders to take full account of the changing Vietnamese social map and to see it as an opportunity worth exploiting politically. The social segments most likely to engage in a new political partnership with France were identified as comprising those “Westernized” urbanites who formed the basis of the new Vietnamese elite.32 Under Sarraut’s tenure, French policy aimed at luring members of these new social strata into collaboration through the development of institutionalized forms of political participation, of which newspapers and the press were to play a major role. This political program was at the heart of a new colonial technocratic strategy defined by historians as “colonial humanism,” which Sarraut sought to apply to the rest of the empire when he later became minister of colonies.33 Cochinchina, and Saigon in particular, represented the most important sociological foundation for Sarraut’s native policy. It was the most “advanced” social environment and so the most likely to be receptive to his initiatives. The sociocultural transformations that resulted from half a century of French domination were already translating into emerging forms of

French Republicanism 43

political involvement. Western-educated, urban southern Vietnamese were becoming accustomed to French institutions such as the press and the electoral process. Targeting established southern social groups, particularly the members of the socially conservative yet politically and economically advanced local bourgeoisie, Sarraut hoped to convince them of the superiority of the French republican model, which he accomplished through systematic propaganda hailing France as their natural “second fatherland.” He contrasted the modernity of France’s œuvre, or “project,” in Indochina with the isolated desperation and backwardness that characterized opponents like Phan Bội Châu. In this charm offensive, however, independent advocates of true and mutually beneficial “modernization,” like Phan Châu Trinh, were simply ignored. In his courting of the Vietnamese social elite, Sarraut was somewhat helped by the resolutely antinative attitude of most of the colons. This contributed to forging an image of him as a liberal indigénophile.

The Politics of the Colons Quite apart from official colonial policy, the colon community in Saigon had its own political culture.34 In contrast to their metropolitan compatriots, who often discussed colonial policy in terms of philosophical principles, the colons experienced colonial rule in its day-to-day reality. They found themselves exposed to the consequences of decisions made in France. Their situation resulted in political anxiety and a pervasive mistrust of the colonial authorities. Their strong antistate stance and their suspicion of covert metropolitan agendas behind every government action had the effect of forging a distinctive opinion among the French of Indochina. Similarly, a consensus existed among the colons that the French presence in Indochina was unassailable.35 In an interesting anticipation of Vietnamese political claims, colons from Indochina complained of the omnipotence of the colonial administration, which left them politically powerless and frustrated despite the fact that a considerable number of them were civil servants. In theory, the French colonists of Indochina faced, as did “natives,” legal restrictions on political rights such as free association and public demonstration. In practice, however, the authorities allowed meetings to take place in restaurants or private premises like villas. As for political parties, modern organized movements were still very new in France, and it is therefore not surprising that

44 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

political parties did not exist in Vietnam. Only branches of metropolitan organizations and support committees for candidates in electoral contests were permitted. A section of the French Socialist movement opened in Saigon in 1905, and recruited 123 members the same year.36 The Radical Party opened its branch in 1910. Political expression among Cochinchina’s colons was limited to the press and a few elected institutions. The deputy (député) representing Cochinchina in the French Chambre des Députés was chosen by an electorate of around fifteen hundred voters. Among them, some three to four hundred were French Indians from Pondicherry, whose votes were customarily bought en masse on election day as a way to neutralize the four hundred or so naturalized Vietnamese voters.37 The député was supposed to represent the colony’s interests in France. In practice, however, being elected mainly by French colons, his role consisted in influencing colonial policy in the métropole on their behalf, often to the detriment of locally unpopular governors general and governors. Député elections were held every four years. They often featured personal rivalries linked to financial interests rather than political substance. With control of the local budget, Cochinchina’s Colonial Council was another political counterweight to the executive power. Although its role had been reduced by Doumer, the council still determined the taxes to be levied in the south, by far the richest territory in the whole of Indochina, and how they would be spent. In practice, however, the assembly proved incapable of mounting a serious challenge to the administration, and throughout its existence a majority of councilors always supported the local governor’s decisions. The council did manage, however, to serve as a forum where French and Vietnamese could debate side by side. However, native Vietnamese councilors were never in a position to seriously challenge French prominence. Saigon’s municipal elections served primarily to demonstrate the ability of the colons to impose their views upon the entire city. The Municipal Council’s proceedings were public and reported by the press. A sort of public debate did exist, although it rarely reached beyond issues of personal self-interest. Many corruption scandals had their origins in Saigon’s Municipal Council. These “representative” assemblies were in fact no real match for the overwhelming power of the administration. The colonial press, which flourished after 1900, constituted the main channel of political expression for the French colons, as it would later for the Vietnamese. Cochinchina, technically a French colonie under direct

French Republicanism 45

metropolitan political and administrative sovereignty, had its regime of the press subject to the legal provisions of the métropole, particularly the 1881 law, which had radically curtailed preexisting state censorship in France. Newspapers no longer had to be submitted to the authorities for prepublication censorship, and vendors could sell and distribute printed materials without prior government approval. The 1881 metropolitan law on the freedom of press was automatically applied in Cochinchina (and in Tonkin and Annam after 1884, but there the law had only the force of a “decree,” which meant that its application was left to the discretion of the local authorities). 38 In the southern colony, the colonial administration had no legal authority to curb one of the most fundamental laws of the new regime—a law that, together with that instituting universal suff rage, constituted an essential part of republican citizenship. In France the two decades before World War I were characterized as the golden age of the press. Newspaper readership reached levels hitherto unmatched while the variety and quality of papers were unprecedented. Likewise in the context of colonial Cochinchina, the quantity of French newspapers far exceeded the economic possibility of making a profit from a limited number of potential readers. Most sheets were short lived. The main Cochinchinese French papers were L’Opinion (founded in 1899), and L’Impartial (1917). Numerous less important ones were aimed at specific audiences or appeared for special purposes like elections or blackmail campaigns between candidates or journalists. The colonial administration rapidly realized the danger of leaving this political space completely open, fearing that natives would take advantage of it. In the first two decades of the century, however, the authorities were more worried about maneuvers by unscrupulous French journalists and organizations such as the powerful Catholic Foreign Missions. Despite opposition from colons, the authorities made discreet attempts to contain the political influence of the colonial press. These attempts included “illegal” pressure exerted on printers, secret subsidies to newspapers through advertisements or subscriptions, indirect bribes to directors, or, conversely, the holding of personal “files” on them and their often sulfurous practices.39 Apart from a few papers openly affiliated with metropolitan political parties or organizations—like the Radical Party’s Saigon Républicain—most colonial newspapers were characterized by their political opportunism and lack of editorial consistency. They often featured strong personal engagement from Jules-Adrien Marx and his Catholic-leaning La Cochinchine libérale,

46 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

Georges Garros and his liberal Jeune Asie, the anarchist Edgar Ganofsky (La Voix libre), the conservative Henri de la Chevrotière (L’Impartial), or Paul Monin and André Malraux’s pro-Vietnamese L’Indochine. The French newspapers of Indochina were notorious for their political vindictiveness and divisive attitudes. In reality, however, most shared a code of core values, particularly with regard to their relation to the colonial administration and their approach to the “natives.” To bypass the colonial administration and to assert their presence directly to the métropole, the colons made their demands heard in the Paris press and the Chambre des Députés by going through the political-economic network called the “Colonial Party” (Parti colonial).40 Governors general were often the targets of libelous campaigns. Klobukowsky (1908–1911), for instance, suffered a concerted attack that was successfully relayed to the métropole and led to his early replacement. The attacks against Sarraut, however, particularly by L’Opinion in 1914, failed to threaten him. In fact, in spite of its virulent tone, the influence of the colonial press on the French administration, both local and in Paris, was waning.41 However, it regained a certain influence toward the end of the 1920s as a result of the vigor of anticolonial Vietnamese opposition and the press’s increasing dependency on major business interests.42 French newspapers divided themselves more clearly between a mainstream, “moderate,” republican press (Lucien Héloury’s L’Opinion) and a more anti-Vietnamese, conservative one under de la Chevrotière (L’Impartial). Beyond metropolitan lines of divergence, such as the opposition between “republicans” and “monarchists,” “Dreyfusards” and “anti-Dreyfusards,” Catholics and anticlericals, the serious lines of conflict among the colons centered on their relations with the “natives.” The real cement of the colonists’ political conscience was their firm refusal to compromise their prominence over the native population. Until 1920, not a single French newspaper, notwithstanding some occasional bursts of republican egalitarian rhetoric, supported the idea of granting natives positions of responsibility in the administration. A similar consensus existed on the issues of wider access to education, a single judiciary system, and naturalization of natives.43 The rhetoric of association and assimilation made sense to colon society only insofar as it did not lead to real equality. When faced with Vietnamese uprisings, colonial public opinion showed signs of fear and even public hysteria, as after the events of 1908. Only after World War I was this consensus breached, particularly among war veterans and the self-proclaimed guard-

French Republicanism 47

ians of the republican mystique of “fraternity in the trenches,” like the Catholic populist Jules-Adrien Marx, the freemason Georges Garros (alias Jacques Danlor), father of the war hero Roland, and the war-injured lawyer Paul Monin. These individuals began to openly resist the patronizing premises of the French colonial model of modernization. Their opinions were influenced by members of the new international order resulting from World War I, with the birth of the Soviet Union, the rise of communism and pacifism in Europe, and the general “civilizational” malaise that had begun to plague metropolitan intellectual circles.44 Paul Monin was one of them. Born in 1890 near Lyon, the trained barrister arrived in Saigon in 1918, after having suffered a serious head injury during the war. Prior to that, the Christianeducated Monin had been embroiled in a fight between the Catholic Church and the young republican regime and had turned violently anticlerical. Naturally, he joined the Freemasonry and became a staunch republican militant close to the Radical Party. In Saigon he became involved in local politics by running electoral newspapers such as La Grenade and La Vérité. This work helped him to run as a candidate in the deputy elections of 1919 and 1924 as the leader of the opposition to the local potentate, Ernest Outrey. On both occasions his candidacy received the support of the Vietnamese opposition. With his compatriot, the ardent young intellectual André Malraux, in 1925 Monin launched the newspaper L’Indochine, which became one of the most vehement opposition sheets of the time. By the end of that year, Monin, who had good contacts with the Chinese community, was said to represent the Chinese nationalist Kuomintang in Cochinchina. Regularly harassed by the authorities and in fragile health due to his war wounds, he died of exhaustion in January 1929.45 In the case of someone like Monin, the difference with “liberal” colons was the fact that these men were ready to see changes in political terms, with independence of the colony as a radical but possible conclusion, like the revolution they claimed they were dreaming of for France itself. Ironically, their integrating rhetoric of liberation of the natives contributed to the further “Frenchization” of Vietnamese politics. For many educated Vietnamese, these rare but highly publicized dissonant French voices represented an alternative to the colons’ mainstream conservative and racist politics. Such radical opposition from within the ranks of the colons themselves showed that beyond “colonial France,” a liberating, generous, mythical France really existed. The connection with

48 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

official republican propaganda and its promises—those advocated by Sarraut—contributed to inoculate the minds of a number of Vietnamese with the passion of French metropolitan politics, including its fundamental tensions between liberating philosophical ideals and their contradiction in practice. Ironically, avant-garde, anticolonial Vietnamese activists often joined their radical French counterparts by referring to a “true France” as opposed to that advocated by the colonial administration and the colons.46 A growing number of Vietnamese increasingly saw their condition in European and “French” terms—through the acquisition of French language and education, through exposure to French republican propaganda, through contacts with French political practices and social behaviors, and through a sense of international solidarity with other colonized peoples in the French and European imperial realms. Their political discourse and social position became increasingly Eurocentric even as their worldview became more and more cosmopolitan. Their intellectual stances increasingly distanced them from the large mass of their compatriots.47

Vietnamizing Politics The political activities of the French colons, with their prominence in the urban social landscape, provided Westernized Vietnamese with vivid examples of public action and behavior—including strong action in relation to the colonial state. The volatile, unrestrained, and sometimes humiliating nature of the colons’ always assertive presence operated as a daily source of repulsion—and attraction—regarding the reality of the Western social, cultural, and political domination. A genuine Franco-Vietnamese dialogue seemed no more likely to emerge from the colons’ quarter than from the colonial government’s reformism. At the core of the Vietnamese political reformist circles, as embraced by Phan Châu Trinh, a fundamental tension continued to exist: a constant contradiction was felt between the egalitarianism and universalism of the French colonial “project” as expressed in its Republican principles and the daily reality of unequal power. Out of this state of volatility and contradiction, a distinctively southern style of political engagement, characterized by reformism and pragmatism in action, slowly began to take root. Nowhere was the debate among Vietnamese over whether to resort to direct force against the French or to aim for modernization within the colonial

French Republicanism 49

framework more intensely engaged than in the south. Nowhere else within the country was the impact of Western contact so deep, and nowhere else were the social complexities, ambiguities, and ambivalences of a cultural métissage so acutely felt. A new type of Vietnamese “modernizer” was emerging there, produced by the newly established social strata of southern Vietnam’s colonial urban society. It must be noted that this movement of “modernizers” developed against the counterpoint of regular bursts of local indigenous political-religious opposition to foreign rule. The result of popular movements, these activities generally began in the countryside and relied on oral communication, particularly rumor. Buddhist priests and charismatic, religious leaders— particularly Theravada Khmer monks—often led these popular movements, which brought together the religious and the political. Other opposition movements were related to the existence of “secret societies,” which the contemporary author Georges Coulet described as “the cornerstone of social movements” in traditional Sino-Vietnamese society.48 Chinese and Minh Hương in Cochinchina played an important role, particularly in the activity of the so-called Heaven and Earth Society (Thiên Địa Hội), which, in areas of recent Vietnamese conquest such as the Mekong Delta, sometimes operated in place of governmental structures.49 Clandestine by nature, these organizations and the forms of resistance they sponsored included the use of force.50 Contemporary colonial officials and Western-educated Vietnamese— followed later by modern Western historians—tended to view these forms of political and social action as rooted in tradition and therefore as being essentially “anachronistic.” It is true that these efforts lacked a central direction and did not have, in Western eyes, a structured, rationally constructed project able to match the French-sponsored political sphere.51 The emergence of organized political-religious movements in parallel with that of a “modern,” urban, public political sphere in Saigon—notably the Cao Đài movement in the mid-1920s—demonstrated how a command of spiritually infused political practices could unleash potent new forms of mass-based rural contestation.52 Largely removed from the political debate in Saigon by the end of the decade, both Caodaism and the newly founded Communist Party of Indochina competed with each other in building their base of support in rural Cochinchina. They drew upon terminologies and representations rooted in the deep religious background pervasive among local populations.53 The survival of these “traditional” forms of resistance until the

50 Part 1. The Origins of Saigon’s Public Sphere

first decade of the twentieth century, as well as their subsequent, sometimes painful, incorporation into the new political order, are reminders of the limited social foundation of “modern” Vietnamese public politics, to a large extent the product of urbanized, Western-educated fringes of the native population. In the mid-1920s, some urban activists attempted to make their politics more widely relevant by reaching out to the rural masses. More subtle was the Vietnamese quest to embrace Western political modernity and to indigenize it. The development of urban, legal public politics in southern Vietnam can be traced back to the early years of the French presence and the key role played by native-born pioneers of Vietnamese cultural “modernization.” From among the few Vietnamese able to communicate in the language of the foreigners, a small number of Catholic interpreters became the first intercessors between the two cultures; their religious affiliation made them, in the eyes of the French, more trustworthy than their non-Christian compatriots. Their Catholicism is also important to understanding their motives. The three best known of these interpreters, Trương Vĩnh Ký (1837–1898), Hùynh Tịnh Của (1834–1907), and Trương Minh Ký (1855–1900), regarded their role almost as a messianic mission to achieve their country’s “redemption.”54 Such psychological strength must have played a part in their ability to overcome the prevailing defeatism of many of their compatriots. Raised outside the Buddhist tradition and versed in Latin and quốc ngữ rather than Chinese, they were separated by their social situation from the mainstream of Vietnamese traditional scholars. Their position as Catholics, meanwhile, associated them more closely with the French. Although they held no direct political role or responsibility, these men were at the heart of the process of establishing the colonial regime, and they set the tone for later Vietnamese initiatives. The position of these interpreters as collaborators with the French was based on their acceptance of Western domination as a fait accompli and on their determination to work within it. They could not foresee the possibility that Vietnam might be freed from its new masters and thus sincerely believed that the interests of their compatriots lay with the French. Trương Vĩnh Ký, the subject of a study by Milton Osborne, did not envisage becoming a Frenchman and refused the honor of being naturalized when he was offered the opportunity. Assimilation was not the objective behind Ký’s loyalty to France.55 Although these early collaborators supported French political authority, they did not see their relationship with the French as involving subjugation. This nuance is important because it constituted the

French Republicanism 51

basis for many early southern Vietnamese initiatives in the political realm. Their upbringing, social position, convictions, and extremely limited scope for autonomous action led these men to believe that the only viable way to modernize Vietnamese society was cultural, with a special focus on literary knowledge. What was at stake here was neither the desire to “Frenchify” Vietnamese society nor to contest French authority but to secure a distinct Vietnamese intellectual space able to serve future developments. These Catholic collaborators were cultural nationalists and political pioneers at the same time. Their activities began with the promotion of the romanized quốc ngữ script, which had been used only for Catholic proselytism but was taken up by the colonial authorities as an effective medium for propaganda. Catholic interpreters produced fundamental texts, such as Hùynh Tịnh Của’s Đại Nam Quốc Âm tự vị, the first Vietnamese-Vietnamese dictionary, published in 1896–1898, and Trương Vĩnh Ký’s bilingual dictionaries and various essays on grammar and linguistics, which served to “fi x” the quốc ngữ–based Vietnamese language as a modern instrument of literary expression. The familiarization of the Vietnamese with newspapers in quốc ngữ was the second major contribution of the Catholic interpreters. When, in 1865, the French launched an official information periodical in Vietnamese, Gia Định Báo (Gia Định News), the interpreters used it to develop their skills in this form of communication and to establish it as an indispensable instrument for spreading new ideas. In doing so, they unleashed a hitherto unknown wave of public written expression in Vietnamese, whose potential impact upon native society could not have been fully grasped. The interpreters’ third achievement was to expand “national knowledge” by compiling reference works in science, geography, history, and linguistics; translating national literary heritage from Chinese and Nôm56 into quốc ngữ on a massive scale; and translating works of “universal” interest into Vietnamese. In their eyes this effort also enabled the opening up of the Vietnamese literary heritage to the European masters, promoting respect for the culture of their colonized subjects.57 By the end of the nineteenth century, these authors had laid a foundation for cultural modernization, an effort comparable to that experienced in Meiji Japan and in the last two decades of imperial China.58 The impressive bulk of material they published contributed greatly to the establishment of quốc ngữ as the main mode of mass communication in southern Vietnam.59 By attempting to build a bridge between traditional Vietnamese

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scholarship, which they still revered, and the new modern knowledge necessary for national survival, southern Catholic interpreters gave expression to their idea of what constituted a nation’s cultural identity, as distinct from the political criterion of self-rule. As scholars still imbued with Confucian values, they regarded Vietnam’s written heritage as more essential than the secondary question of political sovereignty. They did not contest French authority. As historian Phạm Thế Ngũ pointed out, Trương Vĩnh Ký and his colleagues seemed to genuinely believe that only the government of France could reform Vietnamese society, in particular the royal administration in Annam and Tonkin, which they saw as religiously intolerant and corrupt.60 The development of a flourishing publishing industry in quốc ngữ was a lasting legacy of these pioneers, who placed Cochinchina—and Saigon in particular—at the forefront of modern Vietnamese literary development. Although the first newspapers in quốc ngữ belonged to the French and were often used for government propaganda, their production was the responsibility of Vietnamese staff.61 There was also a proliferation of books published in the new script. National literary classics such as Nguyễn Du’s Kim Văn Kiểu (The Tale of Kiếu), Nguyễn Đình Chiểu’s Lục Vân Tiên (Record of Vân Tiên) and the Đại Năm Quốc Sữ Diễn Ca [History of Đại Nam (Vietnam) in Verse] were all transcribed into quốc ngữ during the last two decades of the nineteenth century. As early as 1889, four editions of the romanized version of Lục Vân Tiên had already been published. Creative works in quốc ngữ also began appearing. The short novel Lazaro Phiền by Nguyễn Trọng Quan (1865– 1911), published in 1887, can be considered the first modern prose novel in Vietnamese literature and the first popular literary success in quốc ngữ. The first two decades of the twentieth century saw the emergence of southern authors in quốc ngữ: Hồ Văn Trung (better known as Hồ Biểu Chánh), Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, and Lê Hòang Mưu, men still active in the post–World War I period.62 Trương Vĩnh Ký and his southern contemporaries established links between Vietnamese and Western knowledge and between the country’s past and its period of “modern” development with the establishment of a printbased autonomous public realm of expression in quốc ngữ. The form of this accomplishment provided future generations of Vietnamese with intellectual and communicative structures necessary for political action. Succeeding generations would build on these foundations.63

French Republicanism 53

The Political Elite In addition to interpreters, other members of the new Cochinchinese elite also contributed to shaping a distinct southern political public culture. Because of the important role they played at the early stage of the French conquest, these Vietnamese “collaborators”—an important proportion of them Catholic—had acquired a certain spirit of independence that was reinforced by their status as prosperous landowners. In many ways, this southern bourgeoisie was on the forefront of political innovation. Built upon the new system of domination, the politics of its members took on an original stance long before the outbreak of the European war of 1914. It was from this assimilated Cochinchinese elite that the first examples of a new kind of anticolonial Vietnamese political opposition originated. In the last two decades of the nineteenth century, what was allowed of Vietnamese political activity took place within the tight legal framework established by the colonial system—“representative” bodies like the Colonial Council, the Saigon Municipal Council, and, to a lesser extent, the Chambers of Commerce and Agriculture. With no apparent subversive content, these early Vietnamese initiatives demonstrated nonetheless an uneasy acquiescence to the political model established by the French. In his account of the early Vietnamese response to French rule in Cochinchina, Milton Osborne discusses the Colonial Council, from its creation in 1880 until 1906, as the first instance of representative politics in Vietnam. The council was a mixed assembly with six Vietnamese councilors out of a total of fourteen. The Vietnamese members were elected in a restricted franchise in six constituencies under an electoral system based on the communes. Often voting as a bloc, they showed eagerness to defend the interests of their compatriots and to be viewed by them as such. Modernization of language and the improvement of general education were their leitmotivs. With many Catholics among its members, they strongly supported the implementation of the new writing method and funded the printing of quốc ngữ publications. To reach out to the Vietnamese public, they insisted on using quốc ngữ as an official mode of expression; the fi rst electoral pamphlets in Vietnamese were distributed during the 1886 election.64 In 1897 councilor Trần Bà Thọ (the son of Trần Bá Lộc, an early collaborator with the French) proposed having the assembly proceedings translated into quốc ngữ and published in the sole vernacular language newspaper, Gia Định Báo.65

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The Vietnamese councilors also pressed the colonial administration to hasten the development of French public education. Another concern was local administration and the perceived decay of the Vietnamese traditional commune. Tensions between French and Vietnamese colonial councilors were perceptible, and it was not uncommon for the latter to use the press to rally the electorate to their side. A revealing incident took place in September 1908, when the six Vietnamese councilors, led by Diệp Văn Cương and Lê Văn Trung, protested against a plan by the colonial administration to revise the mode of land-tax assessment. They feared the new plan would lead to heavier taxation of landowners, the group they primarily represented. Despite their opposition, the project was passed by the majority of French colonial councilors. The Vietnamese representatives resigned collectively in protest. In the December elections, two of the outgoing councilors, Cương and Trung, were reelected despite “administrative pressures” exerted by the then lieutenant governor Ernest Outrey.66 During the campaign, the two councilors funded a French newspaper, Jules-Adrien Marx’s La Cochinchine libérale, which attacked Outrey’s policy.67 In May 1909 Outrey retaliated by attempting to invalidate their election on the grounds that they both held positions in the Customs Administration, which made them ineligible to sit on the council. His effort failed. Although the original object of contention was a conflict of interests—they were defending the interests of their class— the Vietnamese councilors demonstrated that, within the political framework established by the French, they could and would take initiatives and win support from the Vietnamese electorate.68 They likewise won praise from the French press. The Vietnamese elite undertook other actions of public engagement. One technique was to address the métropole directly, bypassing the colonial authorities. On the occasion of a planned visit to Indochina by Minister of Colonies Étienne Clémentel in 1905, a petition with more than twenty thousand signatures was addressed to him, requesting an increase in government spending on public education, voicing concern over the destruction of traditional communal and canton administration, and protesting French treatment of the indigenous population.69 Many other examples of similar petitions were sent directly to French ministers. By assuming public responsibilities that were normally the prerogative of the colonial state, such as the funding of schools, hospitals, and markets,

French Republicanism 55

wealthy Vietnamese challenged the official propaganda, which always stressed “French achievements.” An important initiative was the creation of the Mutual Society for the Encouragement of Education in Cochinchina (Société d’enseignement mutuel de Cochinchine, or SEMC), founded in 1906 by colonial councilors Diệp Văn Cương, Lương Khắc Ninh, and Lê Phát Anh to compensate for the inadequacy of government-provided education.70 The SEMC promoted the learning of the French language and curriculum as key to national progress. Public talks were held under the umbrella of the SEMC until they were temporarily banned by the colonial authority after the “Gilbert Chiêu affair” in 1908.71 Girls’ education was another concern of the southern Vietnamese bourgeoisie. In 1908 the tổng đốc,72 Đỗ Hữu Phương, funded the construction of a major institution in central Saigon: the École des Jeunes Filles Annamites, later renamed École Gia Long, which became the city’s most prestigious school for female pupils. Ironically, it was later claimed by colonial propaganda as a government achievement.73 Cholon’s “new market” (today Chợ Bình Tây) is a similar example.74 These actions should not be interpreted merely as bids for public acclaim. They also were intended to embarrass the French authorities in the eyes of the Vietnamese public, inviting them to distinguish “native concerns” from French ones, in marked contradiction to colonial claims of the unity of Franco-Vietnamese interests. Cochinchina’s Vietnamese bourgeoisie had the financial means to develop a kind of “soft” power and use it to put pressure on the French.

Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu (1905–1908) The French stymied these early efforts after the so-called Gilbert Chiêu affair. In late 1908 colonial police uncovered a complex organization that called for the expulsion of the French from Vietnam. The most remarkable representative of this movement was Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu. Gilbert Chiêu, as he was known to the French, was a Catholic landowner and an honorary trí phủ.75 Seemingly well assimilated into the new Cochinchinese elite, he had served the colonial administration and been rewarded with French citizenship. With his Minh Tân (New Light) movement, Chiêu moved beyond the bounds of colonial legality to openly challenge French authority. His initiatives marked the point at which Cochinchina’s politics fell under the influence of the nationalist leaders Phan Bội Châu and Phan Châu Trinh.76

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During Chiêu’s trial, the French discovered that he had been a central agent for an underground movement called the Association for the Modernization of Vietnam (Việt Nam Duy Tân Hội), based in Japan and led by Châu and Prince Cường Để. The organization’s program included a long-term plan to attract young Vietnamese to undergo training in Japan to form a revolutionary avant-garde. These students were to learn the methods used by the only Asian nation that had successfully countered the West and to come into direct contact with the new Chinese nationalism represented by Liang Qichao and Sun Yat Sen. Besides this central strategy, referred to as du học Đông (study trip to the East), the movement also encouraged the creation of commercial and industrial ventures and the founding of cooperatives to be used as logistical bases for insurgency and as sources of funding. Propaganda was delivered through poems and pamphlets—most written by Châu. The movement relied on a network of agents to collect money, recruit youths to be sent to Japan, and conduct propaganda at the local level. While in contact with the organization’s Japanese headquarters, the Cochinchina “agents,” led by Chiêu, retained great autonomy at the operational level. Chiêu was never simply an “instrument in the hands of Phan Bội Châu and Cường Để,” as police reports to the governor general claimed.77 His contribution is worth noting because he translated Châu’s global program into the specific terms of reference particular to modern southern Vietnamese society. He was careful to draw a subtle line between legal action and clandestine activity. Within the range of legal activities, he took advantage of Cochinchina’s powerful new instrument of communication, the quốc ngữ press, as a means of targeting the small but influential public of newly educated Vietnamese, especially the urban functionaries. In 1906 he became editor in chief of the newspaper Matters of Agriculture (Nổng Cổ Mín Đàm). He later held the same position at Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn), which he founded in 1907 in cooperation with the French liberal journalist Pierre Jeantet. In both newspapers Chiêu published inflammatory articles about the loss of the homeland, as well as pieces on commerce, agriculture, and social attitudes. As historian Pierre Brocheux has observed, his program included long-term modernizing objectives: the acquisition of new social attitudes toward education, commerce, and sports, as well as the responsibility of the rich toward their compatriots. Chiêu’s encouragement of new attitudes on the economy, private entrepreneurship, and agriculture was intended not only to help raise funds for the Đông du movement but also to

French Republicanism 57

promote these changes for their own sake. Chiêu gave special prominence to efforts by the Vietnamese to gain economic independence, particularly from the Chinese minority. A landowner himself in the province of Rạch Gía and a minor industrialist, he had good reason to believe in the importance of economic initiatives in the restructuring of society. Chiêu’s New Light Technology (Minh Tân Công Nghệ) factory produced a soap it claimed was “better than the one made by the Chinese.” He also owned two hotels, one in Mỹ Tho and one in Saigon.78 In that sense, Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu’s interest in transforming Vietnamese society as an objective distinct from that of simply ending foreign domination aligned him with Phan Châu Trinh’s cultural modernism. Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu’s initiatives came too early. The emerging politicized segment of the Vietnamese population that he chose to address, namely the young, the urban, the educated, and the wealthy, was not yet able to provide him with an adequate political base. Moreover, a contradiction arose between what he tried to achieve culturally, which had long-term implications, and the immediate objectives of Phan Bội Châu’s movement, which was still based on the premise, even after some forty years of colonial domination, that Vietnamese independence was possible without the cultural transformation of Vietnamese society. Not surprisingly, the French authorities regarded the movement’s clandestine activities as a far more serious threat than Chiêu’s articles in the press. Though they uncovered his movement’s strategies at his trial in April 1909, they could not prevent its influence on future organized resistance.79 Some of those active in Saigon’s public sphere in the 1920s, such as the writer and newspaper director Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, had begun their political activism in Chiêu’s movement. These early Vietnamese, “modern” political initiatives were possible because of the intellectual and communication structures put in place by the first generation of Vietnamese Catholic interpreters. They came forth from the established socioeconomic elite, which showed not only a willingness to mold its action in relation to the colonial order and its republican paradigms but also a capacity to act autonomously. This autonomy was enacted in acts of benevolence that enabled its members to play an active political role within Vietnamese society. Public initiatives were thus socially legitimized outside circuits of French patronage.80 From the cultural initiatives led by individuals like Trương Vĩnh Ký, to the legal activism of the early colonial councilors and the ideological challenges posed by Trần Chánh Chiêu’s original actions, an assertive, native political movement

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gathered momentum under the leadership of the French-trained urbanized elite. The crucial, long-term question was whether this new form of activism could reach the Vietnamese masses and forge a sense of common political awareness.

Phan Xích Long, World War I, and Sarraut’s Return (1913–1917) In March 1913 an attempt at armed insurrection was uncovered in Saigon. The planned attack was rooted in the southern politico-religious millenarian tradition. On March 24 bombs were found at several different places in Saigon and Cholon, although none exploded. Four days later, six hundred peasants dressed in white robes took part in a series of demonstrations in the streets of Cholon. These resulted in the arrest of a group of villagers and their charismatic leader, Phan Xích Long. He was a mystic who claimed to be a descendant of the deposed emperor Hàm Nghi, who, in 1885, launched an uprising against the French. In 1911 Long created a secret society whose purpose was the restoration of Vietnamese independence. During the two years before the March 1913 attack he and his disciples established themselves in Cholon, where they received support from a number of local followers, including some wealthy local Minh Hương merchants. When in 1912 he was “entrusted” by the Heaven and Earth Society to throw off the French yoke, “vast crowds of locals flocked to pay homage to him, vowing to contribute labor and finance to fund the expulsion of French colonialists out of Vietnam and install Long as the new national ruler.”81 On the day of the attack, several hundred rebels marched into Saigon, dressed in white. Before the march they had taken potions that purportedly would make them invisible. While most originated from the neighboring countryside, some were merchants from Cholon.82 This event was followed less than one month later by other incidents in the North: on April 12 a bomb exploded in Thaí Bình, and on April 26 two French officers fell victim to another explosive device in Hanoi. The two last attacks were linked to Phan Bội Châu’s movement.83 Sarraut responded by reinstating the much feared criminal court, which had been used to implement the violent repression following the 1908 events. Those involved were taken before a tribunal in November 1913, where the leaders openly stated their intention of overthrowing French colonial rule. The tribunal convicted 104 men and sentenced them to various prison

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sentences. This vigorous policy earned Sarraut criticism from the Human Rights League, of which he was a member. Meanwhile, in Saigon, Sarraut’s “indigenous policy” infuriated the French colons, who saw the attacks as the direct consequence of his “liberal” policy toward the natives. The news of the bomb attack in Hanoi prompted Lucien Héloury, director of the Saigon-based newspaper L’Opinion, who also was regarded as an indigènophile, to call for a public meeting to protest Sarraut’s “excessive liberalism” and “pseudohumanitarianism” toward the natives. On April 29 more than one hundred people gathered in a restaurant to sign a petition calling for Sarraut’s resignation. To the members of the established urban southern bourgeoisie, the Phan Xích Long episode, coupled with the recent events in the north, revealed the extent of the political crisis that was dividing nationalists in Cochinchina. An unbridgeable gap now existed between them and rural activists. The news of Phan Bội Châu’s involvement in the 1913 events in the north, perhaps combined with the still-fresh memory of Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu’s initiatives, convinced many southern Vietnamese of the impracticability of combining clandestine actions against the French with the goal of modernizing society. Châu’s associate, Prince Cường Để, encountered this new attitude at his own risk when he made a secret visit to Cochinchina early in the year to collect funds for the new Canton-based organization known as the Vietnamese Restoration Society (Việt Nam Quang Phục Hội). Although he attracted sympathy, the prince failed to secure concrete support.84 In November 1913, while an active repressive campaign was under way with Sarraut’s restoration of the criminal court, the governor general made a personal visit to Canton, Châu’s base, to make a statement about the rebels’ lack of threat to French rule. The three years that followed marked a pause in the hardening of relations between the authorities and the native elite. Sarraut’s return to France in January 1914 and the entry of the métropole into the war with Germany in August gave the Vietnamese an unexpected opportunity to test France’s ability to live up to its claims and vaunted self-representations of invincibility. For Sarraut and his successor, Jules-Maurice Gourbeil, the apparent divisions within Vietnamese nationalism seemed to defuse the immediate risk of a native insurrection. Against the background of a long war of attrition in Europe, and closer to home, the magnitude of the conflagrations born out of the Chinese revolution of 1911 and the toppling of the Qing Dynasty, a series of developments

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in Vietnam from 1916 onward came together to constitute a new historical moment for Vietnam and the beginning of a new historical trajectory. The last two years of the war saw a convergence of factors in the international arena that encouraged political activism in Saigon. In Europe, the magnitude and length of the war had, by 1916, strained the social-political consensus on which métropoles were able to establish their dominant position in the world. Increasing domestic discontent reflected new doubts about the superiority of the values these countries had claimed to represent, particularly where colonial policy was concerned. The establishment of a communist government in Russia in 1917, moreover, offered a new historical alternative to the Western European model of “progress.” The consolidation of a strong republican current in China with Dr. Sun Yat Sen and his Kuomintang Party at its helm, together with the intense intellectual fermentation that resulted from the general climate of instability, represented another factor of political uncertainty in the region.85 The European conflict had a direct effect on the populations of French Indochina. With the main battles on its soil, France was engaged in a struggle that was to decide its survival as a major power. As the conflict dragged on, the métropole relied heavily on the resources of its Asian colony. From 1916 on, thousands of Indochinese troops—mostly Vietnamese—were sent to the European front. By 1918 more than one hundred thousand Indochinese soldiers and workers were mobilized in France.86 This dependency of the métropole, also experienced in Britain and other European nations, modified the “balance of power” between the colonizers and the colonized and led to inevitable political adjustments.87 In French Indochina, a new wave of events indicated that discontent among segments of the native population remained unabated. In a period when the French military presence had been dangerously reduced, Vietnam, in particular, witnessed three attempts at revolt. The first and most striking incident took place in Cochinchina on February 14, 1916, with an attack on the Saigon prison by a few hundred armed insurgents who were trying to free Phan Xích Long. The attack occurred simultaneously with demonstrations in several Cochinchinese towns.88 The local French community again was shaken and demanded full-scale repression. A “state of war” was proclaimed (it had been in force in northern and central Vietnam since 1914). Hundreds of Vietnamese were rounded up. Summary justice was meted out by a “war council” that tried from five hundred to a thousand

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people: fifty-eight executions were carried out between February 1916 and May 1917. The vigor of the repression only temporarily put a halt to the rebellions.89 Two months later an elaborate attempt to overthrow the French was carried out under the leadership of King Duy Tân himself in the royal capital of Huế. The operation was soon defeated, and Duy Tân was deposed and sent to Réunion Island.90 In August 1917 a military-led insurgency broke out in the northern garrison town of Thái Nguyên. For five months the hundred or so insurgents fought a desperate guerilla war against the French until they were finally subdued in January 1918.91 Although there was little danger of a mass insurgency, the violent events of Huế and Thái Nguyên, like the attack on the Saigon prison, gave the Vietnamese what David Marr has called “a sense of continuing perspective” in their aspirations for national freedom.92 At the same time, they demonstrated to the French that “native” dissatisfaction would not be quelled by violent repression. These new failures to overthrow colonial rule by force, however, resulted in a conclusion shared by a growing number of educated Vietnamese that a different path of action was needed—one that would take into account the European war. The February 1916 uprising, the subsequent wave of repression, and the increased prospect of France’s victory in Europe, supported by Japan’s move into the Allied camp, reinforced the Vietnamese elite’s conviction that new rules should emerge to guide their role in colonial politics. The European war had widened the political horizons of many Vietnamese, who, in spite of government control over information, realized that their situation largely depended on that of the métropole on the world stage. This realization led to the hope that, in recognition of their wartime loyalty, French authorities would grant them an institutional framework that would provide the new political avenues they sought. Among members of Cochinchina’s established bourgeoisie, both the awareness that they owed their social prominence to the colonial system and their increasing familiarity with its internal functioning made many of them more willing to envisage long-term collaboration with the French. The legal political framework seemed to offer them prospects of securing political impact while guaranteeing their socioeconomic standing. They were waiting for a favorable signal from the authorities to assert their increased influence. Sarraut’s return in 1917 and its promises of transformation of the terms of the Franco-Vietnamese relationship seemed to present just such an opportunity.

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A “Guided” Native Public Opposition (1916–1919) Amid metropolitan concerns about stability in Vietnam, the French parliament reiterated earlier—unfulfilled—pledges to bring about colonial reform. Bringing the Vietnamese Westernized elite into the government of Indochina became a pressing political priority. Albert Sarraut, who had left a good impression among many Vietnamese, was again called upon to lead the colony. On his return to Indochina in 1917 he and his team proceeded to complete the policy he had inaugurated five years earlier. This time, however, concrete measures and prompt results were expected.93 Under the well-publicized program of “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration” (Pháp Việt đề huề), Sarraut developed a subtle policy that he presented as a contractual partnership with the Vietnamese elite. The governor general decided to allow individual Vietnamese regarded as “loyal to France” to participate in what he considered the most critical arena of political action: public expression through the press and publishing. By using the “assimilated” elite as the instrument of his policy, Sarraut sought to influence the transformation of Vietnamese society and culture. He could justify this policy as a wartime strategy. Support of newspapers under the “collaboration” policy was seen as an audacious plan in that it stretched “association” to its political conclusion in the establishment of an indigenous political counterpart supported by a native public opinion.94 Between 1916 and 1919 a series of Vietnamese-run newspapers aimed at a Vietnamese audience emerged in the public landscape of colonial Cochinchina. This process was made possible with the initial support of the authorities. In many ways, the southern colony, and Saigon in particular, represented the most important sociological foundation of Sarraut’s native policy, and so it received special attention. From 1916 to 1918 no fewer than seven new periodicals in quốc ngữ, along with one in French, appeared in Saigon.95 This surge in the number of Vietnamese-run publications was the most tangible expression of Sarraut’s political strategy toward the established Vietnamese elite. A journalist himself (his brother Maurice Sarraut was the director of the influential Toulouse sheet La Dépêche du midi), Sarraut believed that newspapers were the ideal tool for the realization of his political and cultural objective of channeling native public opinion.96 In November 1917, on his second visit to Saigon, he made clear his approach to the political responsibility of the Vietnamese press. While pointing to the “educational

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role” of newspapers, he also stressed “the freedom [they] must enjoy.” These comments were duly reported by one of the newly created pro-Sarraut newspapers, La Tribune Indigène.97 The choice of the paper’s editors was particularly important to Sarraut. French colonial archives reveal the existence of behind-the-scenes negotiations between the governor general’s services and a handful of southern Vietnamese—with the involvement of local French press directors. Among them were Hồ Văn Trung and Lê Quang Liêm. Both had demonstrated their loyalty to France, and their prominence in southern Vietnamese society had earned them influence and respect. Born in 1881, Liêm had risen through the colonial administration to the honorific position of phủ.98 After serving as secretary and interpreter in the office of Governor General Gourbeil during the first years of the war, he was sent to the métropole to serve as agent controlling the activities of Vietnamese workers and soldiers. Sûreté records show, however, that Liêm was suspected of secret acquaintance with anticolonial activists in Paris, including the exiled leader Phan Châu Trinh, the Marxist lawyer Phan Văn Trường, and the young Nguyễn Ái Quốc (the future Hồ Chí Minh).99 Hồ Văn Trung, a top-ranking interpreter and secretary in the governor of Cochinchina’s cabinet, was also well acquainted with the colonial political apparatus. As chapter 1 points out, parallel to his career as functionary, he was a prolific novel writer in quốc ngữ under the pen name of Hồ Biểu Chánh. As with Liêm, the Sûreté often cast doubts on his true political motives and loyalty. His newspaper articles were notorious for their subtle double meaning, which concealed subversive messages to escape the attention of the censorship board.100 Both men were perfect examples of the established southern Vietnamese bourgeoisie: more committed to Vietnamese modernization than to simple political allegiance to the French. Sarraut’s services put more trust in two other members of the local elite, whom they believed were easier to control and therefore better suited to run Vietnam’s first overtly political newspaper: Nguyễn Phú Khai and Bùi Quang Chiêu. Both came from families who had helped the French in the early years of the colonial establishment. Both had benefited from republican assimilationism, having pursued higher education in France—the former in public works and the latter in agronomy. Both were naturalized as French citizens. Khai was regarded by the Sûreté as less consistent—and easier to manipulate—than Chiêu. For obscure reasons, Khai had been expelled from the native’s section of the Colonial School (École coloniale) in

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Paris.101 Following his graduation, he was sent to Mỹ Tho, where the then Cochinchina governor Georges Maspéro financially helped him to open the first Vietnamese-owned rice mill factory able to compete with those owned by Chinese.102 Chiêu already had a busy professional career. He taught agriculture at the prestigious Quốc Học College in Huế and served as an inspector in the newly created Agriculture Services in Tonkin and Cochinchina. In 1913 he opened Vietnam’s first silk-weaving factory, with Governor General Sarraut’s support. Both Chiêu and Khai were personally indebted to the colonial administration. This was not just an abstraction. They owed it considerable amounts of money. Along with their French education and their social and professional prominence, this factor was another reason for Sarraut to feel he could rely on them.103 On his return to the colony, Sarraut personally met each of the four men and asked them to help him secure popular support for the war effort. Liêm and Trung were assigned to jointly launch a newspaper directed at the noticeably growing urban population of the Mekong Delta, the seat of the 1913 and 1916 seditious movements. Printed in the provincial town of Long Xuyên, “Vietnam’s Magazine” (Đại Việt Tập Chí) bore this slogan: “[a] native review for Indochina: organ of dissemination of French thought.” Both men were involved in a number of activities to support the war effort. In a series of talks in Saigon and the provinces, Liêm urged his compatriots to subscribe to the war loan raised by the government while Trung wrote a play titled “The Victory Loan,” which was staged at the Saigon Municipal Theatre.104 Khai and Chiêu were entrusted with gubernatorial support to launch La Tribune Indigène (The Native Tribune) in August 1917 and its Vietnamese version, Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum), in October 1918. La Tribune Indigène presented itself as the first Vietnamese independent political newspaper. Its program was laid out by the aging colonial councilor Diệp Văn Cương in a speech in October 1917. Cương put forward five major demands, which in themselves summarized the reform agenda of the French-educated members of the southern Vietnamese bourgeoisie: the transformation of communes into municipalities with elected councils; the creation in each local district (canton) of a justice of the peace ( juge de paix), which would lead to the separation of judicial from administrative power; the reduction of Vietnamese civil servants, who in turn would enjoy higher status and better salaries; a relaxation of the process of acquiring French citizenship; and the expansion of indigenous suffrage in the Colonial Council elections. Modest

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in its ambitions, this list represented the first political program put forward in Vietnamese legal politics.105 A letter written by Khai, La Tribune’s director, to Sarraut dated October 4, 1918, reveals the extent of support the colonial government gave to the Tribune group. The authorities bought one hundred subscriptions to La Petite Tribune Indigène, a supplement to La Tribune especially intended for Vietnamese troops in France. In the same letter, Khai asked permission to issue a quốc ngữ version of the paper. This request was received favorably by the authorities, and a formal order (arrêté) was issued on October 15, allowing the creation of National Forum (Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn). A letter by Sarraut to Governor Maspéro instructed him to order six hundred subscriptions of this newspaper for six months for the troops in France, at a cost of twenty-four hundred piasters. Sarraut asked that these subscriptions be recorded under the budget line “war expenses.”106 Another example of Sarraut’s personal influence on the development of a Vietnamese press can be found with the creation of Women’s Bell (Nữ Giới Chung). In November 1917 the French director of Saigon Mail (Le Courrier saïgonnais), Henry Blaquière, had applied for authorization to launch the magazine, which would be aimed at a newly important and influential segment of the native population. An article in the third issue explained that the idea had originated with several Vietnamese journalists.107 The article also lauded Sarraut for “supporting the cause of women’s education.”108 This last point refers to the initial difficulties Sarraut himself had encountered when, on December 21, the Permanent Commission—a government body that makes recommendations on the authorization of newspapers for the “natives”—rendered an “unfavorable opinion” with regard to the launch of the paper. Sarraut ignored this advice and allowed Women’s Bell to appear on February 1, 1918.109 In her introductory editorial, the magazine’s editor in chief, Sương Nguyệt Ấnh—the fifth daughter of the southern poet Nguyễn Đình Chiểu, a symbol of Vietnamese anticolonial patriotism in the south— thanked Sarraut personally. She then set out the objectives of the weekly: to promote women’s social role by encouraging the development of a quốc ngữ literature for the education of girls, to support commerce and industry, and to teach women about “modern” forms of conduct.110 Women’s Bell remained conservative in its program. Its encouragement of the development of girls’ education and its criticism of Vietnamese tradition never went so far as to promote “women’s rights” (nữ quyền) or “equality” between men and women (nam-nữ bình quyền), as later women’s newspapers were to advocate. It was,

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nevertheless, the first Vietnamese periodical led by and directed at women.111 Like La Tribune Indigène, Women’s Bell ’s primary objective was to convey to the Vietnamese public the sincerity of the colonial authorities in their desire to “modernize” (hiện đại hóa) Vietnam.112 The closure of the magazine in July 1918 due to obscure circumstances after just five months was a portent of what was to come. The authorities suddenly suspended publication of the newspaper after a “subversive” article was discovered in its columns. Titled “On Women’s Education” (Việc Nữ Học), the piece was an appeal to women to take initiatives in education, such as opening schools. What attracted the authorities’ attention was that it contained overt references to patriotic female figures like the Trưng sisters, who, in the past, had fought for Vietnam’s independence.113 The closure by the authorities, without notice or explanation, indicated the limits the colonial administration placed upon the assertiveness of Vietnamese journalism. Vietnamese readers reacted angrily against the paper’s suspension by boycotting the pro-government Light of the South (Đèn Nhà Nam), which was meant to replace Women’s Bell. The new paper closed less than a month after its launch. Comprising a growing Vietnamese “public opinion,” the seeds of future confrontation with the colonial authorities were sown. For the time being, this incident did not tarnish Sarraut’s image among numerous Vietnamese reformists as the true defender of France’s liberal traditions against the opposition of the colons and the colonial administration itself. Within the latter’s ranks, Sarraut’s policy toward the native press was received with little enthusiasm. The risk that it would get “out of hand” was considered serious by the interim governor of Cochinchina, Le Gallen: “[t]he danger would be, on the pretext of indulgence, to allow the organization of a party of ambitious and intriguing individuals, who, by claiming to represent the Vietnamese masses (of which they hardly express the real aspirations), would insinuate doubts and trouble in the minds of our protégés.” 114 So long as the war in Europe went on, government control over political activity and a self-imposed restraint on the part of the emerging Vietnamese intellectual activists remained the rule, depriving the colonial press and sections of the colonial administration of any excuse to call for the suspension of the experiment. Under the influence of La Tribune Indigène, Vietnamese intellectuals waited until World War I was over before engaging in open criticism of the government’s policy. Apart from Women’s Bell, no

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real incident was to strain the “Sarrautist” consensus of loyal collaboration among Saigon journalists during that period. In February 1919 the announcement that Sarraut was to return to France effective in May was received with anxiety among Vietnamese journalists. Anticipating a period of uncertainty, the “Tribunists” decided to act. Beginning on April 17, La Tribune Indigène—“the only indigenous newspaper enjoying freedom of expression”115—bore the subtitle “Organ of the Indochinese Constitutionalist Party,” effectively proclaiming the existence of Vietnam’s first public political movement. This bold initiative marked the real birth of autonomous Vietnamese public politics with newspapers as the main instruments of expression. Colonial France had introduced republicanism into southern Vietnam under the pretext that its model of universalism would create a modern society in the backward colony. The colonial state did not anticipate a growing number of “natives”—mainly from the newly established urbanized bourgeoisie—who would embrace Western modernity and the French republican message for the purposes of creating a modern local political culture on their own terms. The contractual and temporary character of their collaboration remained its original weakness and potential legitimacy gap. From 1916 on, a semi-independent press took shape in Cochinchina and in time would exceed the French colonial administration’s efforts to contain political subversion, as embodied by Sarraut’s policy of limited political association. In 1921 the Saigon Sûreté chief summarized the seemingly irreversible transformations that had occurred during the wartime period: Before the War, not a single month went by without the judiciary and police having to deal with secret societies of all kinds, with their lists of affiliates, their seals, and their amulets. Lacking a clear program and cohesion, these societies were the product of individuals who rarely belonged to the elite, and were more suspected of being crooks than mystics. Vietnamese society was a sea of individuals from which a few feudal families emerged. Since September 1917, none of these activities have been reported. I have already said that these times are over. New groups have come to our notice; each leader has his followers; the most prominent groups are using newspapers.116

Part 2 The “Newspaper Village” as a Political Force

chapter 3

In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923)

B

orn out of the social and political landscape of colonial Saigon, a culture of public contestation through the press crystallized in the aftermath of World War I, comparable to the rise of the press in other countries that witnessed the simultaneous development of modern society and mass print media. Until the end of the 1920s, Saigon saw the most active, independent press in the whole of Indochina, and this centrality of political journalism remained a unique feature in the modern history of Vietnam. It was not until the heyday of the now defunct Republic of Viet Nam (1955–1975) that newspapers were again able to challenge government and claim for themselves the role of political arbiter on behalf of the public good. This was the kind of concomitant rise of new urban social sectors with the development of print capitalism and its effect in shaping new realms of political consciousness described by Ben Anderson.1 In an attempt to bolster its position amid the native population, the seemingly powerful colonial regime in Saigon allowed itself to be publicly and argumentatively exposed through the eyes of self-promoted censors, the journalists. This experience, described in other historical contexts such as prerevolutionary France, is reminiscent of Habermas’s description of a fundamental

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confrontation between two political legitimacies—that of the colonial state order and that of the native population—and the ultimate overthrow of the former by the latter. As discussed in chapter 1, the status of Cochinchina as a colony under direct French administration provided the legal guarantees for the press to operate as a medium of public expression. The French introduced newspapers as a means of exerting influence on the indigenous population, the apex of this propaganda politics taking place under Albert Sarraut’s governorship at a time when France’s capacity to control its Asian possessions was in question. A phenomenon unanticipated by the regime, the emerging Vietnamese press began the long process of distancing itself from its French model, eventually becoming the means by which the native, urban anticolonial opposition promoted its views and calls to action.2 This study of the rise of journalism in Saigon in the 1920s refines Benedict Anderson’s concept of an “imagined community”—the notion of an anonymous, monolithic, and somewhat passive collective consciousness shaped by the press and modern print.3 The Vietnamese expression làng báo chí— literally, “newspaper village”—describes well a new social urban consciousness due to the spread of the press. More than a collection of papers and journalists, the “newspaper village” was as much a social expression of new modes of interaction between individuals as a vector of transformation of Vietnamese sociability. Social and political commitment through newspapers—perhaps best translated in French as engagement—went beyond the small group of self-established journalists. The use of newspapers by a number of Vietnamese corresponded to both political and socioeconomic functions: the need for economic integration, new forms of conviviality among urbanized Vietnamese, and new modes of individual agency within and for the community. In the second decade of the twentieth century, each of Saigon’s numerous and often short-lived political newspapers represented a small forum of debate, as well as a socioeconomic cluster, mobilizing contributors, vendors, distributors, and readers. Even in their most prosaic expression, Vietnamese papers of the 1920s played the role of learning structures of public activism, their offices serving as headquarters and libraries, their editing team constituting the visible center of wider circles. With the rise of the “correspondent” ( phóng viên)—simultaneously a writer, public reader, and seller—the distinction between readership and editing staff blurred. The newspapers came to be clearinghouses of a new kind of lived democracy: they constituted a collective experience by all those associated

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with their production and consumption. Some workers were involved in the printing and publishing industry; self-appointed facilitators collected information or subscriptions in the provinces; mail carriers, news agents, and street children worked as informal paper sellers or renters; and even garçons de café handed newspapers to customers and hid them from the Sûreté agents, illiterate people whose opinions became influenced directly or indirectly by their contacts with readers. Newspapers constructed the public figure of the journalist or intellectual. Most of the famous Vietnamese figures of 1920s’ Cochinchina were journalists or were otherwise associated with newspapers. A real chose publique, independent of traditional forms of established power, took on an existence of its own. Newspapers are invaluable historical sources by providing a snapshot into the life of a community of writer-activists and their readers. They allow us an intimate glimpse of journalists—these public mediators of aspirations and interests—beyond their stated motives. Following the press over a long period makes it possible to appreciate an individual’s stance and actions and to compare them with those of others, hence weaving together the threads that constitute public politics. As nuclei around which individual and group strategies were played out, newspapers combined with Sûreté documents, offer unique insight into the ways journalists integrated their actions within the public sphere. The fact that newspapers—like journalists— received constant attention from the colonial police makes studying them all the more important; these files, though by nature distorted, contain information not available in the newspapers. What must always be remembered is that the press, especially the Vietnamese political press in Saigon, is a by-product of the modern colonial city. For this reason, it needs to be studied on its own terms, with its personal dramas and ideas amid the internal and external circuits of the city.

The Economics and the Audience The newspapers studied in this book do not compare with today’s press even if limited to political papers. For the most part, they were quickly put together, and their editorial content and presentations were of mediocre quality. What makes them worth examining are the individuals involved. Throughout the decade, the general editorial quality improved as professionalism took hold. By the end of the 1920s, political journalism had become

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a profession and an economic force. Papers depended on the number of issues sold, subscriptions, and, increasingly, advertisements. For a long time, the local bourgeoisie and French media interests exerted a disproportionate economic influence on Vietnamese newspapers.4 Because these factors fluctuated and the colonial authorities had the means to disturb them, the importance of direct financial contributions by journalists and their supporters remained a vital necessity. Even newspapers with a relatively large readership required huge investments borne by individuals associated with the enterprise.5 Most independent political newspapers lost money. Production expenses initially were high due to the limited number of printing houses. For a while, the Sûreté succeeded in pressuring printing house owners not to accept certain newspapers. By the end of the decade, however, with the multiplication of printing businesses owned by Vietnamese, this difficulty was partially resolved.6 Subscriptions to news agencies remained a luxury that only a few papers could afford. One of the tasks of an editor in chief was therefore to establish ties with other newspapers to exchange and reproduce articles. Human resources were also a problem. The sector experienced a chronic shortage of trained typographers and columnists. Most learned on the job. Toward the middle of the decade, a wave of young, educated individuals from all over the country joined existing newsrooms in Saigon or launched their own sheets in French and Vietnamese, expanding the pool of editors and contributors. Another difficulty had to do with distribution. The colonial postage system, though relatively efficient, was expensive. A small network of patented news agents existed in Saigon, but most Vietnamese papers relied on street vendors. For papers sent outside the city, there was always the risk that they would be intercepted by Sûreté agents operating within the service postal. Slowly, news staff invented strategies to bypass this difficulty. Informal networks of “correspondents” or sympathizers, if not journalists themselves, traveled to distribute and sell the papers directly. Newspapers were smuggled out in the many boats and buses leaving the city. As we will see in chapter 5, from 1927 on, the authorities launched a judicial barrage against numerous Vietnamese opposition newspapers with the objective of economically impairing their editors. Journalists tried to withstand this new challenge: when one of them was arrested, the cost of the trial was often shared by the journalist’s colleagues, thus creating a form of mutual insurance against repressive actions by the state. Sympathetic lawyers such as

In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 75

Phan Văn Trường, Monin, and Gallet defended them pro bono. Perhaps the most critical impact the colonial authorities had on the economic development of Vietnamese political journalism was their withholding of official authorization to launch a newspaper. This upstream form of control contributed to the rare number of legal titles, especially those in quốc ngữ. People paid huge sums of money to buy the rights to a title.7 Toward the end of the decade, a number of sheets appeared irregularly to avoid complying with government authorization and censorship restrictions that affected only periodicals. In any case, founders of newspapers needed to rely on solid fi nancial backing. As discussed in chapter 2, wartime circumstances allowed a few newspapers to benefit from government subsidies. That was the case of La Tribune Indochinoise and Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum). Others, like L’Écho Annamite and, after Governor General Sarraut’s departure, La Tribune Indigène, relied on a circle of wealthy individuals. Bùi Quang Chiêu’s skill was to combine his newspaper enterprise with his electoral designs—through the newly created Constitutionalist Party—a system constructed around a network of assimilated southern Vietnamese bourgeois. This system enabled Chiêu to run La Tribune Indigène until 1925 and, after 1926, under the new name of La Tribune Indochinoise. The situation was not as easy for Nguyễn Phan Long, who initially struggled to keep L’Écho Annamite afloat by sharing its management with a group of funders. When he reopened his paper in 1924, he made it a daily in order to draw a more extensive pool of advertisers and subscribers. In marketing terms, the Vietnamese press in quốc ngữ was somewhat more advanced than its francophone counterpart. The editors’ inability to directly address political issues because of censorship forced them to develop new editorial skills, relying on serialized novels or on content that targeted specific groups of readers. Ironically, this imposed “depoliticization” led Vietnameselanguage journalists to reach out to a more diverse and popular audience beyond the ideologically conformist population of Francophone notables and civil servants.8 These distinctions eventually blurred as the pool of readers expanded and their social attributes overlapped and became more complex. Most publishers needed external financial sources to operate their newspaper. They usually relied on wealthy donors; some used their own money. As we will see, Diệp Văn Kỳ, the director of Đồng Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times), relied on the wealth of his father-in-law, Đốc Phủ sử (Prefect) Lê

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Quang Hiên from Sa Đéc. Cao Triều Phát, a wealthy landowner from Bạc Liêu, supported L’Ère nouvelle and Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era), his Labor Party’s papers. Cao Văn Chánh and Nguyễn An Ninh, though themselves not rich, were fortunate to have relatives willing to support their enterprises. Some publishers raised funding by operating lucrative activities on the side. Nguyễn Phan Long and Bùi Quang Chiêu opened private schools (respectively, Institution Nguyễn Phan Long and Institution Annam Học Đường). In most cases, however, it was income generated from agriculture that provided the necessary capital to run a newspaper. Bùi Quang Chiêu, Diệp Văn Kỳ, Cao Văn Chánh, Nguyễn An Ninh, Nguyễn Hùynh Diệu, Cao Triều Phát, and many others were landowners or had relatives who owned land. Funds could originate from commercial businesses, as was the case with Trần Quang Nghiêm, who owned a store of imported goods, a hotel, and rubber plantations. Sometimes established publishers received secret funding from private French and Chinese interests. Fontaine, the owner of Distilleries de l’Indochine, was said to have given money to Nguyễn Phan Long and Bùi Quang Chiêu to run Đuốc Nhà Nam (Vietnamese Flame) and La Tribune Indochinoise, respectively; a number of Vietnamese and French journalists who opposed the commercial monopoly of the Saigon port received funds from Chinese businessmen. But the papers preferred to be funded mainly by subscriptions; the difficulty was to convince readers to pay their dues. The staff had to undertake exhausting tournées to collect funds in the towns and villages of the Mekong Delta. The front pages ran reminders to readers of their civic responsibility in supporting newspapers. Without postal records or publishers’ business accounts, it is difficult to be precise about the size of newspaper readership. The relatively high price of most newspapers suggests they did not reach a large proportion of the public. The prices remained stable, at an average of ten cents (one-tenth of a piastre) per copy for an ordinary paper; magazines were more expensive.9 Collective reading enabled poorer readers to pool their money although the size of the readership is not clear. Estimates of national literacy rates or the size of the educated population do little to answer the question—subscribing to a paper required not only the ability to read it but also the money to pay for it, the leisure to peruse it, and, above all, the desire to do so. Assessment of the readership is therefore haphazard. If one takes the total output of Saigon-based quốc ngữ newspapers, 10,000–15,000 copies were printed daily in 1923 and 22,000 in 1924. In practice, however, collective reading sessions, renting of newspapers by the hour or by the day, and extensive circulation

In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 77

of copies sometimes years after they were produced more than compensated for the probability that the number of copies actually sold was much smaller than the number printed. On the evidence of Sûreté records and commercial advertisements, it seems that the Vietnamese newspaper-reading public was at first composed of schoolteachers, middle-ranking civil servants, graduates of Franco-Vietnamese schools, and a growing number of educated women. Judging by the steady increase in the number of newspapers and their print runs, this readership experienced vigorous growth and diversification. By the end of the 1920s, Vietnamese intellectuals had turned the press—especially that in quốc ngữ—into a relatively popular medium for spreading their message. As we will see in chapter 5, strategies to reach specific audiences such as women, residents of the northern and central parts of Vietnam, industrial workers, Catholics or adepts of the new Caodaist religion, developed toward the end of the decade.10

Legal Conditions of the Quốc Ngữ Press Because of different legal provisions that regulated the running of newspapers in Cochinchina, those in Vietnamese developed at a different pace from that of their French-language counterparts. In the southern territory, under direct colonial administration, the legal status of newspapers was similar to that in the métropole, where freedom of the press was guaranteed by the law enacted on July 29, 1881. These conditions did not apply to Annam and Tonkin, which were under the regime of protectorate. In principle, the press was free in Cochinchina, though not elsewhere in Vietnam. This freedom was, however, restricted by administrative and criminal legal provisions. A decree issued by Governor General Doumer on December 30, 1898, took advantage of Article 14 of the 1881 law and categorized newspapers published in languages other than French as “foreign press.” The publication of any newspaper in Vietnamese, Chinese, or other “foreign” language required prior authorization by the governor general’s commission permanente, and this authorization could be withdrawn by using the same procedures. Another established practice was that only French citizens were allowed to run newspapers. Newspapers in Vietnamese or Chinese were exposed to systematic scrutiny. The newspaper director had to submit editorial content to the censorship board one day prior to printing.11 While the press in French remained protected by the liberal provisions contained in the 1881

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law, quốc ngữ newspapers, accessible to a much wider audience, were subject to censorship and other arbitrary measures that constrained their growth as effective political instruments. As we will see, journalists deployed considerable efforts to circumvent such obstacles. Finally, publications in French or other languages were subject to a range of criminal laws regarding “public order.” Another restraining condition was a decree issued on December 30, 1898, which made a criminal offense “any action by Europeans intended to encourage the indigenous population to rebel against French sovereignty,” as stated in Article 5. Article 91 of the penal code addressed the “attacks, plots, and actions seeking to disrupt public security.” After 1927 the French authorities reverted almost systematically to these two repressive provisions.12 Despite legal, logistic, and economic constraints, Saigon saw Vietnam’s first example of mass political media develop within its midst and, with it, the country’s first culture of public contestation. The nature of political discourse was certainly framed by these restrictions, as well as by colonial ideological norms. Yet, if Vietnamese political journalism was dependent only on French laws, ideology, or economic factors, it would not have shown the level of exuberance and urgency it did throughout the decade and beyond. The revolution that was taking place through the printed press was above all political. Most of these journalists took their role very seriously; as Dương Văn Lơi said, as a journalist, he was seeking “to act as an impartial and honest intermediate between a domineering regime and [his] compatriots.”13 Saigon’s newspapers and the public sphere they shaped were anchored in both a deep political and social process and the publishers’ conviction that they were acting for the sake of collective survival. As it will become apparent, Vietnamese journalists were on a number of occasions reminded that the Vietnamese public’s reception of their work was what mattered most. The subsequent sections of the book revisit this “newspaper village”—its political atmosphere and evolution in Saigon during the 1920s— and its establishment as a force of opposition to the political status quo. By the end of the decade, its new role as a principal political player declined, forcing it to redefine its social and political function.

Francophone Pioneers (1917–1923) We do not pay enough attention to the fact that Vietnamese newspapers have a profound impact on the minds of our compatriots. I do not mean only newspapers

In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 79

in quốc ngữ that, despite falling victim to the tyranny of an arbitrary censorship, play an undeniable role in the moral and intellectual education of the Vietnamese. Even newspapers written in French have tremendous influence among our compatriots. cao văn chánh in L’Essor Indochinois, August 9, 1924

The growth in the number of newspapers seemed to happen overnight. Until 1917, newspapers that were directed toward a native audience consisted of only three titles, all in quốc ngữ.14 Within two years, however, no fewer than seven newspapers in quốc ngữ, along with one in French, appeared in Saigon. As an observer writing for Le Midi colonial noted: The multiplication of newspapers aimed at the Vietnamese population has reached outstanding proportions. Not a single week passes without the birth of a new title in either Hanoi or Saigon. Most of those organs make no secret of their intention to use fully their role as media of information and education, as well as that of open tribunes for the expression of the aspirations and demands of the Vietnamese population.15

Encouraged by the relaxation of government policy on the press during the incumbency of Governor General Sarraut, this somewhat artificial surge in the number of papers led to a new stage in modern Vietnamese politics, in which newspapers became the main form of expression within the confines of colonial legality. Among the first to make use of the new political apertures created by the colonial authorities were the uncensored Frenchlanguage newspapers. Led by La Tribune Indigène, they played the role of political avant-garde of the new journalism scene. This was true even though the use of French instead of Vietnamese meant that an extremely restricted stratum of the population, a few thousand, was affected. We have already seen that Governor General Sarraut in 1917 allowed the development of this Vietnamese-run political press and selected native reformists to be integrated into the French political project of “collaboration.” We have also learned that Sarraut’s own initiatives were limited in their political scope by the colonial administration and perhaps by his own duplicity. Members of the French-speaking Saigon bourgeoisie, these individuals came to represent the Vietnamese voice vis-à-vis the colonial power. In their use of newspapers to promote themselves and the values of their social prominence, they helped to create an autonomous, liberalizing, national culture of public

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expression, albeit one conveying the economic and political interests of their own small class.

La Tribune Indigène: The Anti-Chinese Boycott and the 1919 Electoral Campaign La Tribune Indigène was founded on August 20, 1917, as the first Vietnameseowned and first political newspaper run by a native team, led by Nguyễn Phú Khai and Bùi Quang Chiêu. Both men were representative of the newly established, “assimilated” Saigon bourgeoisie. Moreover, they were French citizens, which prevented potential administrative interference. The previous chapter discusses the exceptional political circumstances surrounding their débuts as political journalists. However, the breakthrough that constituted La Tribune Indigène must also be judged in light of Khai’s and Chiêu’s own personalities and itineraries.16 The main architect behind La Tribune’s political enterprise was without doubt Bùi Quang Chiêu. As we have seen, he was a high-ranking civil servant in the French administration who owed his social position to the much-vaunted French republican model of meritocracy. Until he began his journalism and political career, he benefited from the support of Governor General Sarraut.17 A Freemason and a liberal republican in the French political context, Chiêu saw himself in the Cochinchinese scene as a member of the new native, urban, social elite. Though he was proud of his Vietnamese and local ancestries, he was more so of his French affiliations. Nothing of the inherent contradictions of such a stance appeared in his writings or actions. His sometimes naïve social and political vanity led him to believe that he and people of his social creed were invested with a unique responsibility to lead Vietnam toward “emancipation,” which he could not see without a sincere collaboration with the French. For Chiêu, journalism was only part of a wider range of social and political responsibilities, from running targeted business ventures to creating and leading a maze of social circles and associations. Among them were the Mutual Society for the Encouragement of Education in Cochinchina, the Alumni Association of the College Chasseloup-Laubat, the Franco-Vietnamese Circle, and many other networks, which, operating around La Tribune Indigène, guaranteed Chiêu’s prominence and functioned as an informal political lobby.

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Nguyễn Phú Khai’s personality and influence paled in comparison. One is struck, however, by the similarity between Khai’s early itinerary prior to Tribune Indigène and Chiêu’s. Born into a Catholic family from Bà Rịa, Khai was the son of a retired services civils administrator close to the French. Throughout his youth, he was able to count on the support of powerful French mentors, such as the popular French orientalist writer Pierre Loti and the governor of Cochinchina, Georges Maspéro. Such endorsements must have led to his overconfidence about his true capacity to juggle both a professional and a political career. Khai had neither Chiêu’s charisma nor the organizational skills necessary for leading an autonomous political career. His star began to wane when he started his journalism association with Chiêu.18 Sometime after Sarraut’s return to Indochina in 1917, the two men, both of whom had suffered financial and professional setbacks, secured the governor general’s support to launch a Saigon-based newspaper in French. For many years, the “Tribunists,” as they came to be known, claimed affiliation with Sarraut’s political program of Pháp Việt đề huề (Franco-Vietnamese collaboration). Technically, Khai was the paper’s publisher, and Chiêu was its editor in chief. A number of contributors from the French-educated bourgeoisie joined the staff.19 Both men directed the newspaper’s editorial strategy, which, in keeping with Sarraut’s plans, was to represent Vietnamese interests in conversation with the colonial authorities. As the only legal Vietnamese political newspaper in Cochinchina until 1920, La Tribune Indigène was, in its style, organization, and independence, a pioneer. Its founders—Chiêu in particular—never saw it as merely a journalistic venture. They saw it as an instrument of grand political design. The paper served as the nucleus of a network of social and cultural organizations orchestrated by Chiêu within Saigon’s native society. In a 1918 article, La Tribune Indigène called itself “the barometer of Vietnamese public opinion.”20 Although this “public opinion” held sway over all but a small segment of the population, it represented the new social circles of Westernized Vietnamese in the south. Among them were the landowning bourgeoisie, merchants, and entrepreneurs, many of whom were Sino-Vietnamese who hoped to gain social recognition by becoming “French.” In the assimilationist language of Sarraut and the Tribunists, these new social circles exemplified Vietnamese modernity.21 With an initial run of two thousand copies, La Tribune Indigène set out to be a proper newspaper rather than a pamphlet. Printed by the publisher

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tycoon Nguyễn Văn Của and his Imprimerie de l’Union, it appeared Mondays and Thursdays.22 Of the four large-format pages, the front page was devoted to editorials, and the second to serious articles. There were special sections on literature, including serialized novels, economic and commercial life, and international news from Havas and Reuters news agencies. La Tribune provided information such as announcements of examination sessions and horse racing results. It also contained official government announcements, a reminder of official support for the paper. Commercial advertisements targeted a wealthy or would-be wealthy readership in all parts of Vietnam. From October 1918 to December 1919 La Tribune Indigène was complemented by a quốc ngữ version called National Forum (Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn).23 The paper was initially constrained by wartime regulations and compliance with the “sacred union” (union sacrée) policy set forth by the government. La Tribune participated in the war effort by supporting war loans and the rhetoric of the common destiny of the Vietnamese and the French in their struggle against German “barbarism.” The staff held on to their spirit of independence and political determination in their critical reporting, such as of Sarraut’s speeches and the program of reforms presented in the Colonial Council in October 1917.24 They even confronted the colon press directly, as with La Cochinchine Libérale from January to February 1918. This controversy revolved around the possibility that French citizenship would be offered to all Vietnamese who served in France during the war. Defended by Jules-Adrien Marx’s newspaper, this plan was opposed by La Tribune. Faithful supporters of Sarraut’s policy of political “association,” the Tribunists, and in particular Bùi Quang Chiêu (president of the association of naturalized Vietnamese, La France Indochinoise) defended “the progressive admission of Vietnamese to civil and political rights [of French citizenship] against the foolish plan of mass naturalization.”25 Publicly accused by Marx of wishing to preserve their own privileges “against the right of millions of natives,” La Tribune chose to maintain its position. Its journalists pressed the government instead “to widen the native electorate for the Colonial Council, to improve the administrative apparatus, to establish a fair judiciary, and to engage in a more sustained program of education.”26 La Tribune ceased to address the subject on February 21, leaving the naturalization question to the French parliament. This attitude was symptomatic of the Tribunists’ social and cultural elitism, which sought to incorporate into the French citizenry a limited group of “enlightened” Vietnamese who would work on behalf of the whole native

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population toward the political emancipation of Vietnam. Such emancipation could take place only outside French citizenry in association with France. The Tribunists could never approve Marx’s plan, which would have stripped members of the bourgeoisie like themselves of their status. Their social elitism, like the theorized French republican justification of difference of development between cultures and societies, went hand in hand with a sincere pretension to represent the whole population, including the servicemen in the métropole, whom the Tribunists denied the right to become naturalized French citizens. Less well known is the effort deployed by the newspaper’s editors to run a quốc ngữ version, Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum)—an initiative born out of Sarraut’s plans. The fi rst issue of the quốc ngữ weekly went on sale on October 28, 1918. With substantial subscription orders from the government to send to France, the magazine was published at four thousand copies per issue, a figure that made it “the main quốc ngữ newspaper of Cochinchina.”27 During the first two years of its existence, National Forum devoted itself almost entirely to the war effort. The newspaper carried the slogan “Under the protection of the Tricolor, for the support of France and Vietnam.” Less than two months after the armistice, however, the paper began a series of articles asking for reforms in Indochina. This text appeared under a title translated as “Sacred Union,” a term used in France during the war to urge all segments of society to unite behind the cause of national salvation.28 To this was added another one titled “Victorious France: Section Presenting the Demands of the Vietnamese People.”29 Among those demands, freedom of expression in quốc ngữ was regularly reiterated. Others included electoral reforms and most of the agenda items that had been set forth in La Tribune Indigène since 1917. Like La Tribune, National Forum claimed the protection of Sarraut, whose speeches it regularly translated. The end of the war in Europe allowed the editors of La Tribune to express their political views more freely, although the French victory did not make their situation any easier. It was a time of social and economic uncertainties: major political and administrative reshuffling in France; the return to Indochina of thousands of men from the métropole; and the effects of a disorganized world economy, particularly inflation and a shortage of imported supplies. La Tribune reminded the government of the promises it had made during the conflict, only to find reluctance from the colonial authorities. Convinced that they represented the avant-garde of Vietnam, the editors felt compelled to live up to the new appellation given to them by the

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colon press, “Young Annam” ( Jeune Annam) and its implied reference to the Young Turks movement.30 On April 17, 1919, a few days before the departure of Governor General Sarraut for France, La Tribune Indigène proclaimed itself the “organ of the Indochinese Constitutionalist Party.” For the first time, Chiêu, Khai, and their friends decided to act regardless of French politics. They ignored the war-era restrictions and accusations of social elitism. By establishing themselves through the nominal existence of a party and the effective running of a newspaper, they showed their determination to represent the Vietnamese population. A number of colons and members of the administration saw this move as self-aggrandizement on the part of Chiêu and his friends. However, given the fact that they alone were free to express themselves politically and that they were aware that, without Sarraut, their position could again become untenable, they felt they had no choice. The rise of Chiêu and Khai as the sole legal voices in favor of the Vietnamese was the result of a combination of factors: confidence that their status in the colonial society conferred upon them the legitimacy to act in this fashion; courage and a sense of political responsibility to their compatriots; a propitious context, with Sarraut’s departure; and uncertainties over their capacity to continue to express themselves freely. Two events in 1919 tested the men’s determination and their claims to “represent Vietnamese interests.” The first episode was an “anti-Chinese commercial boycott” in Saigon, in which La Tribune Indigène played a leading role (August 1919–September 1920); the second episode was the election of the Cochinchina député in December 1919. Both events tested the paper’s first concrete attempts to change the political status quo and shape the terms of its relations with the colonial government. In August 1919 Vietnamese newspapers launched a movement against the Chinese hold on Cochinchina’s economy and their alleged ruthlessness in commercial practices. Journalists saw themselves as raising awareness among the wider Vietnamese population of the need for collective, “national” economic emancipation. Ever since Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu’s initiatives, economic modernization had been a theme among the southern Vietnamese elite. This question often led to considerations of an ethnic Chinese; they represented half the population of Saigon and exerted much influence in the local commercial and entrepreneurial network, which was linked to diasporic Chinese routes across East and Southeast Asia. Economic nationalism was not new to the Vietnamese. In 1915 young members of the

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bourgeoisie had attempted, with support from some in the French community, including La Cochinchine Libérale, to break the Chinese monopoly in the rice trade and milling by opening rice-processing factories—an action in which Nguyễn Phú Khai was involved.31 Four years later, the same Vietnamese were witnessing with fascination new assertions of nationalist feelings among members of the Chinese community in Vietnam, including the spectacle of a well-orchestrated commercial boycott of Japanese products following Japan’s occupation of German territorial concessions in China.32 The incident began in August 1919, after some Chinese shopkeepers together decided to raise the price of a cup of coffee by one sou. Two ordinarily moderate quốc ngữ newspapers, Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette) and Thời Báo (Time Newspaper), called for a boycott of Chinese-owned businesses. They were soon followed by the papers Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), and La Tribune Indigène, which did not fear the colonial censors’ scrutiny. Thus began a full-scale political propaganda campaign. The strategy was similar to the massive anti-Japanese economic boycott that had begun in Chinese cities three months earlier to protest the decision of the Versailles peace conference to transfer to Japan the special privileges held by Germany. The boycott had been effective in Chinese communities throughout Southeast Asia, including Cochinchina. This was known in Vietnam; Matters of Agriculture had published an article by Nguyễn Chánh Sắt on that boycott in Cholon.33 Although the protest against the coffee pricing involved most Vietnamese newspapers, it was the duo La Tribune Indigène–National Forum that set its tone. Beyond journalists’ statements in favor of Vietnamese entrepreneurship and greater prominence in an economy dominated by foreigners, the impulse behind the boycott served other purposes. For the newspapers, and especially the Tribunists, it was to test their capacity to mobilize popular support: would this campaign succeed in compelling the colonial authorities to recognize them as a political force, representative of the interests of the majority of the Vietnamese population? By the end of 1919 journalists had succeeded in creating a political campaign in southern Vietnam that extended to other regions. They had launched a fierce verbal attack on the Chinese, using violently xenophobic slogans such as “race war” or “Sino-Vietnamese conflict” alongside caricatured sketches. “Let’s organize, this is our strength, this is our triumph,” urged La Tribune Indigène.34 In late August the Vietnamese Commercial Society (Société commerciale annamite) was founded, comprising rich Vietnamese activists and

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journalists led by La Tribune Indigène’s director, Nguyễn Phú Khai.35 A bank, the Crédit Annamite, was set up in October, and a Cochinchinese Economic Congress (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Hội) was convened in November. Other, more specialized organizations were also established.36 The impact of these efforts was confirmed by the governor of Cochinchina, Georges Maspéro, in a report on the political situation in the second quarter of 1919: It is clear that, although the few events that marked the beginning of the so-called Sino-Vietnamese boycott did not degenerate into a serious matter, the economic emancipation movement nevertheless demonstrates that a native political elite already exists, whose influence is beginning to be felt among the masses.37

As the sudden rise of the movement had surprised contemporaries, so the swiftness of its decline brought disillusion to its authors. Economic competition with the Chinese proved more difficult than the Vietnamese intellectual-journalists had imagined. More worrisome, their actions encountered opposition from the colonial administration, which responded harshly with systematic censorship of the quốc ngữ press. Worst of all, the boycott failed to turn public sympathy into an active popular movement. The campaign seemed to benefit only a few wealthy Vietnamese who wished to expand their own economic activities, possibly at the expense of the majority of the population. A popular movement would not rise to support a cause with such a narrow socioeconomic base. Leaders of the Chinese community were well aware of this. At the same time, the rich southern landowners who had supported La Tribune Indigène and the other newspapers had not necessarily envisaged an all-out confrontation with the French and the Chinese, upon whom their own social position ultimately depended. Nonetheless, the boycott had served as a forum for journalists’ claims to represent Vietnamese society as a whole and to embrace the interests of their compatriots throughout Indochina. They showed remarkable signs of solidarity despite differences in socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds. This was particularly evident in the array of shareholders who gathered for the launch of the Société commerciale annamite on August 30, 1919, and later for the Congrès économique de l’Indochine. On the launch of the Indochinese Economic Congress, La Tribune Indigène wrote the following: “[i]t is the first meeting in which Vietnamese of the educated class—intellectuals, merchants, entrepreneurs, journalists, the wealthy and the bourgeois—are

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gathering together to consciously assess the economic situation of their country and to study ways to improve it.”38 The shared sense of duty to the national cause among these urban groups had been demonstrated during the boycott, when they had gathered to sign a collective manifesto condemning government censorship of the quốc ngữ press; the directors of six Vietnamese-language newspapers signed the article.39 Despite its failure to achieve its economic purpose, the 1919 anti-Chinese economic boycott was the Vietnamese press’s first political success. Chiêu and Khai had succeeded in positioning themselves as true defenders of a refined conception of national interest, a cause that would bring together Vietnamese as a community whose characteristics and interests were distinct from those of the Chinese and the French. Another successful point for the Tribunists was their political method, characterized by the combined use of a French-language newspaper as the official and uncensored voice of Vietnamese interests—including those of the muzzled quốc ngữ press—and a cluster of social networks with strong backing from the urban, French-educated segment of society, quite abusively called “Party.” The second important event of the year was the electoral campaign for député of Cochinchina, an event largely influenced by the Tribunists’ political activism. Taking place in December 1919 against the background of the antiChinese economic boycott, the electoral campaign—shortly followed by that for Saigon’s municipal council—was the first contest since the war had broken out in Europe. In the wake of the French victory, the Vietnamese had hopes for a new political era and the realization of wartime French promises of limited political devolution. For the French, this election was also special. For many colons, the campaign proved to be one of the fiercest and ideologically charged in Saigon, with two candidates featuring distinct programs and representing divergent sensibilities within the French community. Ernest Outrey was the affable and corrupt colonial notable. A former lieutenant governor of Cochinchina, he favored the social and political status quo in the colony and defended the colons’ interests against metropolitan and native encroachments. The other candidate was Maître Paul Monin. He embodied the powerful mystique of the anciens combattants (war veterans); the proclaimed victory of republican ideals over petty conservatism and interests at home and in the empire; and the promises of a new era of fraternity under the republican flag.40 For the Tribunists, the député election constituted another important step in the process of asserting their right to engage in legal political activity.

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In his report on the political situation in Cochinchina, Governor Maspéro noted the significance of Vietnamese intrusion into a political debate until then reserved to the French: French and indigenous elections gave the opportunity for the native elite to introduce itself [into the political scene] for the first time . . . The existence of a clear antigovernment party is now established. This is a sign that some of the leaders know how to maneuver and expect their spokesmen to give voice to their political ambitions.41

La Tribune Indigène had initially dismissed the election because it concerned only three to four hundred voters among the four thousand French citizens registered. However, then it saw an opportunity to push for the integration of the Vietnamese elite into the French political system and to launch a campaign directed toward the naturalized Vietnamese French: “[i]n this country, the Vietnamese are foreigners in their own land, having only the right to pay and to keep silent.”42 La Tribune Indigène urged Vietnamese voters with French citizenship to vote “according to their conscience,” aware that their ballot would bear the stamp of the thousands of “compatriots” who did not enjoy the right to vote. As election day came closer, the newspaper increased the pressure with numerous slogans: “French citizens of Vietnamese origin, when you cast your vote, remember that you represent three million compatriots.”43 The editors campaigned to discourage Vietnamese voters from selling their vote (a common practice, especially among the French Indians): “[t]o exchange one’s vote for any kind of favor is to betray three million compatriots, is to betray the common cause, is to betray one’s country.”44 On November 15, 1919, prominent figures in the anti-Chinese boycott set up the Group of Vietnamese French Citizens (Groupe des annamites citoyens français), establishing a Vietnamese caucus among the French electorate in Cochinchina. A committee of twenty-five members elected colonial councilor Diệp Văn Cương as the group’s president. But division arose, and the consensus that had prevailed during the anti-Chinese boycott did not survive this election. Socially established figures like the former interpreter and high-ranking civil servant Cương, the industrialist publisher Nguyễn Văn Của, and the plantation owner Tạ Quang Vinh supported the conservative contender, Ernest Outrey, against Paul Monin, the candidate favored by Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phú Khai.45

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These differences intensified as election day approached. On November 20 La Tribune Indigène accused Outrey’s Vietnamese supporters of accepting favors from the incumbent député of Cochinchina. Numerous articles attacked Outrey’s record during his five-year mandate. Two days later the Tribune carried this headline: “[t]o vote for Outrey is to betray Vietnamese interests.”46 By supporting Monin’s candidacy, La Tribune aligned itself with a number of French papers—La Jeune Asie, La Vérité, and L’Opinion—against L’Impartial and Le Réveil Saïgonnais.47 L’Impartial accused La Tribune Indigène of constituting “a group of revolutionaries.”48 Tensions subsided after Outrey’s predictable victory on December 2, but the emerging Vietnamese political elite remained divided. Throughout the campaign, the colonial administration interceded on behalf of Outrey. Pro-Monin quốc ngữ papers were banned from publishing articles on the election.49 Pro-Outrey papers thereafter became the core of a Vietnamese-owned, pro-government press that was to exist in parallel with more independent papers. La Tribune Indigène, however, avoided censorship, thanks to its publication in French. It was the single Vietnamese voice of opposition to the authorities and the colons. The political solidarity among Vietnamese journalists that had existed during the anti-Chinese economic boycott was a thing of the past. This first disagreement foretold future divisions among Saigon’s intelligentsia. The anti-Chinese economic boycott and the election campaign for député were major advances in the political strategy led by La Tribune Indigène. In the eyes of the authorities and the public (Vietnamese and French), these two events demonstrated that action carried out by natives could create conditions for direct political exchanges even within the limits of colonial law. They also showed that newspapers had become the essential vehicles of this political emancipation. Economic groups were created, electoral meetings were held, and pamphlets and tracts were distributed in the streets, while newspapers’ leading articles, especially those by La Tribune Indigène, were read publicly and copied. In the political mood of the immediate postwar period, the effervescence that existed among the French community was shared and transmitted to native circles and crowds, allowing for a diff use but nonetheless real and politically charged atmosphere yet unknown in the streets of downtown Saigon and beyond. During the anti-Chinese boycott, the Vietnamese quốc ngữ press showed its potential for political influence even if severe censorship and self-imposed restrictions confined it to a secondary role. Both colonial administrators and Vietnamese journalists

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realized, however, that the authorities could do nothing to prevent Frenchlanguage newspapers like La Tribune Indigène from stepping into the political arena, once exclusive to the French. The “Constitutionalists,” as the Tribunists were also known, remained the principal Vietnamese political voice at least until 1923. The colonial authorities had no intention of recognizing their legitimacy. Governor Maspéro took advantage of the long delay between Albert Sarraut’s departure in May 1919 and the arrival of the new governor general, Maurice Long, in January 1920, to put a brake on the political liberalization process. Maspéro’s policy of obstruction had begun with his refusal to support the anti-Chinese economic boycott. This put him in direct conflict with his former protégé from the time when he was administrator of the Mỹ Tho province, La Tribune’s director, Nguyễn Phú Khai. The governor was especially infuriated at the leading role Khai had played in the boycott campaign. Then came the decision by the interim governor general, François Montguillot, on Maspéro’s recommendation, to suspend National Forum on October 20, 1919. With the end of the war and Sarraut’s departure, the future of this heavily subsidized periodical had become uncertain. In the same month, Khai received notice that the French authorities would no longer require a bulk subscription for troops in France. This decision meant economic disaster for the newspaper. With hindsight, it may be regarded as the first move against the Tribunists before the episodes of the anti-Chinese boycott and the député election.50 Five months later, in the middle of the anti-Chinese boycott, Khai’s demand for permission to modify the quốc ngữ edition’s format prompted the colonial authorities to shut it down altogether. To have had National Forum in large format would have transformed it into a real newspaper. The run-up to the député election and the paper’s anticipated support for Monin’s candidacy also prompted the authorities to act swiftly. In an internal letter to Governor General Montguillot, Maspéro described National Forum as follows: “[b]y continuously opposing the administration with a clear ‘antiFrench’ tone, [this newspaper] seemed to encourage this long enterprise of destabilisation of the Vietnamese masses, through the medium of quốc ngữ, which naturally appeals to a wider public.”51 National Forum had to cease publication on December 11, 1919. In a letter of protest nine days earlier, Khai reminded Maspéro that Sarraut had supported the creation of the newspaper. While National Forum criticized “arbitrary actions and abuses of authority by local government,” Khai said, the paper had been censored only once. He ended his letter by pointing out that

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if the colonial authorities did not change their mind, the suspension of a Vietnamese newspaper would amount to “an act without precedent in the history of the press in Indochina.” However, he could do nothing to reverse a decision that clearly indicated the narrow margin left to Vietnamese journalists operating in quốc ngữ.52 Although the colonial authorities’ efforts against the Tribunists fell short of systematic repression, their actions showed they still held much sway over indigenous policy, especially during periods in which Indochina was without firm political leadership. In the years that followed, La Tribune Indigène continued to assert its political position against the colonial government and the colonial press. Its strategy was to exert pressure on Indochinese and metropolitan spheres of power by expressing demands on behalf of the Vietnamese population. To the outcry of the colonial press, from July to August 1919 the newspaper republished Nguyễn Aí Quốc’s (the future Hồ Chí Minh) “Demands of the Vietnamese Peoples” (Revendications du peuple Annamite), which had appeared in a French journal to the alarm of the colons. This triggered a violent dispute with the colonial press.53 La Tribune Indigène was ready to endorse daring liberal opinions on social issues, targeting in particular the wealthy Vietnamese bourgeoisie. Some of these articles revealed the presence of more radical, left-leaning tendencies among the Tribune’s contributors, who openly advocated hostile sentiments against landlords in the countryside.54 These editorial initiatives bore one political objective—to convince the colonial authorities of their own interest in implementing the “moderate” reform program defended by La Tribune’s leaders. This tactic was repeated on numerous occasions by the Constitutionalists. As well as paving the way for independent political journalism in Vietnam, La Tribune also evolved into a structure directly engaged in the local social life. This included initiatives such as galas and theater presentations,55 charities organized to support the war effort56 or to help the Tonkinese population against flooding,57 and the opening of a public reading room of French newspapers within La Tribune’s own building—a practice that other papers in the city would also adopt.58 The Tribunists’ strategy of social involvement extended to an impressive network of associations and circles, most of which were led by Bùi Quang Chiêu.59 The Tribunists’ fondness for connections also included French colonial milieux. La Tribune Indigène could count on the support of a number of French liberals, such as the Réunion Island native Georges Garros (alias Jacques Danlor)60 and his newspaper, La jeune Asie, with whom La Tribune Indigène shared common articles.61

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La Tribune Indigène also worked with Monin’s short-lived La Grenade, later renamed La Vérité.62 The number of contributions signed by French writers in La Tribune Indigène’s columns indicates that the newspaper enjoyed some support from the French public of the colony. By 1920 La Tribune Indigène was clearly the sole legal Vietnamese opposition voice to the government’s policy. It was never a confrontational position. As cultural assimilés, Nguyễn Phú Khai and Bùi Quang Chiêu understood their political engagement as a duty: that of the enlightened representatives of the Vietnamese population, compelled to plead their cause to the government. They recognized colonial legitimacy, as seen in their primary engagement with the authorities rather than the Vietnamese public.63 This ambiguous political strategy ultimately cost the paper its position as the only journalistic voice of Vietnamese political opposition to colonial rule.

L’Écho Annamite: The Alternative Francophone Voice From 1920 to 1923 Vietnamese public politics progressively succeeded in freeing itself of earlier forms of allegiance to the government. The self-proclaimed Constitutionalists, also called the Young Annam group by the conservative colonial press, increased their influence and became the main organized Vietnamese political force in Saigon. In contrast to Sarraut’s policy of dialogue with the indigenous political elite, colonial authorities remained unwilling to recognize them as legitimate. For contemporaries living at the onset of the postwar era, the world context was becoming more difficult to read inasmuch as old points of reference were fast disappearing. In anticipation of the years of uncertainty to come, in June 1919 La Tribune Indigène published a series of articles titled “Dangerous Times” (Les Heures graves), which analyzed the worldwide changes and their implications for Indochina. This kind of editorial appeared regularly during the following years. They expressed a sense that the world situation had grown more unstable due, in large part, to the revolutions in Russia and China and the growing tensions between Japan and China. The newspaper carefully studied political developments that were taking place in other colonies. Advocates of President Woodrow Wilson’s principles of self-determination, the Tribunists compared the condition of Indochina with that of other major colonial possessions:

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Of the six most important colonies located between the Mediterranean Sea and the Pacific Ocean under the administration of the four major nations in the world, five have had their political regimes modified. The inhabitants of French Indochina are the only ones still waiting amid mixed feelings of hope and disillusionment. The political reforms needed rely on French liberalism alone.64

As reforms promised during the war failed to materialize, journalists felt frustration and disappointment. The appointment of Albert Sarraut as minister of colonies in January 1920 was not sufficient to reassure Chiêu and his friends.65 Even the arrival of Governor General Maurice Long, a member of Sarraut’s Radical Party, in January 1920 did not alleviate their misgivings. The paper openly criticized the French government’s unwillingness to live up to its ideals: “[t]he war for Justice and Law has produced in the colonial government the unexpected result of reinforcing the old-style colonialism, when we were all inclined to believe in its disappearance amid the generous wind of freedom that has blown across the world.”66 It is amid this rather disheartened mood that the most significant political event since the appearance of La Tribune Indigène, at least in the francophone Vietnamese press of Saigon, took place: the launch in January 1920 of L’Écho Annamite (Echo of Annam). The authorities had encouraged its creation to counter La Tribune Indigène’s political influence. Those hopes were soon dashed, however, when the editor in chief, Nguyễn Phan Long, quickly turned L’Écho into another independent journal. The paper would achieve much more political influence than was apparent from its printing run of a few hundred copies. This was due largely to its direction under Long, its main contributor and Chiêu’s future rival in Constitutionalist circles. Born in the north in 1889, Nguyễn Phan Long was the son of a southerner sent by the colonial administration to work as an interpreter following the French conquest a few years earlier. His father, Long wrote, was “a mandarin who chose to collaborate with the French so as to avoid converting to Catholicism.” This kind of convoluted statement was typical of Long’s political style.67 Perhaps suffering from an initial sense of inferiority with regard to the assimilated Cochinchinese bourgeoisie—a group that he desperately wanted to be part of—Long was often drawn toward alternative paths. As his political and social star brightened, he became sympathetic to members of the radicalized youth, while remaining a fervent adept of

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spiritualism. He did not have Chiêu’s natural capacity to organize and mobilize people. Long was, however, more subtle in gauging the political situation and opportunities worth seizing. He also had excellent business instincts. After graduating from the Protectorate High School in Hanoi, with a diplôme d ’ études primaires supérieures, he moved to Saigon in 1916 to work as a customs clerk and soon married into a wealthy local family.68 His excellent command of written French enabled him to contribute articles to La Tribune Indigène under the pen name Văn Thế Hội69 and to serialize in the paper a novel he wrote in French, Le Roman de Mademoiselle Lys.70 In 1921 he resigned his position as a clerk to devote himself fully to journalism. L’Écho Annamite shared some features with La Tribune Indigène. It was a four-page, large-format paper, also printed by Nguyễn Văn Của’s Imprimerie de l’Union. It appeared three times a week and featured substantial editorial content with five to six important articles on the first and second pages. There were sections on world events, the French press review, news from press agencies, official announcements, serialized novels, and learning French. As the newspaper took off, the number of advertisements and quality of the promoted products increased. L’Écho Annamite was of better quality than its La Tribune Indigène. It was more austere in its presentation, style of writing, and rhetoric. It was less of a “Tribune,” less a patchwork of sections and contributions from various authors than a singly crafted sheet with a limited number of sections and an emphasis on editorial content.71 During this first period of L’Écho Annamite’s life, which stretched up to June 1923, Long’s role expanded from being the paper’s main contributor to becoming its director and then its single owner. The exact political circumstances surrounding the foundation of L’Écho Annamite remain unclear. A Sûreté note indicates that La Tribune Indigène had caused such serious concerns among local colonial officials that the administrator, legally unable to suspend the newspaper, resorted to allowing another Vietnamese newspaper to rival it.72 Wealthy Vietnamese, including Trần Trinh Trạch and Lê Văn Trung, lent their financial support. L’Écho Annamite’s emphatic early display of loyalty to the government, so obvious in its introductory editorial, seems to confirm this hypothesis. The newspaper’s front-page slogan read: “Journal of the defense of French-Vietnamese interests.”73 The difference between the two papers rested less in their objectives than in the forms of delivering that message. In response to an article published in La Tribune Indigène that complained that “in order to oppose our

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newspaper, which is considered subversive, the government added another one,”74 Bạch Văn Thâm, then coeditor of L’Écho Annamite, said the following: The compatriots and colleagues of La Tribune Indigène observed us with a worried eye. L’Écho annamite is a creation neither of the government nor of its functionaries; nor is it a second edition of La Tribune Indigène or its systematic adversary. La Tribune Indigène’s line of conduct is not ours, although the difference lies less in the essence of our aspirations than in the way we present them.

Thâm went on to be more specific about the differences between his paper and La Tribune Indigène, which lay primarily in the attitude adopted by the two editorial teams toward the colonial administration: There is nothing worse than trying to obtain satisfaction from those on whom we depend by constantly presenting ideas and suggestions in a rude manner that henceforth becomes unacceptable. What can our compatriots gain by having advocates, who, although seeing the cause clearly, cannot moderate their expression? The difference between the political conduct of L’Écho Annamite and that of La Tribune Indigène lies in our chosen method of conciliation.75

The papers’ internal organizations also differed: that of L’Écho centered on one individual, in contrast to the more collective Tribune. A comparison of advertisements suggests that L’Écho Annamite sought out a less wealthy readership than that of La Tribune—French-educated civil servants and teachers rather than the established bourgeoisie. Many of L’Écho’s readers originated from the northern and central parts of the country. With Tonkin connections on his mother’s side, Long addressed his editorials to the whole country. Cochinchina’s limited Vietnamese francophone community was accustomed to reading La Tribune Indigène. In contrast to Chiêu’s effort to build his political legitimacy through a tightknit, Saigon-based social network, Long’s bold move established the whole of Vietnam as one “community,” something the authorities failed to ascertain. This approach set a precedent for Vietnamese journalists. As L’Écho Annamite asserted itself, the two newspapers’ political lines converged. The Sûreté’s annual report on the political situation in Cochinchina (March 1922–May 1923) mentioned the new display of cooperation; there

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were repeated talks of a merger between the two papers. The Sûreté was prompt to point out personal rivalries. If differences in personality between Long and Chiêu were well known, there was also much political competition between them. The latter must have felt some irritation at seeing how Long, a newcomer, claimed to act as the main Vietnamese interlocutor to the colonial authorities, who, in turn, praised him for his seriousness and moderation. On the other hand, Long must have resented the way his inclusion in Saigon’s elite circles depended on his acceptance by Chiêu and his social network. With his political fortune tied to journalism, Long was not inclined to give up L’Écho Annamite.76 The paper’s first issue in January 1920 had a print run of 700 copies. That number dropped to 550 three months later. Despite being supported by prominent businessmen, L’Écho Annamite was not in good financial shape. The editorial team was restructured on March 13, 1920, when Bạch Văn Thâm’s name appeared as director. The change can be interpreted as a decision made by the paper’s rich patrons, who seem to have distrusted Long’s financial management ability.77 Thâm reined in Long’s ambitions. His intellectual and political credentials were solid. A Catholic from Cochinchina’s bourgeoisie, Thâm had embraced journalism after an early administrative career in the colonial civil services. He had worked for Jules-Adrien Marx’s Catholic newspaper, La Cochinchine Libérale, before joining La Tribune Indigène.78 He wrote on subjects ranging from education to other forms of “social improvement.”79 An admirer of the Catholic conservative writer Charles Maurras, Thâm specialized in political editorials. From July 1920 to March 1921 he was L’Écho’s coeditor with Long,80 and the two men shared the main political editorial columns. Under this dual directorship, the paper displayed a strong sense of independence and objectivity. The seriousness of their style enabled the authors of L’Écho Annamite to appear constructive in their criticism of government policy. L’Écho published articles on different aspects of social life, with a special emphasis on questions of institutional reform and the need to develop modern education. Serializations of novels such as Balzac’s Eugénie Grandet appeared in the newspaper’s columns, and, beginning in January 1921, Long published a method he had devised to help readers learn literary French. Articles on spiritualism—a consistent interest for Long—appeared frequently, while his novel was regularly advertised. The collaboration between the two men came to an abrupt end after Thâm died of tuberculosis on March 23, 1921.81 The newspaper editorship

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was left to Long, who had by then resigned his post in the customs administration. For a while, however, the newspaper’s sponsors, with the secret support of the French authorities, insisted he share his responsibilities with another person. In July they appointed Lê Thành Tương, freshly returned from Hanoi, as the newspaper’s new director and imposed others as occasional contributors.82 After months of negotiations with his sponsors, Long convinced them to sell him their shares.83 In June 1922 he officially took over the paper and soon after fired Lê Thành Tương: I had to do without the services of a superficial and loud-speaking contributor whose idea of the journalism profession was one that I disapprove of and that did not help the paper—a paper I can consider as my own achievement after having devoted three years of my life to it. . . . I therefore decided to take over the effective management of L’Écho Annamite, deliberately sacrificing an administrative position that was comfortable in order to launch myself on an adventurous career in journalism.84

More than just an example of the shift from employment in the colonial civil service to working in the private venture—an almost sociological phenomenon among numerous middle-class urban Vietnamese in the early 1920s—Long’s move was strategic. He understood that his name was closely associated with the paper and that his running of it would bolster his political profile. Long expanded his influence by reaching out to those who only read quốc ngữ, by far the largest contingent of native press readers. At his own expense he launched Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era) with the support of his then colleague Lê Thành Tương in April 1922. The paper appeared on April 7, after Tương had pledged to the authorities, in his application for official authorization, to turn the paper into an “organ of information and education (vulgarisation).”85 In his articles Long said the editorial quality of The New Era would differ from that of L’Écho Annamite. If the latter were reserved for “the educated sector of the population and the government,”86 his quốc ngữ paper would be assigned a cultural role: the development of Vietnamese romanized transcription: “[f]ar from seeking to impress with weighty literary forms—something our northern compatriots, good connoisseurs in such matters, may not appreciate—Nhựt Tân Báo should reach the masses by using a simple and clear style, without falling into simplistic language or obscurantism.”87

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Running The New Era proved too difficult and onerous for Long to sustain. Competition was fierce, and the newspaper’s low sales meant that he lost money. His hiring of a literary author, Nguyễn Ngọc Ấn (pen name Ham Huy), as the newspaper’s editor in chief, to bring in a new style of clarity proved to be a mistake; Ấn gained a reputation for being “unreadable.” Long eventually sold his share to his ex-colleague Lê Thành Tương in March 1923. As with Chiêu and Khai before him, with their efforts to widen their social reach by running a quốc ngữ newspaper, Long was unable to bridge this considerable gulf. And like his Constitutionalist colleagues, his political action remained confined to the narrow French-reading circles of Vietnamese society. Prior to selling The New Era, Long, in a position of strength, embarked on an entente with the Tribunists. With the Colonial Council elections in sight, La Tribune Indigène and L’Écho Annamite had joined forces as early as July 1921, urging the authorities to reform the electoral process of the local assembly along the lines advocated by Diệp Văn Cương in La Tribune in 1917. After months of debate, Governor General Long passed a decree in June 1922. The number of indigenous members was increased from four to ten (although at the same time the number of French members went up from ten to fourteen). The most important aspect of the reform was the fact that the number of Vietnamese voters had risen from a mere 1,700 under the old system to 21,000. Although it fell short of representing Cochinchina’s population of more than three million, the measure went beyond the demands previously put forward by La Tribune Indigène. With 21,000 native voters qualified on the basis of their wealth and the degree of their assimilation into the new sociocultural establishment, the Colonial Council would be a more faithful reflection of the diverse Cochinchinese social elite than what the Constitutionalists had been asking for. This decree, the only concrete measure of constitutional change in the postwar period in Indochina, aimed as much to widen the authorities’ social basis of support as to dissolve any attempts, like that of the Tribunists, to unilaterally claim to represent “native interests.”88 In June 1922 Nguyễn Phan Long secured the support of La Tribune Indigène’s circle for his candidacy as a Constitutionalist in the election of the Colonial Council.89 The contest was the first in which the Constitutionalists campaigned as a group, with the two newspapers mobilized concertedly. L’Écho Annamite bore its director’s political manifestos, and Long dropped his pen name. In September he won the election and became the first Vietnamese

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vice president of the Colonial Council. He proudly exclaimed: “native public opinion is no longer a myth.”90 Meanwhile, L’Écho Annamite’s circulation had increased to a record high of 1,300 copies per issue in October 1922, thanks to the elections. It fell back to 1,000 copies early the following year. These figures were not enough for Long to keep running L’Écho Annamite indefinitely (he was said to be losing around 300 piastres per month). After selling The New Era in April 1923, he suspended L’Écho Annamite on June 30. By then, Long was enjoying enough recognition to devote the time and money he had hitherto spent on newspapers to furthering his establishment in Saigon’s elite society. He used his personal credit to borrow a substantial amount of money to found a private boarding school, Institution Nguyễn Phan Long. In Saigon, the creation of private schools among the social elite was always regarded as both a patriotic and a lucrative venture (other journalist-politicians, like Bùi Quang Chiêu with his private school, An Nam Học Đường, were already engaged in such activity). With his appointment to the Colonial Council and the opening of his school, Long effectively traded his newspapers for a new public profile. “Best pen in the Colony,” as he was described by Sûreté’s chief Paul Arnoux,91 Long had become a public figure of major importance. This had been possible primarily because of his talent as a French-language journalist and his political flair. The latter was revealed in his ability to negotiate his entry into Constitutionalist circles with the initial support of the authorities and of wealthy Vietnamese and Sino-Vietnamese alienated by the anti-Chinese boycott. In early 1920s’ Saigon, the imprimatur given by the colonial authorities and the native rich bourgeoisie remained essential for any Vietnamese political claims, especially those expressed through journalism. Long’s rise, like that of Chiêu and Khai, showed that, if carefully crafted, these ascensions could be transformed into a political force in their own right. This could happen only within the social confines allowed by the use of the French-language press, something that considerably restricted their ability to build a relation of accountability with the larger Vietnamese community. The Constitutionalists’ win in the Colonial Council election only further locked their rhetoric of opposition into the accepted limits of colonial legal politics.92 It was not surprising, therefore, that Long became the target of political attacks by radical, progressive French journalists. Like Chiêu and Khai, he was accused by the journalist Ernest Babut of “opportunism” and “hypocrisy” in his concern for the Vietnamese community.

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The row lasted for two weeks in September 1922, with Babut intervening from French papers The Saigon Mail (Le Courrier Saïgonnais) and Free Voice (La Voix libre), the latter run by the anarchist teacher Edgar Ganofsky. The founder of the Hanoi-based Vietnam News (Đại Việt Tân Báo) and a notorious militant of the Human Rights League, Babut accused Long of having received subsidies from the authorities and, consequently, of having failed to support genuine Vietnamese patriots like the exiled Phan Châu Trinh.93 In this display of personal attacks, the dispute featured the typical verbal violence of French colonial politics. Babut’s motives may not have been entirely pure, as blackmail was widespread among French journalists, and they, too, could be bought by the authorities. The row highlighted the contrast between Saigon’s journalist activism, characterized by its legalism and its “constructive” opposition to the colonial regime, and the tradition of dissident Vietnamese nationalism represented by Phan Châu Trinh. As with Jules-Adrien Marx’s attacks on the Tribunists in 1917, Babut’s accusations at first had little impact on Long’s political career. For the director of L’Écho Annamite and for those of La Tribune Indigène, however, such criticism pointed to the gulf between their public agendas and the Vietnamese masses, an argument that was later used by Vietnamese activists.

The Quốc Ngữ Press in the Postwar Period (1916–1923) Tờ báo xứ ta là cuốn sử ký đương thời [The newspaper in our country is a contemporary history book]. đông pháp thời báo , December 29, 1924

A fundamental contradiction existed in La Tribune Indigène’s and L’Écho Annamite’s claims to represent the interests of the whole Vietnamese community while their social and political worldviews remained those of a few hundred French-literate natives. The papers’ lack of a wider social grounding was due to the legal restrictions imposed by the colonial regime, constraints that prevented them from directly reaching out to the larger public of Vietnamese-language readers. The Tribunists had tried to break their relative insulation by running a quốc ngữ version, but this attempt was terminated when the authorities withdrew their fi nancial support. Long’s launch of Nhựt Tân Báo two years later also failed, this time from lack of an

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editorial strategy. In spite of the political breakthrough represented by the two French-language papers, what remained at stake was the ability of Vietnamese journalist-activists to mobilize a substantial section of the native population, something they could achieve only through the use of quốc ngữ newspapers. The question was to what extent the vernacular language press would become the main conduit of native public political contestation. As the Vietnamese francophone press developed in the concluding years of World War I, quốc ngữ newspapers simultaneously experienced a sharp rise in influence over Saigon’s public sphere. Although they were not yet able to compete in their ability to create political events, the apolitical educational and moralizing function that was until then assigned to them by the authorities and the early journalists was no longer sustainable. In spite of tight censorship of and restrictions on ownership of newspapers by Vietnamese, some of the quốc ngữ titles created during Sarraut’s tenure succeeded in filling the limited spaces open to them, at first with a favorable inclination toward Sarraut’s policy. What the authorities deemed “political activities” was unclear. There was room for maneuvering under the censorship board, a relatively autonomous structure chaired by the chief of the Cochinchinese branch of the Sûreté, which comprised Vietnamese. Before publication, newspapers had to submit every issue to the board for approval. Good connections at the highest levels of authority could not always prevent the removal of articles or sections replaced by white spaces. Another important obstacle was that “native subjects” were not permitted to own a paper. After an early relaxation of these constraints during Sarraut’s second tenure, very few quốc ngữ newspapers were allowed to function.94 Despite these restrictions, something began to change the landscape of quốc ngữ newspapers. The result of Sarraut’s policies, the precedent of the French-language press, and a new assertiveness among Vietnamese (and French) entrepreneur-publishers in the southern city all led to increased politicization of Vietnamese-language newspapers. An examination of four important quốc ngữ titles—Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times), and Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo (Southern Economic Journal)—shows independent-minded journalists and the development of interpersonal networks against the background of a soaring literate population in Saigon. By 1922, a period that saw a new

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generation of journalists come to the fore, at least one newspaper—Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo —was able to breach the process of politicization of the quốc ngữ press, thereby expanding Saigon’s public sphere and its viability.

Matters of Agriculture (Nông Cổ Mín Đàm) Of all the quốc ngữ newspapers in circulation in Saigon during the period, Matters of Agriculture (Nông Cổ Mín Đàm) was the oldest. Founded in 1901 by a liberal Frenchman of Corsican origin, François Canavaggio,95 the paper had as its first editor in chief the famous capitalist Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu. From 1906 to 1907, during his activist period, the paper took a daring anticolonial line.96 Government control remained surprisingly loose up until Chiêu’s trial, after which the authorities realized Matters of Agriculture was not properly registered and that its pages had not been systematically screened.97 It was under Chiêu’s directorship that two of the most popular journalists of the early 1920s, Nguyễn Chánh Sắt and Lương Khắc Ninh, made their debuts. After Chiêu’s withdrawal, they continued to run the paper but as a cautiously apolitical source of local information. In 1913 an internal event at Matters of Agriculture led to the creation of two distinct circles of journalists in the quốc ngữ press: Canavaggio, the legal owner, left for France and rented the paper to his compatriot Lucien Héloury, director of the French title L’Opinion. Héloury immediately fired the old editing team and brought in the interpreter Nguyễn Kim Đính to establish a new board. Đính appointed the popular novelist Lê Hoằng Mưu as the paper’s editor in chief. Once a telegrapher dismissed from the postal services on charges of fraud, at thirty-five years of age, Mưu was a popular quốc ngữ novelist, especially after the success of Moon Fling on the Western River (Hà hương Phong nguyệt) in 1915, said to be the first erotic story published in quốc ngữ. With Mưu, Matters of Agriculture rapidly expanded its circulation to the point of angering Canavaggio’s old protégé, Nguyễn Chánh Sắt.98 On his return in 1916, the Frenchman withdrew the paper from Héloury’s control and reinstated Sắt. The row between Canavaggio and Héloury thereafter produced two distinct circles with different journalism styles: Nguyễn Kim Đính and Lê Hoằng Mưu leaned toward a lighter and more entertaining style than Nguyễn Chánh Sắt’s moralizing emphasis on modernization. This conflict marked the beginning of the influential role Nguyễn Kim Đính was to play in journalism.

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During the six years under Sắt’s directorship (1916–1922), Matters of Agriculture positioned itself as a serious newspaper, with features on economic and agricultural issues designed to appeal to educated landowners. The paper had a wider editorial agenda, with articles on sociocultural subjects and the need for modernization of Vietnamese society. Domestic current affairs and reflections on international issues also featured regularly. This diversity of interests reflected those of the ubiquitous editor in chief. A wellversed translator of Chinese literature and journalist since 1901, Sắt was a prolific writer in quốc ngữ.99 He combined the activities of a journalist with those of an interpreter, playwright, and translator of Chinese novels. Throughout his life, he remained one of the leading literary figures in the south.100 During the anti-Chinese boycott in Saigon’s Chinatown in 1919, Sắt signed an article, published on July 27, urging his compatriots to follow the example of the Chinese boycott of Japanese products. Later, although La Tribune Indigène took the lead in the boycott , Matters of Agriculture remained at the forefront. A succession of articles urged the Vietnamese population to “mobilize” (động viên). Sắt was interested in the cause of economic modernization, something he learned from his close association with Gilbert Chiêu. In September 1919 Sắt signed a petition—along with his boss, Canavaggio—that condemned government censorship of the quốc ngữ press during the antiChinese boycott.101 It was as far as Sắt was prepared to go; perhaps remembering the fate of Gilbert Chiêu or respectful of the authorities, the southern journalist-writer preferred to keep a low profile.102 In April 1922 Canavaggio died, and the ownership of Matters of Agriculture passed to his Vietnamese widow, turning the paper into a de facto Vietnamese-owned sheet.103 Sắt was replaced by Lê Thành Tương, who in turn chose a young teacher and occasional contributor on good terms with his predecessor, Cao Hãi Để, to direct the paper’s editorial content. Tương had official authority to publish Matters of Agriculture three times a week, making it a proper, regular newspaper better able to affect the political scene.104 The paper’s new editorial policy appeared more clearly than it had under Nguyễn Chánh Sắt’s directorship, though the literary quality of its contributions declined. Intellectual development through education and the ability of “compatriots” (đồng bào) to engage in commerce was highlighted, as were journalists’ social duties and the role each individual Vietnamese should play in promoting modernization. The issue of cultural renewal through the younger generation was one of the new team’s favorite subjects.105 During the Colonial Council election in October 1922, Matters of Agriculture openly

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supported Nguyễn Phan Long’s candidacy, siding with the new opposition to the colonial authorities.106 In early 1923, with the newspaper in financial difficulties, Để was replaced by the seventeen-year-old Lâm Hiệp Châu, who a year earlier had been expelled from Gia Định Normal School after leading a strike there and who had contributed his first articles to the newspaper just a few months before his new appointment.107 Until its closure by the authorities in October 1924 as a result of its involvement in the anti-Saigon port monopoly scandal, Matters of Agriculture had become increasingly active in its opposition to government policy. Châu acquired a reputation with the Sûreté as a subversive element. In correspondence addressed to the governor of Cochinchina, Paul Arnoux, the head of the Sûreté, wrote the following: Matters of Agriculture, since the death of its owner Canavaggio, has passed into the hands of his Vietnamese heirs, all lacking the qualifications to run it properly. They had leased it to Lê Thành Tương, whose poor economic situation made him easy prey for ill-intentioned individuals calling themselves journalists. It is they who, under Mrs. Canavaggio’s name, are doing all they can to transform the newspaper into a political journal. They have ignored regular warnings from the authorities.108

The evolution of Matters of Agriculture from 1916 on featured the progressive replacement of an old team of journalists led by Nguyễn Chánh Sắt by a younger, politically more assertive group centered around Cao Hãi Để and Lâm Hiệp Châu. The paper gained in vigor despite being forced to remain elusive in its political expression, a feature shared by most quốc ngữ newspapers at the time. The targeted audience also changed. Judging by the choice of subjects covered and its advertisements, the paper originally sought a public of wealthy bourgeois landowners who lived in Saigon and other southern cities. With the new editorial team, the targeted public diversified: it was younger, more middle class, more urban, and most likely residing in Saigon.

Public Opinion (Công Luận Báo) Public Opinion was launched in August 1916 by Lucien Héloury, director of the French paper of the same name. He had obtained authorization from the government to launch his quốc ngữ newspaper as compensation for the

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termination of his lease of Canavaggio’s Matters of Agriculture. Public Opinion soon became one of the greatest successes in the early history of the Vietnamese press; moreover, the paper’s editorial and political vicissitudes led to the creation of two other newspapers, Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) and the Economic Journal of the South (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo). After his short experience with Matters of Agriculture in 1913, Nguyễn Kim Đính was charged by his mentor, Héloury, to run Public Opinion. Đính brought on board another talented popular writer, Hồ Văn Trung, who became the paper’s “secret” editor in chief until May 1923.109 A trained interpreter and civil servant, he was best known as Hồ Biểu Chánh, the name under which he wrote novels, considered among the best in southern Vietnam.110 While contributing to quốc ngữ papers, Trung continued to serve as personal interpreter and adviser to the governor of Cochinchina. “The governor’s mandarin,” as he was once described by Sûreté chief Arnoux, Trung was investigated for his early involvement under Sarraut; his skill in writing articles that always just escaped censorship was noted.111 Throughout the decade and beyond, he continued his literary and journalistic activity. He was also an active member of the SEMC (Mutual Society for the Encouragement of Education in Cochinchina), where he promoted the use of Vietnamese instead of French in meetings. Trung cultivated a nonconfrontational southern form of cultural patriotism characteristic of his generation. Like his colleague Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, Trung’s political pragmatism would not compromise his support for Vietnamese language and culture. It was natural that he would only write in the quốc ngữ press. Trung’s journalistic style contrasted with that of another contributor to Public Opinion, the young Mỹ Tho Collège graduate Cao Văn Chánh, who joined the team in 1920 at the age of seventeen. This first job represented the start of an exceptional career in journalism. Cao Chánh, as he was better known, was soon noted for his antigovernment “impertinence” and the relatively unrestrained political style of his articles. Initially known for its serialized novels and poems, which lent themselves to political interpretation, Public Opinion would become increasingly politically daring. A big-format paper, originally with four pages, it came out three times a week. In 1921 it ran seventeen hundred copies per issue, making it one of the most popular quốc ngữ newspapers. Public Opinion did not at first have a clear political agenda—like Matters of Agriculture, it established itself as a source of enlightenment. In 1919, however, the paper’s editors took a firm stance in favor of the anti-Chinese economic boycott. Politically bold

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articles began to appear more often in the following years. In 1921 Cao Văn Chánh wrote a series of provocative articles under the title “Việt Nam Xã Hội” (Vietnamese Society), in which he castigated the Vietnamese for their conformist living and thinking habits. The series attracted lively correspondence from readers. The fear of censorship and the relative moderation of Chánh’s superiors, however, prevented the young journalist from being too explicit. Trung’s seemingly apolitical style was more in line with the commercial strategy followed by Đính and Héloury. Eager to open his own paper, Đính did not wish to be seen as subversive by the authorities. In May 1923, with Héloury’s personal backing, he succeeded in having Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) approved for publication. Most of Public Opinion’s team, including Trung, followed him to the new venture. Chánh had already left in January to run the Southern Economic Journal (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo). After Đính’s departure, Héloury asked Hùynh Văn Chính, a twenty-fiveyear-old from the southern town of Bạc Liêu, to establish Public Opinion’s new editing team. Chính had been a student at Chasseloup-Laubat College before studying medicine at the Indochinese University in Hanoi. He was expelled for leading a student strike in 1919. After a short time back in his hometown, where he worked as secretary to the local administration, he moved to Saigon to begin a journalism career. Under the provocative pen name Tự Do (Freedom), Chính collaborated with La Tribune Indigène and other Frenchlanguage newspapers.112 Immediately upon being asked to form a new editorial staff at Public Opinion, Tự Do chose as editor in chief the erudite former activist Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh. Calling itself “the journal of ardent youth,” the paper took an overtly political line against the new governor of Cochinchina, Maurice Cognacq. This state of affairs did not last long. In November 1923 Héloury sold the paper to the pro-government civil servant Jean-Gabriel Hérisson. Proceeding from the internal political vicissitudes at Public Opinion, two distinct journalistic adventures, Indochina Times and the Southern Economic Journal, had emerged. In its own way, each contributed to the rise of the Vietnamese-language press as an instrument of political contestation.

Southern Economic Journal (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo) In November 1923 Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, who was working for Public Opinion, bought an existing newspaper, the Southern Economic Journal (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế

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Báo). He wanted to launch a campaign against the colonial government over the Saigon port monopoly scandal.113 The paper became a vehemently anticolonial, quốc ngữ publication and remained so until it was closed down by the authorities four months later. This position was opened by Vĩnh’s predecessor and friend, Cao Văn Chánh, who had also left Public Opinion. The new political direction of the Southern Economic Journal was the result of serious disagreements within Public Opinion’s team over the line to take against Cognacq. The Southern Economic Journal had a more modern presentation than that of the old Matters of Agriculture and avoided serious political controversy. Founded by Rose Quaintenne, a Catholic who was running the French paper Le Réveil Saïgonnais, the new paper debuted on October 7, 1920. At first a smallformat weekly magazine, its strategy was to tap the increasing interest among the Vietnamese public in economic issues, particularly after the 1919 anti-Chinese boycott. Articles on the economies of Asia and Europe, banking, and the trade in rice and rubber appeared alongside current affairs and serialized novels. Despite the personal, independent orientation of the first chief editor, Nguyễn Thành Út, the paper maintained a neutral and apolitical tone. Toward the end of 1921, however, it became politically assertive. Articles criticizing Chinese economic monopolies appeared regularly. Editorials urged the government to take measures in favor of Vietnamese, particularly in education and commerce. Chánh and Vĩnh began to contribute as well.114 In January 1923 the newspaper’s editorship fell to Cao Văn Chánh.115 For the first time the twenty-year-old was solely in charge of the editorial policy. He steered the Southern Economic Journal toward openly embracing a political role, and it ceased simply being a specialized periodical. Its readership, still limited to eight hundred copies per issue, was three hundred higher than a year before. On April 18 it appeared in a large format. A new slogan that sounded like a political manifesto appeared below the title: “Journal of Liberation from Economic Slavery and Diff usion of Western Ideals” (Cơ quan giải thóat ách kinh tế và truyền bá lý tường thái tây). Soon after Cao Văn Chánh’s editorial takeover, the Southern Economic Journal ran a regular women’s section titled “Women’s Forum” (Phụ nữ diễn đàn). In July 1923 this section featured articles titled “The Female Elite in France and in Vietnam.”116 This was one of Chánh’s first initiatives in support of women—one of his favorite political leitmotivs. He also innovated by publishing numerous editorials devoted to politics in Asia. Japan, the only

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Asian country able to engage with Western powers on equal terms, drew most of his attention. The newspaper opened its columns to advertising from businesses belonging to politically committed individuals, such as Khành Ký, who ran a photography shop, or Trường Văn Bền, who produced oil products.117 A former contributor to Public Opinion, Cao Văn Chánh wrote articles attacking its director, Hérisson, and his conservative views.118 Tensions between the two newspapers grew bitter during the Saigon port monopoly affair, when Vĩnh eventually quit Public Opinion. In November 1923 Cao Văn Chánh launched another campaign, this time against the former editor of Matters of Agriculture, Lường Khắc Ninh, a favorite of Governor Cognacq, who had accepted generous government subsidies to take a theater troupe to the 1922 National Colonial Exhibition in Marseille. Under Chánh’s editorship, the Southern Economic Journal had transformed into an openly polemical sheet that devoted ink to feminism, international politics, government censorship, and direct personal attacks on public figures.

Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) On April 4, 1923, Nguyễn Kim Đính received authorization to launch Indochina Times. The application process officially went through the Superior Council of Indochina, although the authorization was given on a personal basis after the local governor and the head of the Sûreté had given their support. Despite tacit requirements that only French citizens could create and run newspapers, Đính was for a long time the first “native French subject” formally granted ownership of a quốc ngữ newspaper.119 Born into a modest family from the southern province of Gia Định, he moved to Saigon, where he worked as a minor civil service clerk at public works. In 1913 he entered the world of journalism as a manager and soon became an owner. His experiences at Matters of Agriculture, Public Opinion, and later French-language papers like L’Écho Annamite and La Tribune Indochinoise—where he was director—made him one of the most influential, behind-the-scenes figures in the 1920s’ Vietnamese press scene. A businessman more than a journalist, Đính worked with his wife, Thanh Thị Mâu, who owned a profitable publishing business.120 Published by Mâu’s printing house, Indochina Times first ran three thousand copies per issue; the large-format, four-page paper came out three times a week.

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The first period in the paper’s history, which began in May 1923, featured the same editing team that had worked at Public Opinion.121 Under the nominal directorship of Hồ Văn Hiền, Hồ Văn Trung directed the editorial line. Even Nguyễn Chánh Sắt appeared as an occasional contributor. The paper innovated by relying on a wide network of local “correspondents” in the provinces, who, together with a number of women journalists who appeared only under their pen names, supplied much of the newspaper’s content at a lower cost than regular columnists. With Đính in managerial control and Trung in editorial, the Indochina Times became a well-tooled commercial operation that, even in this early period of the press, demonstrated the extent to which business and political interests could converge. Two main editorials covered the front page, and installments of one or two novels were featured on the second and third pages. Poetry was prominent. The paper published regular sections such as a women’s editorial column and an open forum. As with other Vietnamese-language papers except the Southern Economic Journal, coverage of international and national current events was sparse. Like other quốc ngữ newspapers, a moralizing tone often charged with self-criticism prevailed. Editorials by Hồ Văn Hiền, Lê Sum, and Hồ Văn Trung developed themes such as “patience,” “critical spirit,” “modesty,” “fear,” and “customs.” Rooted in the belief in self-improvement and self-teaching, which is traditional in Confucian thinking, this tendency was very powerful among southern writers of that time. Articles addressed sociocultural issues, some with political significance: the cultural “unity” (sự thổng nhất) of the three kỳ (the three sections of Vietnam artificially divided by the French), the local notables’ corrupt behavior toward the common people, agricultural development, and anti-Chinese feelings. Antigovernment sentiment sometimes showed through, although the nationalist tone remained limited to general terms. Sûreté documents reveal that, during periods of social crisis, Nguyễn Kim Đính played a perilous double game.122 These maneuvers, nonetheless, enabled the Indochina Times to avoid censorship.123 Among other quốc ngữ organs, the Indochina Times established itself as a good-quality newspaper. This introduction to four Vietnamese-language newspapers from the early 1920s reveals what can be called a Saigon-based “quốc ngữ newspaper village.” Behind the transactions involving newspaper ownership, the movement of journalists among these newspapers and the seemingly chaotic

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shifts in editorial policy, fundamental changes occurred—new ideas and people came to the public’s attention, and a growing awareness of the political importance of the press developed among contemporaries. From this early period of Vietnamese political journalism, individuals played important roles as mediators between the native public and the authorities. Under Nguyễn Kim Đính’s influence, an editorial style began in 1913 at Matters of Agriculture and continued both at Public Opinion and finally at his own newspaper, Indochina Times. Đính was skilful at ensuring that his entire team would follow his different strategic moves. He also had an aptitude for finding talented writers who appealed to different sectors of the public. Cao Văn Chánh addressed young readers, promoting political consciousness, while Hồ Văn Trung spoke to more mature readers, who were concerned with the integrity of Vietnamese culture and the purity of its “spirit” (tinh tầnh). Trung also laid the editorial foundation for Đính’s early journalism ventures. Another important figure in this period was Nguyễn Chánh Sắt. Although he did not have Đính’s entrepreneurial skill, he nurtured a number of young authors, such as Cao Hãi Để and Lâm Hiệp Châu.124 Until 1923, editors of the generation born between 1869 and 1885, like Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, Lê Hoằng Mưu, and Hồ Văn Trung, exerted considerable influence on the evolution of quốc ngữ journalism. Often former interpreters or government clerks with roots in the rural south, they could write both novels and short articles that appealed to their contemporaries. For them, considerations of intellectual and moral self-improvement counted more than actual influence on contemporary society, and, in their aversion to direct confrontation, censorship constituted the boundary behind which they could take refuge. The emphasis was on moral and cultural education of the people, along with economic improvements, as prerequisites to true political and social progress. This journalistic tradition was to endure throughout the 1920s and beyond in “apolitical” newspapers such as Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn) and The Impartial (Trung Lập Báo). Around 1922, a change toward a clearer orientation of editorial content began to take place. The ambiguous approach taken by Hồ Văn Trung, Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, and Nguyễn Kim Đính toward the colonial authorities had paved the way for a new generation of intellectuals with clearer ideas of what quốc ngữ papers could achieve politically. Cao Văn Chánh, Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, Cao Hãi Để, and Lâm Hiệp Châu, all born between 1893 and 1906, made their name by adopting a more daring political stance; at the same time, in keeping with Vietnamese social tradition, they avoided direct conflict with their

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elders. They waited for the time when they were given a chance to take full responsibility for the editorial policy of a newspaper, as in Để’s case with Matters of Agriculture. The four men had been initiated into political journalism by members of the earlier generation. The often-stated assertions by historians that French manipulations and disruptions, especially censorship, were mainly responsible for confining the Vietnamese quốc ngữ press to the role of a harmless literary genre seems, at least from 1920 on, in need of nuance.125 Compared to its Frenchlanguage counterpart, quốc ngữ journalism suffered tremendous restrictions as it was condemned to make use of allusive and indirect modes of communication. However, the moralizing and literary style that characterized it, even in articles written by members of the younger generation, was not devoid of political significance. This style also corresponded to a specific framework of literary and emotional references of loss and cultural alienation—due to colonization—combined with a Confucian inclination toward the encouragement of individual moral “self-strengthening” (tự lực).126 This southern style of journalism, in fact, represented a stage in the activists’ discovery of how to conduct rational public opposition. The censors’ inability to prevent rhetorical techniques devised by skilful writers like Hồ Văn Trung, a phenomenon often mentioned in Sûreté reports, shows that quốc ngữ newspapers were, in the long run, able to be an effective means of political expression. On occasions when clear political choices could be expressed, such as during the anti-Chinese boycott or local elections or on the question of press censorship, the papers positioned themselves unambiguously. It should also be noted that the development of these early quốc ngữ newspapers in Saigon was to a large extent intertwined with French political and economic activities and the development of the local French press, as demonstrated by the important role played by a number of colons who ran publishing businesses. Except for National Forum (Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn), and Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo), these quốc ngữ papers were founded by Frenchmen. Their journalism experience made them particularly influential among the young Vietnamese intellectuals who worked with them. The founder and director of Matters of Agriculture, Canavaggio, was a Freemason. His “Vietnamophilia” was obvious during the anti-Chinese boycott, when he contributed to the movement by writing a few articles and giving his Vietnamese editorial colleagues a free hand, to the annoyance of the Sûreté.127 Another influential person on whom little information, unfortunately, is

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available is Rose Quaintenne. A Catholic, probably supported by the Society of Overseas Missions (Socíété des Missions Étrangères), Quaintenne was the founder of the Southern Economic Journal and other papers. She was politically conservative. Journalistically, however, she innovated by choosing to launch papers that targeted specific segments of the emerging Vietnamese public opinion: women [Light of Vietnam (Đèn Nhà Nam)], middle-class families [Southern Vietnamese Family (Nam Việt Tế Gia)], and the rising class of urban entrepreneurs (Economic Journal of the South). Though she once wrote an article depicting Sarraut’s policy toward the Vietnamese as “demagogic,”128 Quaintenne took advantage of the relaxation in running quốc ngữ newspapers to invest massively in this activity. The interest in quốc ngữ newspapers shown by two directors of important French papers, Henry Blaquière and Lucien Héloury, suggests that they, too, responded positively to the new economic and political environment. A teacher from Montpellier who worked at the Teachers’ College in Gia Định, Blaquière quickly learned journalism and became director of Le Courrier Saïgonnais, a paper founded in 1899 by the indigènophiles and Freemasons Georges Garros and Alfred Schreiner. Blaquière’s liberal leaning was matched by a good sense of economic opportunity. In 1918, with Governor General Sarraut’s support, he approached Sương Nguyệt Ấnh, daughter of the poet and national symbol of anticolonialism Nguyễn Đình Chiểu, to serve as editor of Women’s Bell (Nữ Giói Chung). Blaquière sought the emerging audience of urbanized women and educated men, knowing that Ấnh’s family history of anticolonialism would attract readers.129 Like Garros and Canavaggio, Blaquière was a member of the local Masonic lodge Awakening of the Orient (Réveil de l’Orient) and the para-Masonic organization League of the Republic, which indicated strong anticlerical and republican assimilationist inclinations.130 Nevertheless, his strategy in favor of the Vietnamese press was probably more economically than politically driven. The more conservative Lucien Héloury was the director of L’Opinion, a competitor of Blaquière’s Le Courrier Saïgonnais.131 In 1916 Héloury’s launch of the quốc ngữ paper Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion) corresponded to a wellconsidered commercial strategy to fill a gap in literary entertainment, hence his hiring of popular novel writers like Lê Hoằng Mưu and Hồ Văn Trung. Five years later, despite his politics, Héloury did not object to the hiring of politically opinionated contributors like Cao Văn Chánh and Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh. It was only when Public Opinion became too overtly antigovernment and Héloury feared his publishing business would suffer in the hands of the

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authorities that he chose to sell it to one of Governor Cognacq’s close friends, Hérisson. To a certain point at least, these French entrepreneur-journalists were ready to back their Vietnamese colleagues, while they allowed them freedom to develop their own editorial and stylistic agendas. Whether out of indigenophilia or economic opportunism, these men realized that the growing Vietnamese reading public called for a vigorous quốc ngữ press. French and Vietnamese publishers ran their newspapers with combined economic and political interests. This approach had clear consequences for the political character of the Vietnamese-language newspapers. The self-taught, amateurish journalism that targeted a new population of readers that was emerging in Saigon was similar to the burgeoning press and the numerous canards that had developed in the last two decades of the nineteenth century in France. The crystallization of the role and duty of the French journaliste had preceded by only one or two decades its Vietnamese counterpart, the nhà báo.132 French and Vietnamese entrepreneur-journalists understood that promoting an antigovernment stance could be economically profitable. In the context of early 1920s’ colonial Saigon, the distinction between “personal political interests” and “serious” matters affecting colonial native policy (affaires Indigènes) was often blurred. The press contributed to shaping a new mental landscape accessible to hundreds of Vietnamese, at least in Saigon and its surroundings. By reaching out to the native public, the papers helped frame in rationally articulated, argumentative terms the contradictions inherent in the conditions experienced in the colonial city.

chapter 4

Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926)

For a Vietnamese newspaper to be sold easily in Cochinchina, it must now appear independent and as antigovernment as possible. Sûreté Report of 1925–1926

S

aigon was a site of unprecedented economic prosperity during the period 1923–1926. New settlers from all over Vietnam and overseas poured into the city, boosting its population at a rate of 6 percent annually (from 232,100 in 1918 to 324,000 in 1931). Less noticeable but nonetheless crucial for the development of the Vietnamese political press was the growing number of young Vietnamese freshly graduated from Franco-Vietnamese schools and colleges in the country and in France. Increasing numbers of them were entering journalism with a new kind of political stance and an aggressive style. They were at odds with the previous generation and well aware of major changes taking place in the world. They possessed a yet-unseen determination to directly challenge the colonial regime. As events unfolded during this period, they would be instrumental in forging an open confrontation between a radicalized Vietnamese opposition and the colonial regime. By mobilizing the public through the peaceful and persuasive power of the press, Saigon-based journalists working in both French and Vietnamese effectively changed the terms of Vietnamese society’s relationship with the colonial government.1 This period of economic growth saw a soaring newspaper audience. Marketing strategies and propaganda techniques became more sophisticated.

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The fast growth in the literacy rate, particularly in quốc ngữ and notably among women, contributed to the expansion of readership. In December 1924 seven quốc ngữ newspapers printed an average of three thousand copies per issue each. The total amounted to twenty thousand copies. Indochina Times estimated that at least 1 percent of Cochinchina’s three million people were reading newspapers. If that is accurate, at least 10 percent of the Saigon-Cholon urban population was affected.2 The Vietnamese and French opposition press would significantly mobilize this readership to political action. After the Sarraut wartime experiment, the colonial administration in Cochinchina remained conservative in its approach to the Vietnamese press. Journalists greeted the appointment of Maurice Cognacq as the new governor of Cochinchina in March 1922 with ambivalence. He was known for his brutal handling of a student strike at Chasseloup-Laubat College when he was director general of public instruction for Indochina.3 After Governor General Maurice Long’s sudden death in April 1923 and his replacement by the more conservative Martial Merlin, Governor Cognacq strengthened his position and established himself as a local potentate. A créole from the French Caribbean territory of Guadeloupe, he began his career in the Far East as a military doctor before joining the colonial administration in Hanoi. He climbed the career ladder by nurturing close relations with conservative elements of the local French establishment. He could rely on the active support of the député of Cochinchina, Ernest Outrey. He also was on excellent terms with the ultraconservative and populist publisher of L’Impartial, de la Chevrotière, a métis from Réunion Island. Cognacq’s éminence grise was the former résident of Thái Nguyên in Tonkin, André Darles, who had been dismissed for his brutal handling of a prison uprising five years earlier.4 From the time of his appointment until his departure in April 1926, Cognacq was to exert considerable influence over the southern colony, engaging in nepotism and questionable deals and illegally harassing public opponents. Such corrupt rule ultimately led to a determined Vietnamese opposition to him and the political authority he represented. The Vietnamese press responded to Cognacq’s despotism by exposing his administration’s scandals, the most devastating of which was the “Saigon port monopoly affair.” The controversy struck at the very heart of southern Vietnam’s social life—Saigon’s trading port, the link between the Cochinchinese hinterland and the world. In its virulence and passion, the dispute superseded in significance the 1919 anti-Chinese boycott and all prior

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confrontations between the colonial administration and the Vietnamese press. More than that, the scandal clearly showed the disparate interests of the native population and the French colonial regime. During its coverage of the unfolding events, the Vietnamese press was transformed from an instrument of independent expression into that of a radical political force of contestation. Vietnamese political activists and the press saw the Saigon port affair as the culmination of unbridled corruption and viewed Cognacq as the incarnation of all that was detrimental and alienating in French rule.5 The first journalistic breakthrough that led to an independent political Vietnamese voice came with the French-language newspaper The Broken Bell (La Cloche Fêlée) under the editorship of Nguyễn An Ninh. The second significant break came with Trần Huy Liệu’s leadership of Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo). He would pave the way for the quốc ngữ press’s full editorial independence from government interference.

The Saigon Port Monopoly Affair In June 1923 an article appeared in La Voix Annamite about a plan by the colonial authorities to lease all businesses associated with the commercial port of Saigon-Cholon to a consortium of French financial interests for fifteen years. The project was known as the “Candelier project,” named after the engineer of public works, who headed the consortium.6 The port of Saigon covered thirty-seven kilometers of the Saigon River banks, as well as the two canals that linked the river to the industrial center of Cholon. The port was comanaged by the colonial government, the Saigon municipality, and the chamber of commerce, with French and Vietnamese representatives sitting on a mixed Conseil du Port. The deal would have given the private consortium a strategic monopoly on commercial freight moving in and out of Cochinchina. As La Tribune Indigène explained, control over the port was no small matter: “Through this single gateway pass our rice and all our agricultural production. From a purely economic point of view, whoever controls the port is the master of all Cochinchina.”7 The fact that it was mainly Chinese businesses that were to suffer from the Candelier project was rarely mentioned by Vietnamese opposition newspapers. In contrast to the 1919 anti-Chinese boycott rhetoric, Chinese commercial interests were identified with Vietnamese ones as “native” and

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threatened by the collusion of rapacious French financiers and the colonial government.8 The Vietnamese press presented the Candelier project as a threat to vital national interests, interests that were clearly dissociated from those of the colonial state. Lasting almost a year, the affair attracted an unprecedented number of Vietnamese who were new to political action. The news coverage reached a new zenith when the scandal moved to the Colonial Council, where the project was formally presented for discussion in November. Nguyễn Phan Long, the Constitutionalist vice president of the assembly and the publisher of the former L’Écho Annamite, gave a speech on November 28, 1923, laying out the political implications of the agreement: “The legal monopoly, which the Candelier group presumes to impose on us [the Vietnamese], given the context of political domination we find ourselves in, would result in our economic serfdom.” Unusual for someone known for his moderation, Long added in dramatic, accusatory terms, “I ask you to vote against this plan, which is calculated to subdue our race; we must instead keep open all avenues for the future.”9 The days preceding the vote saw fierce conflict in the press between supporters of the project—nicknamed monopolars or Candelieristes by their adversaries—and those opposing it—the antimonopolars. After the Colonial Council’s predictable vote in favor of the project by a majority of fourteen to seven on December 1, the vehemence of the antimonopoly group reached new heights. French liberals, Chinese business interests, and Vietnamese intellectuals joined forces against the government. The French opposition press supported them, changing the controversy from a French-Vietnamese issue to a FrancoFrench one between Cognacq’s cronies and his adversaries. The French opposition press comprised Paul Monin’s La Vérité, Edgar Ganofsky’s La Voix libre, the Radical Party voice Saigon Républicain, and the Hanoi-based L’Argus Indochinois. The governor and his circle were defended by hard-line conservative papers such as de la Chevrotière’s L’Impartial, its uncensored quốc ngữ version, Trung Lập Báo, and Camille Devilars’s Le Courrier Saïgonnais. Apart from the French-language Le Progrès Annamite, the subsidized newspaper Lục Tỉnh Tân Vân (Six Provinces News), and Trung Lập Báo, few Vietnamese papers supported the project. Others, like Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), and Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo (Southern Economic Journal), stood resolutely against. The Colonial Council debate revealed a continuing political division between a small group of Vietnamese who supported the project and the

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large majority, who opposed it. The former consisted primarily of economically established—and government-dependent—men like colonial councilor Diệp Văn Cương and publisher Nguyễn Văn Của, who had already supported Outrey’s candidacy in the 1919 député elections.10 These men counted on Governor Cognacq’s patronage, although Lê Quang Trình and Võ Văn Thơm owed their seats in the colonial assembly to the support of the Constitutionalists. The small group of Vietnamese monopolars found a leader in Lê Quang Trình, the first French-trained Vietnamese medical doctor in the country. With his government-subsidized newspaper, Le Progrès Annamite, which he launched in March 1924, Trình became the voice of the pro-government faction among Saigon’s journalists.11 The Constitutionalists and their liberal French allies countered with new mobilizing practices, such as the distribution of printed pamphlets and public meetings.12 Using La Tribune Indigène, Constitutionalists led the native antimonopoly opposition. Among early antimonopolars were highly respected members of the urban southern elite, who had hitherto claimed to be apolitical, such as the doctors Nguyễn Văn Thinh and Trần Văn Đôn, the engineer Lưu Văn Lang, and the đốc phủ sứ (prefect) Nguyễn Đinh Trị. They organized boycotts, such as the one against the monopolar Trình’s private clinic.13 There were even bolder initiatives beyond the Tribunists’ control. Anonymous tracts were circulated among Vietnamese colonial civil servants, some of which even reached the governor’s office, according to Sûreté reports. Of more concern for the authorities were threats and actions such as that of a group of individuals who staged a fake funeral with the names of the proCandelier Vietnamese colonial councilors inscribed on the coffin. Other spontaneous actions included posters in Vietnamese placarded on the city’s streets or rumors spread in the provinces that the Saigon port monopoly was a prelude to a takeover of the rice harvests. These initiatives demonstrated the extent to which a number of Vietnamese were fast politicized.14 The affair also marked the debut of a new social profile in the city, with potentially subversive political influence—young graduates of French high schools and universities, the retours de France.15 Two notable examples of this group were Nguyễn An Ninh and Phạm Quang Quôi. The former launched a newspaper called The Broken Bell (La Cloche Fêlée). The latter worked as a correspondent for the Paris-based, anticolonial, and communist-leaning newspaper Le Paria. Other young journalists became celebrities as a result of their activism during the port affair, such as the métis Dejean de la Bâtie, Nguyễn

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Háo Vĩnh, Lâm Hiệp Châu, Cao Văn Chánh, and Cao Hãi Để. Inspired by their example, a number of urban youths, some still in school, bought their papers and participated in meetings to oppose the Candelier project.16 The press proved once again to be the most powerful instrument of antigovernmental politicization. The colonial authorities in Saigon realized to the full the political threat newspapers could represent, particularly those under Vietnamese control. The usual caution of French civil servants with respect to granting free expression to the natives was suddenly heightened by the fact that high-ranking colonial officials, including Governor Cognacq himself, were being exposed for their involvement in illicit deals. Personal attacks against Cognacq were launched in the most virulent terms by French papers with anarchist undertones. In the pure style of entre-deux-guerres political journalism, newspapers depicted Cognacq as the symbol of all that was “rotten” ( pourri) in the colonial and republican government. What was particularly remarkable about the Saigon port affair was the unprecedented assertion of the Vietnamese public’s political power. This would be most keenly felt with the editorial direction of Public Opinion, the most popular quốc ngữ newspaper of its time. As mentioned earlier, in November 1923, the paper’s owner, Lucien Héloury, secretly supporting Cognacq, sold the paper to the civil servant and pro-government Hérisson. Perhaps because of a financial deal or blackmail, Héloury had timidly opposed the editorial team’s antimonopoly line. The editor in chief, Hùynh Văn Chính, had broken the story five months earlier in La Voix Annamite. At first Hérisson tried to keep the paper’s popular editorial team from leaving by urging them not to discuss the subject. As the affair soured, however, Chính and his collaborator, Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, decided to quit. Before they did, Chính slipped in an article that ridiculed the monopolar colonial councilor Tạ Quang Vinh.17 Meanwhile, encouraged by the governor’s cabinet and aided by pro-government journalists Nguyễn Văn Của and Lê Hoằng Mưu, Hérisson redirected Public Opinion’s editorial policy in favor of the monopoly. The result of this reorientation was an immediate drop in sales after calls for a boycott from antimonopoly newspapers.18 The few papers that did publish pro-monopoly articles saw their circulation figures decrease accordingly. Eventually, Hérisson was forced to sell the paper to a more liberal Frenchman, nicknamed Colonel Sée, who returned the editorship to Hùynh Văn Chính. With the latter again in control, the paper resumed its campaign against Cognacq and the port monopoly, immediately regaining its past

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popularity.19 By throwing its weight behind certain newspapers, the Vietnamese public demonstrated its importance as an agent in Saigon’s emerging public sphere. The Saigon port affair brought to the fore a new kind of political journalism, best exemplified by the radical Southern Economic Journal (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo) and La Cloche Fêlée. At the end of 1923, Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh left Public Opinion over his disagreement with Hérisson on the port monopoly question. Determined to continue the struggle against the government, Vĩnh acquired the Southern Economic Journal in November.20 Also known as Hồ Tất Liệt, he was a former underground activist turned publicist. He was a cultural patriot and one of the first Vietnamese to integrate an international approach into his anticolonial rhetoric. As a boy, Vĩnh had studied in Japan through Phan Bội Châu’s Eastern study program (Đông du học) before being sent to Hong Kong and then to London, where he graduated with a degree in linguistics. His love for English was matched by his defense of the Vietnamese language against too many “foreign” (in other words, Chinese) influences. At only thirty years of age he had participated in the underground resistance movement led by Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu and Phan Bội Châu. Arrested in Hong Kong in 1913, after having been sentenced to life imprisonment in absentia by Hanoi’s criminal court for “conspiracy with the enemy,” Vĩnh was placed under the moral and financial protection of Indochina Sûreté chief Louis Marty, with the backing of Governor General Sarraut.21 In exchange for renouncing political action, the young man was given a chance to start his life anew and sent to Saigon, where he devoted himself to import-export commercial activities and literary journalism.22 Under Vĩnh’s guidance, the Southern Economic Journal led an unrelenting campaign against the port monopoly affair, which progressively turned into an all-out national political program. The topics were highly intellectual yet politically subversive. In one of the newspaper’s first issues, Vĩnh championed the need to promote a nationalist spirit by emphasizing research in history and literature. He authored a series of articles titled “Vietnamese Literary and Historical Research” (Khảo cứu văn chương và lịch sữ Việt nam), in which he urged his compatriots to develop their intellectual interests by learning about Vietnam’s own past with a Vietnamese eye, without referring to China. Vĩnh was eager to share his understanding of the international political situation. In a section titled “International News Review” (Vạn quốc tân văn), he translated articles about world affairs from English-language newspapers to which he personally subscribed. Except for

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the Saigon port incident, however, he preferred not to be overtly critical of the French. He instead asserted his views through two young contributors, Bửu Đình and Trần Huy Liệu, who would later be among the most determined anticolonial activists of the period.23 Because of its staunch antiport monopoly stance, the Southern Economic Journal suffered regular censorship. The newspaper was suspended from January 17 to February 14, 1924. The final issue came out on February 21, with a partially censored article signed by the newly arrived northern journalist Trần Huy Liệu. The colonial authorities shut down the paper on the grounds that it exceeded its role as a periodical specializing in economic matters.24 The paper was punished not only for concentrating on the port scandal but also for developing a new style of political journalism that included discussions of culture, history, and a nationalist agenda framed in an international perspective, a stance that directly questioned the legitimacy of French and Western colonial rule. It was surprising that such a subversive program was able to appear in a quốc ngữ newspaper at all. It would take another year for a revolution of political expression in the Vietnamese language press to actually occur.25 The Vietnamese public and the quốc ngữ press had demonstrated their ability to mobilize opposition to the political status quo. Their activism and the concerted efforts of the native bourgeoisie, represented by the Constitutionalists, private Chinese interests, and French liberal milieux, eventually led to the repeal of the Candelier project. It is likely that Chinese businessmen gave the lawyer and former prospective député Paul Monin large sums of money to go to France to lobby the metropolitan authorities on their behalf.26 In March 1924 La Tribune Indigène proudly announced that Monin had successfully persuaded the French Parliament to overrule the decision of the Colonial Council to approve the Candelier project.27 This political victory made the lawyer the most popular Frenchman in the colony and a leader of the opposition to the colonial government for the next two years. It also galvanized a number of Vietnamese journalists in their determination to engage in a more radical and systematic confrontation with the colonial system itself.28

La Cloche Fêlée and the “Nguyễn An Ninh Phenomenon” La Cloche Fêlée is a propaganda newspaper: that is, an organ that aims at preparing for the future. nguyễn an ninh, La Cloche Fêlée, December 24, 1923

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Born out of the politically deleterious context of the Saigon port affair, La Cloche Fêlée pioneered a new political voice that would inspire the younger generation of urban, French-educated Vietnamese in their challenge of colonial rule.29 In September 1923 Nguyễn An Ninh returned from France after graduating with a degree in law from the University of Paris. A few months earlier, the twenty-three-year-old had begun establishing his reputation as a new eccentric voice. On a short visit to Saigon in January he had given a public lecture at SEMC. Titled “The Need for a Vietnamese Intellectual Culture,” the lecture condemned the Vietnamese tendency to seek status instead of developing creative activities. Upon his return to Saigon in September and amid the Saigon port affair, Ninh brought with him the added distinction, known by the French authorities, of association with the Vietnamese nationalist intelligentsia in exile in Paris, individuals such as Phan Văn Trường, Phan Châu Trinh, Nguyễn Aí Quốc (the future Hồ Chí Minh), and Nguyễn Thế Truyền.30 A second lecture and the consequent confrontation with the Cochinchina governor would catapult Ninh to public attention. He had given this second lecture, titled “The Aspirations of Vietnamese Youth,” at SEMC on October 15, 1923. Governor Cognacq was in attendance. Despite this intimidating presence, Ninh called upon young Vietnamese to engage in activities useful to the national cause. At the end of the lecture, he was summoned to Cognacq’s office. The conversation, as it appeared in La Cloche Fêlée, was Shakespearean in style: Cognacq: You said that a philosopher, a thinker, a poet, a painter, or even a singer will count for more than all the concessions obtained in one hundred years. Ninh: Monsieur le gouverneur has noticed that I talked purely about intellectual matters and that my lecture is aimed at contributing to the preparation of a group of intellectuals who can understand their country better. Cognacq: This country does not need intellectuals! It is too simple. If you want intellectuals, go to Moscow! Remember that the seeds you wish to sow shall never germinate. Remember that wherever you are, you will find Doctor Cognacq in your path. I will be informed of all of your movements. Remember that all Cochinchina obeys me and that, if you persist in this action, I shall use any means to stop you! Where will you give lectures? Certainly not at SEMC!31

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The press picked up on the importance of the confrontation, and word quickly spread that the young Vietnamese intellectual had dared to confront the much-feared Cognacq. Ninh’s defiance earned him immediate popular respect. It also convinced him of the need to take up political journalism as a way to reach and mobilize a larger audience. With the launch of The Broken Bell (La Cloche Fêlée), Ninh started a small revolution in the political press—a revolution in style and expression well discussed by Hue-Tam Ho Tai.32 On December 10, 1923, the first of nineteen issues was greeted with enthusiasm by fellow journalists.33 Sûreté reports noted the originality of Ninh’s street-based popularity and the “immediate success” of the first issue, which sold 500 copies within two days.34 Since Ninh could not afford a regular subscription to news agencies such as Havas or the semiofficial ARIP, the editorial content comprised political analysis that required readers to be familiar with the current political situation.35 The paper also reproduced articles from other journals in France and Indochina. Encouraged by the public reception, La Cloche became a weekly and increased its print run from 1,000 copies to 1,500 and later to 2,000, accounting for just under 10 percent of the total turnover of the Saigon press. Its circulation was remarkable for a newspaper that was written in French and overtly oppositional. Ninh was the epitome of a new generation that was more at ease with the Parisian intellectual and activist scene than with Vietnamese social conventions. Born in Cholon province in 1900, he was the son of the author and translator of classical Chinese literature Nguyễn An Khương, who, in his own day, was involved in Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu’s seditious movement, known as Minh Tân. While learning Chinese characters with his father, Ninh successfully completed his Franco-Vietnamese secondary studies at the collèges of Mỹ Tho and Chasseloup-Laubat. He went to Hanoi to study at the law school there and attracted attention because of his taste for eccentric behavior.36 Dissatisfied with the education provided in the northern capital, Ninh left Indochina in 1920 to enroll at the Paris Faculty of Law. Because of the wartime situation, he was able to graduate as a licencié, the equivalent of the holder of a bachelor’s degree, in just one year and without first obtaining a baccalauréat. Economically independent, he enjoyed the intellectual life of the French capital. An avid reader and traveler, Ninh was intensely curious about Western civilization.37 It did not take long for the Sûreté to notice the young retour de France, who exchanged his Parisian intellectual outfit for traditional peasant

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clothes, long hair, and bare feet. Ninh’s appearance was part of a general attitude that he began to assume in Saigon circles. The two cultures created tensions within Ninh that made him one of the most lucid men of his time but also one of the most tormented. His attempts to reconcile these two dimensions of himself led him to explore new options, from press activism to politico-religious millenarianism. By the end of the decade, he had settled for the orthodox Marxist-Leninist analytical and revolutionary apparatus favored by many of his contemporaries. From his earliest years as a political activist, Ninh was a source of fascination for a generation of Vietnamese.38 La Cloche Fêlée’s second main contributor was Eugène Dejean de la Bâtie. He was the illegitimate son of a French diplomat who publicly recognized him and paid for his French education, while his mother, a street vendor from Hanoi, raised him. Dejean’s contribution to modern Vietnamese politics may not have equaled Ninh’s, but his situation as a métis in the racially divided colonial society and the political choices he made were significant. His sense of dual identity was made more intense by the social ostracism imposed on métis. Unlike other mixed-race people at the time, he chose to identify with the cause of the Vietnamese. Originally from Hanoi, the twenty-five-year-old Eurasian had graduated from the School of Public Works. At a geographical service in Saigon he met the publisher of L’Écho Annamite, Nguyễn Phan Long, who introduced him to journalism. As a French citizen, he began by serving as a newspaper administrator ( gérant).39 Contrary to Frenchmen who lent the use of their name in return for money, Dejean’s motivation was political, something that made him subversive in the eyes of the authorities.40 Dejean’s strong sense of justice stemmed from his belief in French republican ideals. Whereas Ninh was discussing the morally and philosophically fraudulent aspects of colonialism, Dejean was directly confronting individuals and sectors of the colonial administration about abuses of native interests. As a métis, however, his Vietnamese patriotism did not aim at a separation between France and Vietnam.41 He shared with Ninh a métissage, which underlined their marginality within the social confines of colonial Saigon. With La Cloche Fêlée, they addressed fundamental questions, such as the need for Vietnamese to resort to political action—including revolutionary measures—and the definition of the new relationships among different groups and individuals. Above all, Ninh’s refusal to appeal to colonial liberalism opened the door to more radical forms of political action than those embraced by his predecessors, who acquiesced to collaboration with the French.

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La Cloche Fêlée’s originality lay in its bold style and its pamphleteering spirit. In the same passionate manner in which Ninh had confronted Cognacq, the paper addressed the colonial authorities in an unrelentingly provocative tone: La Cloche Fêlée will be pamphleteering to the point of breaking. . . . It will make an awful noise. . . . This broken bell will deserve to be broken, and its authors will be thrown in prison. . . . Our opinions are clear, our program [is] well defined . . . We are indifferent to any threats. We have sacrificed everything in the past. We are ready to sacrifice everything for the future.42

To deny political legitimacy to the regime, Ninh used both irony and apocalyptic language. The young journalist addressed his readers, especially the educated youth, in a similar way. To heighten their sense of social and political responsibility, he often referred to the likelihood of the “death of the [Vietnamese] race.” Ninh asserted that his compatriots were morally responsible for their fate. A quotation by Rousseau appeared as a slogan on the back page: “Force enslaved them; their cowardice maintained them in slavery.”43 What was fundamentally new in Ninh’s journalism was his addressing his “compatriots” as individual social agents, as citizens. He had no compunction about criticizing them for their passive complicity and sharing his personal doubts and weaknesses.44 Ninh’s unconventional style included a very free interpretation of what individual political engagement and public journalism should be. Every issue of La Cloche Fêlée resembled a political manifesto; each was a unique work, like a book, which could be exchanged and ordered even years after it was published.45 To provoke his readers’ imagination and promote his political message, Ninh borrowed editorial forms and techniques used by two popular anticonformist contemporary French papers: L’Œuvre and Le Canard Enchaîné.46 The choice of his newspaper’s name, The Broken Bell, was itself a political act that used humor and absurdity: “A broken bell is a musical instrument with a discordant sound. . . . It is a bad instrument.”47 In the same vein, on its front page La Cloche Fêlée featured patently ironic slogans like “We are French; all that is great, generous, and noble is ours.” To engage his readers, Ninh used quotations from renowned thinkers and writers. This technique was common in metropolitan political newspapers. For instance, the first issue of La Cloche Fêlée quoted a speech by the former governor general Sarraut: “A great country like ours, wherever it

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might go, whatever it might do, must be able to say that it remains everywhere faithful unto itself. It must be able to look squarely, even into its colonial policy, as the mirror of its conscience.”48 Some quotations contained severe condemnations of Western colonialism, such as the following from Romain Rolland: “Since Rousseau, the trial of Human Civilization has been conducted by the freest spirits in Europe . . . But the most accusatory book constitutes the one Western civilization has itself written with the blood of oppressed races in the name of false principles.”49 The more traditional side of La Cloche Fêlée’s political journalism was its investigative reporting. Ninh and Dejean were not afraid of running press campaigns against Governor Cognacq and his entourage, and they made a particular point of exposing the colonial administration’s numerous abuses. There were articles about the ill treatment of Vietnamese by colons and the harsh conditions in which the poor lived. For Dejean, these critiques aimed at denouncing the intolerable discrepancy that existed between the claimed benevolence of the colonial state and its day-to-day practices as a way to thoroughly reform the system; for Ninh, they were intended at progressively dismantling the historical legitimacy of French rule. These attacks did not crystallize into a clear political program of reforms, however, as Ninh believed the problem was above all cultural and moral and to be solved by Vietnamese themselves. Behind a simple political message, La Cloche Fêlée’s editorial agenda had two fundamental objectives. The first was to point out the contradictions of French republican humanism and the scandalous behavior of those ruling on its behalf and to argue in favor of a better understanding by readers of the ideals of the European Enlightenment.50 The second, more complex, recurrent theme was a radical review of the cultural basis of Vietnamese society and the search for its inner strengths. Ninh believed that national survival required cultural reassertion, which to him necessitated the assimilation of Western philosophical methods of analysis and comparison.51 To that end, La Cloche Fêlée introduced the Vietnamese public to a broad range of international authors. Ninh especially insisted on the need to rediscover Oriental culture, which, in his view, was best articulated by Western authors like Lafcadio Hearn, Léopold Cadière, Victor Ségalen, and Paul Claudel. Ninh also expressed a special interest in the writings of Indian and Ceylonese thinkers like Rabindranath Tagore, Mahatma Gandhi, and Ananda Coomaraswamy. His mastery of French gave him access to major works from France and in translation. Possessing an excellent style, he enjoyed writing

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in French. Only L’Indochine, under André Malraux’s literary supervision, was to follow Ninh’s example by seeking a literary cultural immersion of its readers. However, Ninh sought to introduce texts by his favorite authors less for the sake of art than for the political and philosophical messages they contained. La Cloche Fêlée introduced a sense of freedom in the approach to politics. Ninh’s intellectual references addressed philosophical questions with an immediate relevance: the relationship between Western and Eastern cultures, the relationship between the development of the self and the individual’s responsibility to society. His focus on issues of collective emancipation did not prevent him from examining individual development, such as children’s education, women’s equal right to happiness, and young people’s contribution to social affairs. Influenced by Tagore, Ninh’s approach was to call upon his compatriots to take a personal stand as essential to achieving freedom. Ninh’s provocative and unconventional public discourse reflected a search for a radical aesthetics of the liberation of the individual. Within the historical context, such questioning of authority was widely directed at colonial rule and state power. The greatest demonstration of such discontent was the May fourth movement of 1919 in China. Another seismic shift could be felt in the French avant-garde movements, such as those involving the dadaists and the surrealists. Although we have no evidence of a direct connection between Ninh and these movements, while in Europe, he was undoubtedly exposed to the counterculture in the context of a moral crisis that had permeated French and European society. Anarchist doctrines, as HueTam Ho Tai pointed out, strongly influenced the young Ninh.52 Like most intellectual-journalists in Saigon, however, Ninh was a cultural and social elitist. With his uncompromising tone, he was perhaps the most exclusive of all. For his dramatic call for the mobilization of each individual to act with free will, Nguyễn An Ninh was the Nietzschean figure of Saigon’s political stage. Later, as we will see, Ninh chose to privilege collective liberation, using traditional mass-based underground organizations as the main instrument of political revolution. Ninh’s approach to running his newspaper reflected his ambivalence toward the work of journalism. As it became better known, La Cloche Fêlée found it harder to operate against the authorities’ determination to shut it down. Of all papers, it was perhaps the most targeted by Cognacq’s men, who had to take extralegal actions to close it. Their attempt to question

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Dejean’s French citizenship had failed upon formal recognition of paternity by his French father. To prevent the newspaper from operating, they tried to intimidate readers and printers and systematically intercepted mail between readers and the newspaper’s office. This strategy of economic strangulation would later be used against other vocal French-language papers, such as Monin and Malraux’s L’Indochine. Under its manipulative director, Paul Arnoux, the Sûreté applied oppressive measures against the newspaper.53 Ninh and Dejean were forced to change their printing house three times and were kept under exhausting surveillance.54 All administrative services and schools received warnings that every Vietnamese employee found in possession of La Cloche would be subject to harsh sanctions. The postal service systematically seized Ninh’s mail and copies of the paper sent by mail, which were returned with the comment “item refused.”55 It was a war of attrition. In the face of such government pressures, the editors of La Cloche Fêlée addressed their readers directly: Compatriots, you are not unaware that we have sacrificed everything to keep the newspaper alive. However, human sacrifices have limits. We ask you to help. Contribute to support La Cloche Fêlée. Help us to seek more subscriptions. And you who have subscribed already but who have so far failed to pay, think about us.56

Anxious to involve the Vietnamese-speaking public, La Cloche Fêlée regularly exhorted readers to help spread its message: Compatriots, it is your duty to translate this newspaper for your brothers who do not read French. It is your duty to propagate around you the ideas expressed by this paper. It is your duty to inform the people of all the injustices, all the dishonesty against our race. It is also your duty to support wholeheartedly those who devote all their energy to defend our race.57

In April the exhausted Ninh fell sick. The paper did not appear for two weeks. One issue came out, dated April 21, 1924. Then La Cloche Fêlée was silent for another month. It was during this period that Ninh left for the Mekong Delta to accompany the young French writer Léon Werth and to obtain payment for subscriptions. Ninh decided to ignore the electoral campaign for the député of Cochinchina then under way. Two issues came out, on

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May 19 and June 2. The paper was again interrupted “because of the Pentecost.” The issue dated June 2, 1924, had an unusual number of articles reproduced from other newspapers. Ninh may already have made the decision to close the paper altogether. The last two issues of La Cloche Fêlée came out a month apart. This chaotic turn of events was due largely to financial difficulties. In La Cloche Fêlée’s last issue, on July 14, 1924, Ninh said that, of six hundred subscribers, four hundred had failed to pay. Of the two hundred who did, only half paid for the whole year. As a result, the closure of the paper was inevitable: Since the director is neither a millionaire nor a favorite of the elite, since government pressure on Saigon’s publishers forced La Cloche Fêlée to purchase its own printing machines, resulting in the mobilization of a large part of its capital, since the newspaper does not attract enough advertising, nor does it receive any official announcements, reserved for other papers, therefore, in these conditions, however strong, well intentioned, and tenacious its director and his collaborator may be, the newspaper cannot hold on for long.58

The Sûreté’s intense scrutiny of La Cloche Fêlée testifies to the extreme subversive character of the paper in the eyes of the authorities. The fact that 600 French-reading Vietnamese were ready to face harassment and worse by subscribing to the paper shows the extent of its influence.59 A whole section of the Sûreté’s annual report of 1923–1924 was devoted to La Cloche’s subscribers, with samples of their letters copied and analyzed.60 Statistics on subscribers were kept: 375 on January 15, 1924, and 509 on June 10, 1924, not far off the totals Ninh claimed. A subscription base of 600 was rather impressive if one considers that La Cloche was a French-language newspaper and that the colonial administration did much to prevent its dissemination. More than 80 percent of the subscriptions were from Cochinchina. The region of Saigon–Cholon–Gia Định accounted for 40 percent of the 375 subscribers recorded on January 15, 1924, and 30 percent on June 10. In other Vietnamese territories, readers doubled, rising from 31 to 62 in Annam, of whom 7 were members of the imperial court, and from 11 to 26 in Tonkin. The readership expanded from its Cochinchinese base to encompass a more national one.61 Additionally, there was likely an organized, if informal, network of individuals familiar with Ninh and his circles in Paris and Saigon.

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La Cloche’s subscribers came from a diverse range of professions. According to Sûreté records, 47 percent were civil servants in January 1924; that number fell to 36 percent in June. Twelve percent were teachers in January, 7 percent in June. These figures do not list the profession of almost half of the subscribers. Europeans accounted for 3 percent. Sûreté records of intercepted letters reveal a number of university students (School of Law and Pedagogy in Hanoi) or pupils from collèges (Chasseloup-Laubat) pooled their money to subscribe to the paper. The Foyer des Étudiants Annamites (Center for Vietnamese Students), a privately owned dormitory and resource center founded by the indigènophile Paul Monet for students from the provinces in Hanoi, had a copy in its library.62 A number of Vietnamese newspapers in both Hanoi and Saigon also subscribed to La Cloche Fêlée.63 Readers’ letters showed much engagement with La Cloche’s mission. The mail ranged from blackmail and insults to arguments over the content of an article. Some were reproduced in a section titled Débat (or Diễn Đàn in Vietnamese). All of the intercepted letters reproduced by the Sûreté responded with moving sincerity to Ninh and his lonely effort. A letter dated February 23, 1924, signed by “a group of Tonkinese,” is a striking example: How unable to breathe we feel under this regime of humility and exaction. Like you, we feel the same revolting powerlessness and the same cynical selfishness toward those in power. Like you, we desire a more bearable atmosphere, a Vietnam more fit to live in for those who want to keep their personal dignity and the pride of their race. To live, to live, by all means, despite everything and everybody; this is all we want with all our soul. And we trust you to lead us and to guide us to a better future. Having begun so effectively, we do not doubt that you will gain the support of Vietnamese opinion. Keep preaching, you who have both the talent and the freedom to speak. We listen to you religiously, as your voice is inspired by the memory of our glorious ancestors, by the soul of our race, by the love of our country. Remain confident of our respect for you, as you have been chosen to fulfill the sacred mission of pleading the cause of our ancestors’ heirs. Be the Gandhi of Vietnam, we shall follow you. . . . Your newspaper enjoys considerable success. We get great satisfaction from reading it, as we feel we hear the voice of our poor country. At the same time, we love and admire those with the courage and the talent required to spread its message.64

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What is striking in this letter is the clarity in which its authors understood their condition as colonized, a condition they analyzed in words similar to those used by Ninh in La Cloche Fêlée. The letter uses a messianic style to convey its sense of Vietnam’s historical continuity and to imagine Ninh as Vietnam’s own Gandhi, who was well known among educated Vietnamese. The comparison drawn between Vietnam and India, a country well advanced in its anticolonial native politics, was an indication of the degree of politicization among some Vietnamese. A number of individuals wrote, offering to assist the newspaper. Young, enthusiastic readers volunteered to distribute the newspaper, write articles, sell subscriptions, and raise money. In a letter dated February 10, 1924, a reader named “Cirrus,” from the village of Mỹ Tháp in Trà Vinh province, southern Cochinchina, said he had convinced some of his friends to subscribe. He said he spent his free time traveling across the province to sell the newspaper. Another letter spoke of the influence La Cloche Fêlée enjoyed in the southern countryside: Needless to say, the campaigns against government practices led by La Cloche Fêlée, are fully approved by the masses, even among the inhabitants of the remotest villages. They wholeheartedly support the work carried out by the three Vietnamese newspapers in French, La Tribune indigène, L’Écho Annamite, and La Cloche Fêlée.65

This latter comment was echoed by a Sûreté note dated January 2, 1924, on the revolution in political communication represented by La Cloche, this time in the streets and cafés of Saigon: “In town, around 9:00 pm, one still sees Vietnamese wandering the streets, talking about La Cloche Fêlée, discussing Nguyễn An Ninh and Dejean de la Bâtie.”66

July 1924–February 1926: A Dangerous Period The confrontation with the colonial authorities during the Saigon port affair and the breakthrough represented by Nguyễn An Ninh’s abrupt entry into the public arena transformed Saigon’s political environment. The period that followed, between July 1924 and February 1926, was characterized by heightened political tensions that revealed substantial differences in style

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and vision among Vietnamese political activists. This development came to a head with mass rallies surrounding Ninh’s arrest and the death of Phan Châu Trinh, the emblematic, returned-from-exile patriotic leader. To a significant degree, these events resulted from the action of the opposition press in the months that preceded them. After the new course of political journalism set by Ninh’s La Cloche Fêlée, a second major breakthrough was made a year later by the quốc ngữ newspaper Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times) under the editorial direction of the young northerner Trần Huy Liệu. Following his conflict with the Vietnamese press over the Saigon port scandal, Cognacq moved to stem the rising tide of Vietnamese opposition. In November 1924 he arranged for the administrative transfer of one of the movement’s leading figures, Bùi Quang Chiêu, who was head of the government’s agricultural service. The Constitutionalist leader and political director of La Tribune Indigène (he was also vice president of the Cochinchinese section of the French Radical et Radical-Socialiste Party) appealed the decision, but the Conseil d’État in Paris rejected his request. Chiêu took a year of unpaid leave in the métropole, where he hoped to lobby the French government for reforms in Indochina. During his absence from Saigon, January 24, 1925, to March 24, 1926, the Constitutionalist group suffered a major setback for want of his leadership and organizing skills.67 Immediately after Chiêu’s departure, La Tribune Indigène closed its doors at the end of January. The paper had been facing financial difficulties since early 1924 due to Nguyễn Phú Khai’s poor management; the two men had been on increasingly bad terms. The only remaining paper with Constitutionalist leanings was Nguyễn Phan Long’s L’Écho Annamite, which had reappeared in January 1924 after a year of silence. However, Long’s relatively weak leadership and his reluctance to engage with the network established by Chiêu led to a leadership vacuum within the Vietnamese opposition, encouraging the emergence of new personalities and creating an impression of political pluralism. The new environment enabled fresh initiatives to flourish, especially in the press. After January 1925 the new editing team of Indochina Times, with Trần Huy Liệu at the helm, overcame restrictions imposed on the Vietnamese-language press to make full use of its political potential. One of the future leading intellectuals of communist Vietnam, Liệu followed Ninh’s lead in introducing a more straightforward political style rather than the moralizing tone of many quốc ngữ newspapers. Over the coming year, Indochina

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Times would rival L’Écho Annamite as the Vietnamese political newspaper in Cochinchina. The opposition to the colonial government was also strengthened by the launch of L’Indochine by the lawyer Paul Monin and the young Parisian writer—and future emblematic French cultural minister—André Malraux. The French-language newspaper ran from July 1925 to August 1925 and again from November 1925 to March 1926. L’Indochine was to share with L’Écho Annamite the role of principal opposition journal in French. Surrounded by young Vietnamese journalists such as Lê Thế Vĩnh, Trương Cao Đông, Dejean de la Bâtie, and Nguyễn Phó, the two Frenchmen achieved what could be considered the bravest of French attempts to reconcile Vietnamese aspirations to political emancipation with French humanistic concerns. L’Indochine subjected the Cochinchinese colonial administration to intense journalistic scrutiny, writing about the administrative wrongdoings of Cognacq and his cronies. In August the governor retaliated with threats to all of the newspaper’s printers, as he had done with Ninh a year earlier. Malraux had to travel to Hong Kong to purchase a new set of printing fonts so that the paper could reappear in November, this time under the title L’Indochine Enchaînée.68 In 1925 the return to Vietnam of several anticolonial intellectuals marked a turning point in national politics, transforming Saigon into a foyer of public opposition to the colonial regime—a place Paris had somewhat occupied the last six to seven years. A succession of events electrified the political atmosphere in the southern city. On June 18 the announcement came that the old anticolonial leader Phan Bội Châu had been arrested in Shanghai and was to be transferred to Hanoi. Eight days later Phan Châu Trinh arrived in Saigon, accompanied by Nguyễn An Ninh, after fourteen years of forced exile in France. These two homecomings had followed the return three months earlier of the Paris-based lawyer and Marxist activist Phan Văn Trường.69 The trial of Phan Bội Châu began in Hanoi on June 30 and occupied the press until more news came on July 29—the appointment of the socialist Alexandre Varenne as the new governor general of Indochina. Varenne’s appointment—like Phan Châu Trinh’s release from exile—followed the election of a liberal, center-left coalition in Paris, the Cartel des Gauches, in May. Then, on August 4 the first industrial strike took place in the Ba Son dockyards in Saigon, involving more than one thousand Vietnamese and Chinese workers. After eight days of picketing, during which the battleship Jules Michelet

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was immobilized, the port authorities accepted the workers’ demands for the repeal of coercive measures taken by the French director. Widely covered by the local French and Vietnamese press, the movement seized the people’s imagination and added to tensions surrounding Cognacq’s administration.70 A changing of the guard in November only heightened the political uncertainty. It began with the death of Emperor Khải Định, which was preceded by the return of the young prince Vĩnh Thúy, the future emperor Bảo Đại. The new governor general, Alexandre Varenne, arrived in Saigon on November 18; five days later Phan Bội Châu was sentenced to forced labor for life. A united Saigon opposition press, led by Đông Pháp Thời Báo and L’Écho Annamite, joined by L’Indochine enchaînée and La Cloche Fêlée (reappearing under the management of Phan Văn Trường), urged Varenne to take action on behalf of the veteran revolutionary. Meanwhile, on November 27 Varenne received from Nguyễn Phan Long in person a list of political demands signed by Vietnamese leaders called “Cahier des voeux Annamites.” He declined to give a clear response to one of their most urgent demands—full freedom for the Vietnamese press. The same month, still in Saigon, the old patriot Phan Châu Trinh held three public meetings in which he discussed two of the topics he had advocated throughout his long political life: Western and Eastern morality and ethics (đạo đức và luận lí Đông Tây) and monarchy and democracy (quân trị chủ nghĩa và dân trị chủ nghĩa). The talks were duly reproduced and reported in the press.71 This succession of high-profile political events found in the Saigon opposition newspapers a major sounding board, a forum for an almost univocal narrative that pressed for substantial political changes. The newspapers rallied their anticolonial call around two subsequent political scandals—the affaire Bardez and the affaire Trương Cao Đông.72 The Bardez incident began in late November 1925, during the trial of the planners of the assassination of French resident Félix Bardez in the Cambodian province of Kompong Chhnang seven months earlier. Cambodian villagers had assassinated Bardez as he was conducting a tax-collection visit in the province. Saigon journalists saw in the trial a protest against the heavy taxation of the colonized population and a denunciation of the gross irregularities and even manipulations of the policy by the administration. Monin and Malraux followed the matter closely and published a number of sarcastic accounts of the Phnom Penh trial in L’Indochine enchaînée.73 The trial was still under way when the Cochinchinese Sûreté ordered a journalist at L’Indochine enchaînée, Trương Cao Đông, to surrender himself and to return to his “country of origin.” He had been under indictment by

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the Huế authorities in Annam for “antimonarchist activity.” Đông refused to leave Cochinchina, and his case was taken up by the French lawyer Monin and the Vietnamese opposition as an example of the travel constraints imposed upon Vietnamese subjects in their own country.74 Đông’s case became a matter of political principle, and three separate protest rallies were organized. The last meeting held in the popular district of Đa Kao on January 31, 1926, was a scene of political excitement wherein Monin, surrounded by young activists like Nguyễn Phó, Lâm Hiệp Châu, Nguyễn Văn Hòa, and Dejean de la Bâtie declared the following: Monin: “To deserve freedom, one has to conquer it.” Members of the audience: “By what means?” Monin: “It is not for me to answer that question. However, in the course of your country’s history, your ancestors knew what to do.”75

Another row occurred in February, when the right-wing de la Chevrotière attempted to mobilize the colon population by launching a press campaign against Governor General Varenne, whom he accused of complicity with the “Freemason Monin” and the “independentists.” Immediately, Vietnamese newspapers called for the boycott of de la Chevrotière’s quốc ngữ newspaper, Trung Lập Báo, which consequently saw a drop in sales from ten thousand copies to three thousand. Accusing the government of passivity in the face of what he called “the natives’ anarchist activity,” de la Chevrotière threatened to set up his own police force, “civic leagues,” with which the French colons could “defend themselves against subversion.”76 As the political temperature rose, it appeared with increasing clarity that the Vietnamese opposition was more diverse in personalities and objectives than ever before. Among the Constitutionalists, Nguyễn Phan Long was a poor substitute for the absent Bùi Quang Chiêu. New political figures, seen in the proliferation of independent newspapers, meant that a coherent strategy for confronting the colonial authorities, such as that which had operated during the Port of Saigon affair, was no longer possible. But they were held together by a common cause against colonialism and respect for the older Phan Châu Trinh, whose health had declined sharply since November. Other leaders would depart, and the unity of the opposition was fraying. This tense period culminated in a garden party organized before Monin’s departure to China, on February 27, 1926. On this occasion Long honored him as a “Vietnamese citizen.”77

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The Spring 1926 Events (March–July 1926) Rumors concerning Phan Châu Trinh’s health had become alarming. People in Saigon were anxiously anticipating the death of a man who had come to personify the righteousness of a consistent political action in the service of Vietnam’s peaceful emancipation, a position matched only by the now imprisoned Phan Bội Châu. Meanwhile, for some days, the Constitutionalists, led by the notable Lê Quang Liêm, had been running a press campaign to prepare the Vietnamese public for the return from France of the movement’s leader, Bùi Quang Chiêu. Even La Cloche Fêlée published an appeal signed by a variety of public figures, urging the “compatriots” to honor Chiêu upon his arrival. The news that students had gone on strike in Huế and in provincial schools across Cochinchina added to the sense that something important was about to happen. On March 21, fifteen hundred people responded to calls by Dejean de la Bâtie and Lê Quang Liêm to gather in Rue Lanzarotte. It was the largest political meeting Saigon had ever seen. Among them were four hundred students, mainly from the Chasseloup-Laubat College. Like Nguyễn An Ninh, most of the organizers came from the young generation. Worried that the meeting would get out of hand, Nguyễn Phan Long, the director of L’Écho Annamite and the de facto representative of the Constitutionalists, stayed away. Three important events took place this day, each of which represented a break with the political past. To the electrified audience, ranging from street vendors to school teachers and students, a young man named Phan Trương Mạnh announced the founding the previous day of a new underground political organization without legal authorization, exclusively aimed at the young generation—the Annam Youth Party (Đảng Thanh Niên or Parti jeune Annam): “We already have 70 members, but we need 1,000, 5,000, 10,000; we have set up this party so that we can defend Vietnamese interests. We don’t need governmental approval. Do enroll in the Annam Youth Party!”78 Mạnh said the party would fund itself through voluntary memberships and collections taken up in schools throughout Cochinchina. This announcement amounted to the first attempt by members of the educated youth to go beyond launching newspapers—by taking on organized politics. They were doing this without the support of the more established Vietnamese leaders, French liberals, or the government’s approval.

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A new newspaper in French, titled Jeune Annam (Annam Youth), whose slogan was “Tribune of National Liberation,” was distributed to the crowd free of charge by the young journalist Lâm Hiệp Châu. He had deliberately contravened colonial law, which allowed only French citizens to run newspapers. The name of the journal was misleading, however; it was not a part of the Annam Youth Party. In the following days, the party’s activists came to suspect Châu of being a secret agent for the Sûreté, seeing his initiative as an act of provocation to give the security forces an excuse to intervene.79 Moreover, during the meeting two leaflets in quốc ngữ bearing the names of Dejean de la Bâtie and Nguyễn An Ninh were circulated.80 In their tone (“For seventy years we have been reduced to slavery”) and indirect threats of violent action, the two texts constituted Ninh’s declaration of willingness to confront the colonial regime directly (de la Bâtie’s name had been affi xed without his permission). The Rue Lanzarotte meeting was an unprecedented event in the city’s political life, as a Sûreté agent reported: This meeting has made a big impression on a crowd that, until then, was not interested in politics. People came from villages all around Saigon. They are amazed the government is allowing such a meeting to take place. They are impressed by the courage of the speakers, who dare to openly criticize the authorities and the French.81

The unauthorized launch of Jeune Annam and Ninh’s leaflets gave the colonial authorities clear grounds for intervention. The Sûreté arrested Ninh, Dejean de la Bâtie, and Lâm Hiệp Châu on the morning of March 24. The night before, Phan Châu Trinh had passed away. News of the two events spread like wildfire among the Saigon population. When people heard Bùi Quang Chiêu would arrive that evening, the city came to a standstill. That night, a crowd of thousands—even the conservative estimate given by the Sûreté was eight thousand people—gathered on the Messageries Maritimes shipping line pier to wait for their man of providence. To ensure the security of the Vietnamese crowd against provocation by French colons, eight hundred workers from the dockyard came at the request of the Annam Youth Party. Indeed, French agitators led by de la Chevrotière threatened to assault Chiêu as he walked down the gangway. The Vietnamese restrained themselves and prevented a confrontation.

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The next day, three thousand people gathered at a tea party held in Chiêu’s honor. Phan Châu Trinh’s death and Nguyễn An Ninh’s arrest were uppermost in their minds. The attendees were mainly young people—students, Ninh’s admirers, and sympathizers of the new Annam Youth Party—who had come to hear Chiêu speak about the arrest of their hero. To their dismay, the Constitutionalist leader did not state any intention to work on behalf of those arrested and did not even mention Ninh’s name. Instead, he urged his audience to be patient and to trust in Varenne’s good intentions. The gap between the Constitutionalist dignitaries and the younger Vietnamese opposition became even clearer when, following the speech, the young journalist Cao Văn Chánh was denied the right to address the meeting to protest Ninh’s arrest. As the Sûreté report commented, “This incident marks the beginning of a division within the progressive party [i.e., the political opposition]. This schism is bound to get worse. The moderation of some is becoming an obstacle to the action of the others.”82 Meanwhile, plans for Trinh’s funeral became a matter of national importance. Massive press coverage paid tribute to the old hero. Papers like Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times) and those of the single issue of Jeune Annam said his funeral would be for Vietnam what Sun Yat Sen’s had been for China a year earlier.83 Thousands of people came from across the country to pay tribute. Exploiting the turmoil of the funeral preparations, the director of the resurrected La Cloche Fêlée, lawyer Phan Văn Trường, made a bold move that passed almost unnoticed: beginning with the March 30, 1926, issue, Phan Châu Trinh’s companion in Paris began to publish Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto. On April 4 a funeral procession of seventy thousand individuals marched silently through Saigon toward the northern suburb of Tân Sơn Nhất, where a provisional mausoleum had been erected.84 For the first time, different sectors of the Vietnamese population converged on the city to openly demonstrate their political involvement. Supporters of the Annam Youth Party competed with those of the Constitutionalist Party in organizing the procession. The two groups were equally represented on the organizing committee. A large number of youths in the crowd wore the yellow armband of the Young Annam organization. This demonstration of national fervor unleashed the activists’ radical tendencies. As Hue-Tam Ho Tai wrote, “The death of Phan Châu Trinh assumed symbolic meaning as the signal that the new generation must take over from the old.”85 Relations between the moderate Constitutionalists and the more radical Young Annam displayed all the elements of a mistrustful association. Upon

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his release without charge three days before the ceremony, Dejean de la Bâtie, who had been arrested at the same time as Nguyễn An Ninh, launched a campaign for the release of his companion. He made no secret of his misgivings about Bùi Quang Chiêu, whom he criticized for failing to support Ninh.86 On April 8, at a banquet d’honneur convened by the Vietnamese Commercial and Industrial Association to honor the Constitutionalist leader, Ninh’s supporters called for a boycott. Later, two women interrupted Chiêu’s speech and accused him of failing to fulfill his moral responsibility.87 The rift continued to widen, and numerous such incidents would erupt in the following months. Amid the general political fever, Governor Cognacq’s departure from office went almost unnoticed. Among large circles of Vietnamese, the corrupt and brutal practices of Cognacq’s administration had led to a general state of mistrust and anger with regard to the colonial state. Before his departure in early April, he seemed reluctant to act more forcefully against the opposition—as French newspapers pressed him to do. He anticipated that the situation would become chaotic and turn into a disaster that would undermine his more liberal successor, Aristide Le Fol, and Governor General Varenne. The Saigon movement unleashed a flood of protests throughout the country. Student strikes and additional forms of youth demonstrations spread to other parts of Cochinchina and to the central and northern regions. In May the Bank of Indochina, Saigon’s Ba Son dockyards, and the Chợ Quán electric plant were all hit by strikes supported by the Annam Youth Party. It was against this background that Ninh’s trial began on April 24. Plans for a general strike were discussed for the day of the sentencing. The French court sentenced Ninh to two years’ imprisonment, while Lâm Hiệp Châu was sentenced to one year. The prison terms were confirmed by the Court of Appeal on June 8. The political ferment turned to confusion when the public learned of letters Ninh had sent to the colonial authorities the day after his sentencing. The young activist played down his role in the unrest and promised to give up politics. The attorney Colonna, an old friend of Cognacq, leaked the letters to the press, creating disquiet among Ninh’s supporters. Even with Cognacq out, the government continued to use its old manipulative tricks to discredit opposition leaders. The multiple upheavals of spring 1926 opened new avenues for the Saigon intellectual-activists. Early in their public debate, mainly via newspapers, they had had to invoke the support of a hypothetical public, especially when addressing the colonial authorities. The growing popularity of their

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newspapers revealed that they were not alone in their views. The mass support demonstrated by the crowds that had gathered for Phan Châu Trinh’s funeral and Bùi Quang Chiêu’s return, as well as the numerous student and workers’ strikes confirmed that their actions reflected a genuine Vietnamese public opinion. People in Saigon were regularly witnessing street marches and public gatherings, a more visible presence of armed police, and a sense of shared tension and uncertainty. Newspapers and pamphlets circulated by hand and were read publicly on café terraces. Though at times confusing, the events of the period were of major significance for the future of the whole country. Individuals rose to the occasion, challenging the colonial regime and forcing it to go on the defensive. The popular support enabled intellectuals to further “Vietnamize” or ethnicize the political debate. The involvement of their French counterparts— however valuable it had been when they felt politically isolated in their opposition to the authorities—was embarrassingly patronizing, as it was based on humanitarian and libertarian principles rather than national consensus. When Monin returned to Saigon in May 1926 to exploit his position to establish “a large party of the Left,” the Vietnamese received him sympathetically but without conviction.88 A second important change was the breach in the façade of consensus among the Vietnamese. Nguyễn An Ninh’s arrest and the subsequent refusal by Bùi Quang Chiêu and his friends to directly confront the French authorities over the matter revealed long-standing political differences. They had been latent since the launch of Ninh’s La Cloche Fêlée in December 1923. In November 1925 he had openly declared his reservations about Chiêu’s reliance on “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration”.89 Inspired by Ninh, the more radical elements found their voice in the nebulous Annam Youth Party. The launch of Jeune Annam was motivated by the same overt radicalism, as were Trần Huy Liệu’s and Cao Văn Chánh’s enthusiastic accounts of the life of Phan Châu Trinh in their respective newspapers.90 Finally, the events of spring 1926 demonstrated to the anticolonial activists the political importance of the press. Throughout the spring, censorship of quốc ngữ papers remained relaxed, to the extent that Indochina Times was able to publish articles directly addressed to Varenne and to openly raise the prospect of independence.91 Journalists took advantage of the crisis to reinvigorate their political role. They provoked political demonstrations, as seen in the collective reception of Chiêu’s return from Europe and the transformation of Trinh’s funeral into a mass rally for the national cause.

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The spring of 1926 saw the convergence of “street politics” and “media politics,” whereby journalists instigated events as much as they responded to them, turning their profession into an urban mode of political action. This evolution in Vietnamese journalism could not have succeeded without the unleashing of a silent revolution in the quốc ngữ press, a process best exemplified by the most popular of all Vietnamese language newspapers— Indochina Times.

Trần Huy Liệu and Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) Created in May 1923, Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) succeeded in retaining its influence and independence without suffering a single suspension. This achievement was due to good management by the newspaper’s owner and director, Nguyễn Kim Đính. After Hồ Văn Trung’s initial editorship (May 1923–December 1924), Đính made some changes to his editing team and replaced Trung with a newcomer from Tonkin, Trần Huy Liệu, who served in that position from January 1925 to July 1926. Under Liệu, Indochina Times brought the political press in Vietnamese to an unprecedented level of quality. The young journalist showed that a paper in quốc ngữ could be at least as effective as French-language newspapers. A set of circumstances came together that proved propitious for quốc ngữ journalism. With the appointment of the socialist Varenne as governor general in May 1925, the Vietnamese press experienced a relaxation of the restrictions that had been imposed on them. Later, a succession of events put Indochina Times at the forefront of political activity. The relative absence of other political newspapers in Vietnamese or in French also contributed to the paper’s prominence. The new editing team comprised young activists who represented the broader audience that Liệu wanted to reach. In 1924 Bùi Công Trung [pen name Sông Hương (Perfumed River)] left his native Annam to go to Saigon. A close associate of Liệu, he began writing for Indochina Times in June 1925. Along with his boss, Trung joined the Annam Youth Party in March 1926 (a month earlier Liệu had sent him to interview Phan Bội Châu in Huế). Bùi Thế Mỹ joined the team in March 1926. Originally from the Annam province of Quảng Nam, Mỹ went to Saigon in 1923. Like Trung, he began his professional career as a teacher at Nguyễn Phan Long’s private school. Mỹ also contributed to L’Écho Annamite and was among the founding group of Young

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Annam. Perhaps through this circle he met Liệu and thereafter began writing for Indochina Times.92 Liệu’s choice of editorial composition reflected a transition from public debate limited to issues in Saigon to discussion that was national in scope. This had been perceptible with La Cloche Fêlée, and now, with Indochina Times, the southern metropolis was developing into the center from which political ideas spread to other parts of the country. The son of a scholar from Nam Định province, Liệu was a talented writer whose family training in Sino-Vietnamese literary studies more than compensated for his Franco-Vietnamese education, which included only primary superior education (up to 13 years old). He came to Saigon in September 1924, looking for work with a quốc ngữ journal. When he failed to find work, he agreed to collaborate with Lâm Hiệp Châu on an illegal brochure, Iron Pen (Ngòi Bút Sắt). He also contributed to Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh’s Southern Economic Journal. Recognizing Liệu’s talent and pugnacity, Nguyễn Kim Đính offered him the position of editor in chief of Indochina Times in January 1925. Đính wanted to take a firmer stance against the colonial authorities, a personal decision motivated more by commercial opportunism than strong political conviction and calculated to cater to the increasingly antigovernment feelings among educated Vietnamese. Liệu’s directorship of the editorial policy of Indochina Times can be divided into two distinct sequences. The first began in early 1925 and lasted until September of that year. During this time he and his colleagues wrote about general issues with little direct bearing on current political developments. During the second phase of his editorial activity, which lasted through the spring 1926 movement, Indochina Times became the flagship of the anticolonial campaign. Writing under the pen name Nam Kiều, Liệu developed a straightforward journalistic style that stood in stark contrast to the moralizing tone characteristic of most quốc ngữ newspapers. Liệu’s articles, like those by Nguyễn An Ninh, represented a series of manifestos that set forth a coherent political and moral vision. He, too, sought to establish a personal relationship with his readers. His style and opinions were not those of a romantic articulating his enthusiasm and doubts but rather the expression of strong convictions that he wished to advocate publicly, regardless of obstacles and the public reaction. His subjects ranged from the necessity of wearing traditional clothing in daily life, to philosophical matters such as freedom and truth. Whereas Ninh’s literary knowledge was eclectic. Liệu’s influences were primarily Chinese sources, although he could quote difficult French authors

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like René Guénon, with his critical assessment of Western “modernity” and its lack of spirituality.93 Liệu’s writing was rich and dense with a tendency toward expressive incantation. He lacked a command of French and did not use the Westernized semantic structure favored by Ninh. Imbued with traditional Sino-Vietnamese moral teaching, Liệu set forth a clear agenda in his articles—cultural self-renewal, not acculturation or Westernization, as a prerequisite to political change. He believed the writerjournalist’s role was critical to the success of cultural modernization. Although he advocated this position more assertively than his predecessors, his belief was not outlandish. His subjects were vast. He called for the reform of literature, advocating an increase in the use of quốc ngữ and the development of a wider vocabulary.94 He wrote about philosophical-moral concepts such as freedom,95 honesty, and indifference,96 which he tied to the urgent need for collective salvation. Liệu defined freedom (tự do) as having two opposite meanings. One he called “demon freedom” (con ma tự do), which appeals to selfishness and the need for immediate self-gratification. Often misleading, it lures people away from true freedom, which Liệu called “godly freedom” (thần tự do), which can be attained only through a moral act of individual social responsibility.97 Of those public figures invested in social responsibility, Liệu focused particularly on writers and journalists. Apprentice writers (người học trò) needed to rid themselves of their predecessors’ tendency to blindly study and repeat old knowledge without thinking critically. This passive attitude, characteristic of the traditional mandarins (quan), had made them unwilling to learn from the outside and left them ill-disposed to produce a new corpus of knowledge. He urged the new generation of “intellectuals” (người trí thức) to write what they have “deep in their hearts” (tâm huyết).98 They needed to be true to themselves and be prepared to speak the truth against all odds, threats, and dangers. Writers and journalists should avoid getting too close to power or to interest cliques. He recognized that such a task would be challenging and would no doubt attract trouble and criticism.99 Liệu’s writings contained two contradictory conceptions within Vietnamese society at the time. Journalists who wrote in quốc ngữ were often associated with corrupt practices such as blackmail or with having a pompous style. Liệu and Ninh promoted a new attitude: an organic tie between the writer-journalist and public opinion.100 To ensure that readers would respect the writer’s noble activity, Liệu assigned himself the task of unmasking usurpers and fake activists, whom he accused of being “parasites”

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(con rệp). He violently denounced the “hypocrisy” and “opportunism” of many of his compatriots. He sanctimoniously attacked “fake Europeans” (Tây giả) and Vietnamese who were trying to imitate the French, warning that the Vietnamese risked losing their cultural identity “like the people of the Philippines.”101 He urged his compatriots to regain their self-esteem as individuals and as Vietnamese.102 In addition, he directly addressed Vietnamese readers, whom he wanted to be aware of the difficulty of running a newspaper. He believed that it was their social responsibility to support genuine writing in their efforts to bring about national modernization.103 He targeted translators, who had a responsibility for what they chose to translate.104 By running a section titled “Critique of the Press,” Liệu set out to identify those he believed were betraying their social responsibility. In his enthusiasm, Trần Huy Liệu often appeared intolerant of journalistic approaches different from his own. He attacked others in the field, and heated exchanges ensued. In March 1925 he found himself embroiled in a bitter argument with the editors of the New Era (Nhựt Tân Báo) after he accused them of “opportunism” (chủ nghĩa cơ hội). In another row five months later, Hùynh Văn Chính of Annamite Voice (La Voix Annamite) accused Nguyễn Kim Đính, the director of Indochina Times, of having encouraged “a group of troublemakers from the North” to behave as if they were “censors of public morality.”105 Liệu engaged in contemporary debates about Vietnamese social values. He argued that fidelity and devotion between men and women had declined with the introduction of Western values of selfishness;106 sports provided an important means by which the Vietnamese “race” could regain its pride;107 Vietnamese music should modernize while preserving its traditional character;108 and New Year (Tết) celebrations were too excessive—what he called “New Year-ism” or chủ nghĩa chơi xuân.109 On other occasions he praised the social role that traditional customs like New Year celebrations, ancestor worship, and proverbs could play in building national spirit when they were rid of false beliefs and superstitions. He advocated conserving the base of Chinese morality, free from conformism and conservatism, and embracing progressive Western ideas.110 Rather than address the colonial authorities, Liệu published articles about world leaders whom he felt exemplified the moral and the spiritual in their political lives. Like Nguyễn An Ninh, he did not seek to establish dialogue with the regime since he did not recognize it as historically legitimate. He made no reference to the Saigon municipal elections when they took

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place in April 1925.111 On the appointment of Varenne, whom Liệu seemed to favor so long as he remained “faithful to Jaurès’s socialism,” the editor in chief requested only an end to censorship of the quốc ngữ press.112 In contrast to the more libertarian director of La Cloche Fêlée, Liệu openly called for a charismatic figure to lead the national movement and save the country. News of the death of Chinese president Sun Yat Sen in March 1925 appealed to his imagination. Indochina Times published Dr. Sun’s life story in full.113 In the article Liệu compared the Chinese nationalist leader to Buddha and Confucius.114 Liệu thereafter inaugurated the practice of publishing biographies of great political figures. An account of the life of Phan Bội Châu appeared in September, while the old leader was on trial. After Phan Châu Trinh’s death in March 1926, Liệu composed a long obituary.115 He favored these figures of change and rejected Lenin and his international revolutionism. Nonetheless, he would later embrace Marx’s materialist interpretation of history.116 The growing influence of the Indochina Times was reflected in the tensions between its team and the colonial authorities and conservative newspapers. In the aftermath of the Saigon port affair, Governor Cognacq allowed the pro-government Nguyễn Văn Của, the owner of Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette)—and the secret owner of Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion)—to launch a press campaign against Indochina Times. Anxious to expand his own business against a dangerous competitor, Của capitalized on the close relationship he had built with the authorities during the Saigon port affair. He allowed Công Luận Báo to spread rumors that Nguyễn Kim Đính was involved in a French secret society (hội kín), possibly the Freemasons. Đính responded by accusing Công Luận Báo of trying to ruin the credibility of “the only opposition newspaper.” Such a campaign, he wrote, was obviously orchestrated by Cognacq himself.117 The tumultuous first half of 1926 dramatically affected the Indochina Times’ editorial line. Liệu stopped writing articles on general and abstract topics. Although the paper still covered issues of sociocultural interest, its editorials were increasingly directed toward action. He had been among the seventy people who had met secretly on March 20, 1926, to found the Annam Youth Party.118 Liệu now led the paper to the forefront of events, turning it into a “militant” sheet. Taking advantage of the easing of censorship, on February 5 Liệu directed a column at Varenne, bluntly calling upon him to abandon censorship of the quốc ngữ press.119 The time had come to replace cultural transformation with concrete action. On March 17, on the expected return of Bùi Quang Chiêu, Liệu

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solemnly urged the Vietnamese public to welcome the Constitutionalist leader at the Saigon pier. He addressed “intellectuals, youth, women, workers and capitalists,” urging them to overcome their doubts and to seize the “opportunity” (cơ hội). He asked shopkeepers to close their stores as a sign of solidarity.120 Building his role as a national leader, the young journalist incited the public to unite and to take their patriotic responsibility seriously. Four days later, on March 21, Liệu called for the creation of a nationwide “General Party” on the model of Sun Yat Sen’s Kuomintang. In contrast to more moderate leaders like Nguyễn Phan Long, Liệu made it clear that he lacked confidence in Varenne’s ability to carry out thorough reform without pressure from the Vietnamese public: No more hesitation. No more reflection. Seize the opportunity offered by Bùi Quang Chiêu’s return. On this day, there will be enough people of all walks of life to launch a unified party that will soon expand to Tonkin and to Annam. This is the best way to help the government (Varenne) and thereby the aspirations of the people for the future.121

Within a week, the political situation reached a climax. Nguyễn An Ninh was arrested, Phan Châu Trinh died, and Bùi Quang Chiêu returned to Saigon. On March 29 the regime censored all articles about Ninh’s arrest. Liệu wrote a solemn tribute to Trinh.122 An article appeared in the paper’s next issue calling for freedom for the Vietnamese people with or without French support. A correspondent named Nguyễn Hỏang from the southern city of Cao Lãnh had taken up the political appeal initiated by Liệu. The time had passed for “arrangements.” The Vietnamese wished to enjoy the same rights as other free people, including that of self-rule (tự trị). The article concluded with an ultimatum: unless their expectations were met, Vietnamese would have to achieve freedom by their own means.123 The Indochina Times breached not only the self-imposed restraint induced by the threat of censorship but also a political taboo. It was not simply that the question of independence was addressed openly. Of significance was that the article claimed the right to act against colonial legality. The paper did not allow room for the Constitutionalists or other parties to compromise with the colonial regime. Liệu’s presence, as seen in signed columns, became rarer after the events of spring 1926. This silence may have reflected a growing difference of opinion with his boss, Nguyễn Kim Đính. According to Sûreté reports, he

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wrote a letter to Cao Văn Chánh, the publisher of L’Essor indochinois, severely criticizing Đính. This may have led to Liệu’s removal as editor in chief.124 Other political considerations were involved, as Đính had reproached Liệu for his intemperate conduct toward the authorities and the danger such action presented for his business interests. In the wake of the political events of March 1926, Đính clearly supported the more moderate line followed by Bùi Quang Chiêu. After four months of near silence, Liệu announced his decision to abandon journalism altogether. He blamed censorship as the main reason for his move. The condition of an intellectual was hard, he wrote. He compared his situation with that of Phan Bội Châu; he said that a “silkworm” (con tằm) could still continue its task and that, by resigning, he did not intend to give up political action.125 To Trần Huy Liệu, the Indochina Times owed its reputation as the main opposition newspaper of its time and a respected defender of the activist movement. At a political meeting held in January 1926, the Sûreté noted that the public had proclaimed it as “the people’s newspaper.” Indeed, in one year its readership had doubled, with ten thousand copies regularly printed; in comparison, the total number of printed Saigon newspapers, in both Vietnamese and French, did not exceed twenty-five thousand (this latter figure represents, however, a 100 percent increase in distribution in just two years).126 Liệu’s editorial talent and his ability to capitalize on the urgency of the political context explain this large circulation. The quốc ngữ newspaper was now a part of the daily life of a larger portion of the population. In the case of Indochina Times, an increasing number of young people and women from all over Vietnam constituted the paper’s readership. Liệu’s editorials and the paper’s coverage of the 1926 events in Saigon forged their political education. Later in his life Liệu dismissed his early political role as tainted by naïveté.127 Still, because of his enthusiasm and uncompromising stance, his stint at Indochina Times turned out to be a significant episode that fostered public involvement by many of his young compatriots. Like Nguyễn An Ninh two years earlier, Liệu became a political model. The position of chủ bút, or editor in chief, became very popular, especially among the younger generation. Ironically, it was when both Ninh and Liệu had realized the political limits of their activity as journalists that this form of action came to be regarded as a noble expression of political commitment. With the changes initiated by Nguyễn An Ninh at Cloche Fêlée and Trần Huy Liệu at Indochina Times, Vietnamese politics acquired an unprecedented

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energy characterized by the two men’s uncompromising determination to address its fundamental questions. Their convictions made the terms of Saigon’s political debate more dramatic and confrontational. They led the formation of a new generation of Vietnamese journalists who rejected the political compromise with the colonial power that had satisfied the Constitutionalists. These young radicals saw their action as independent of the strategies pursued within the colonial legal framework. They followed a style of journalism that was exclusively political in form and content. Trần Huy Liệu’s editorship at Indochina Times had profound effects on the long-term evolution of Vietnamese political expression. He swept away the traditional inhibitions of the quốc ngữ press. Although newspapers in Vietnamese continued to be subjected to censorship and other restrictions, journalists no longer saw them as insurmountable obstacles to independent political expression. The massive mobilization of readership that followed the spring 1926 events foretold new developments in political activism that included mass publishing in quốc ngữ. With La Cloche Fêlée and its imitators, which all appealed directly to the young and French-educated segments of the Vietnamese public, newspapers could no longer simply reflect the range of opinions and strategies of its journalists but also had to address the increasing diversity of public opinion. Within the Saigon newspaper village (làng báo chí ), a new division appeared between newspapers used for political education and discussion and newspapers intended principally as instruments of immediate disruption and mobilization. Saigon’s sphere of public debate was undergoing a fundamental transformation in its political purpose.

chapter 5

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930)

S

pring 1926 marked the moment when Saigon’s “newspaper village” (làng báo chí ) was a political reality. The political events of that spring demonstrated that newspapers could serve as a powerful force of popular mobilization against the regime. Later that year, Saigon’s public sphere underwent a third metamorphosis toward more autonomy—and, simultaneously, its relative marginalization within the Saigonese and Cochinchinese political economy. A tectonic shift in power relations had begun: the colonial regime was on the defensive and relying heavily on repressive measures. To their dismay, Vietnamese activists realized that the socialist governor general Varenne had neither the ability nor the desire to alter the political status quo.1 His successor, the conservative Pierre Pasquier, only reinforced this repressive trend. Meanwhile, a no less tectonic development was occurring in the southern countryside of Vietnam. A new religion called Cao Đài had emerged as a credible force against the colonial regime, drawing its strength from the sudden and massive influx of conversions in rural areas. The new religion’s swift rise took public figures by surprise. It called for a reassessment of political strategies, which generally favored urban-based priorities that did not address issues in the rural areas. Communist strategists would succeed in exposing this disjuncture.

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Differences between a moderate opposition, represented by Bùi Quang Chiêu and his Constitutionalist friends, and a more radical one, represented by Nguyễn An Ninh, Trần Huy Liệu, and the Annam Youth Party, led a number of activists to consider underground alternatives for political change. They were somewhat encouraged by Ninh and Liệu, both of whom had raised the necessary connection between unrestricted political action and activist journalism. This local trend toward radicalization coincided with efforts by communist units associated with the Third International to plant their activists throughout the country.2

The Rise of Caodaism Cao Đài, which means “high tower” or “high palace,” was the fi rst major movement to develop beyond Saigon. Officially recognized by the colonial authorities in September 1926, the new religion had been founded a few years earlier by a Vietnamese official in the French administration, Ngô Minh Chiêu.3 Based mainly on Taoist spirit-medium practices, Caodaism incorporated references “to every religious current known to the sect founders into a single doctrine that remained firmly based in Sino-Vietnamese popular religion.”4 Ideologically, Caodaism drew upon political and religious symbolism and the imagery of popular rebellion. Its Chinese roots made it particular to southern Vietnam, a region known for numerous sects of Chinese origin.5 The new religion spread across southern and western Cochinchina, including the outskirts of Saigon. Between May 1926 and the end of that year the movement opened twenty or more “oratories,” and in November it established a temple called the Holy See at Tây Ninh. By June 1927 it claimed to have one hundred thousand members and about twice as many the following year.6 Vietnamese urban intellectuals were surprised by the quick spread of the new religion, which successfully employed traditional secret society methods such as the use of spiritualists or mediums and incantations. These intellectuals saw the rural, mass-based character of Caodaism as a source of inspiration and an opportunity to extend their political influence against the regime.7 Some, such as Nguyễn Phan Long, Dương Văn Giáo, Lê Thế Vĩnh, and Cao Triều Phát converted. Others, such as Bùi Quang Chiêu, Nguyễn An Ninh, and Cao Văn Chánh, developed close relations with the new cult.

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Politically, however, Caodaism’s impact was limited. As a religious response to contemporary problems, the cult appealed mainly to the masses in the countryside. There, life was still largely constructed according to traditional sociocultural patterns, such as peasant dependence on rural notables, religious figures, and traditional forms of political expression (religious and political millenarianism, sectarianism, secret societies). This was reflected in the social origin of the religion’s founders, who for the most part were second-rank clerical employees in the civil service (Ngô Văn Chiêu, Phạm Công Tắc) or were like Lê Văn Trung, a bankrupt businessman and former colonial councilor. These men felt rejected by the modern elite of 1920s’ Saigon. Like the majority of Cochinchina’s population, their “intellectual roots were embedded in popular culture.”8 In spite of personal interests and sometimes sympathy, a real conflict of perception between the religion’s founders and leaders—and by extension, the rural masses attracted by Caodaism— and the Western-educated urban intellectuals existed. In more practical terms, close scrutiny by the government prevented the religion from dominating the political scene or even from articulating a constructed political program to appeal to the emerging urban middle classes. However eager they were to exploit the political potential of Caodaism, the urban intellectuals did not hold it up as a serious option but rather saw it as an inspiration for their mobilization strategy.

Divisions Within the Vietnamese Opposition After the spring 1926 events, a political spectrum ranging from conservative to radical emerged among Saigon’s Vietnamese opposition. On the right was a group supporting the political status quo, represented by newspapers dependent on government subsidies. These included de la Chevrotière’s Trung Lập Báo (Impartial), run by Lương Khắc Ninh, and Nguyễn Văn Của’s Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette), directed by Lê Hòang Mưu. The leader of this conservative faction was the colonial councilor Lê Quang Trình, with his newspaper Progrès Annamite (Vietnamese Progress). Trình’s strategy consisted of attacking the Constitutionalists. His group made itself heard in the Colonial Council with its rejection of Nguyễn Phan Long’s proposal on “Franco-Vietnamese rapprochement” (August 9, 1926).9 In preparation for the October Colonial Council election, Trình set up a quốc ngữ journal, Văn

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Minh Báo (Civilization), to campaign against his opponents. This group relied heavily on the colonial authorities, which meant it was not fully a part of Saigon’s independent Vietnamese political spectrum. Among independent activists were the “moderates,” represented by Bùi Quang Chiêu and his Constitutionalist friends. They continued to favor a gradual, reformist approach, cautiously applying the “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration” slogan, which staked its legitimacy on colonial liberalism. After the spring 1926 events, Bùi Quang Chiêu and his friends attempted to seize the initiative. In August, the Constitutionalist leader launched La Tribune Indochinoise (Indochinese Tribune), a successor to La Tribune Indigène. The problem was that the Constitutionalists continued to depend on the government’s goodwill to implement real reforms. No tangible changes came from Varenne’s administration. At a meeting held by the Saigon branch of the Human Rights League in September 1926, Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phan Long joined with French lawyer Monin to present Varenne with another copy of the “List of Vietnamese Wishes” (Cahier des voeux Annamites). The October 11, 1926, Colonial Council elections gave Chiêu and his group an opportunity to strengthen their political credibility. All of the Constitutionalist candidates were elected, and Chiêu became vice chairman. The Annam Youth Party, which supported independent candidates, failed to win a single seat. The small size of the electorate did not reflect the reality of the public opinion, which recent events had revealed to be larger and more diverse. A member of the center-left Radical Socialist Party in France, Chiêu sought political status mainly through the electoral process. In Saigon he regained control of the associations that had helped him in the past.10 With little ability to compel the colonial government to share its power, however, the Constitutionalists had little to offer but regular stagings of ineffectual opposition campaigns. A radical-left faction of the Vietnamese political spectrum emerged during the events of 1926. These activists shared an unambiguous quest for national independence and a thorough change in cultural attitudes. If their opinions varied as to how to achieve these goals, there was at least one area of common ground among them: their objectives were cast outside the political confines of colonial rule and stood in direct opposition to that of the Constitutionalists. In July 1926 an uninterrupted campaign—in the form of pamphlets, press articles, and disruptions of Constitutionalist public events— against Chiêu and his supporters effectively began. Newspapers such as L’Ère Nouvelle (New Era), Nhựt Tân Báo (also New Era), and L’Annam ridiculed Chieu’s

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policy of collaboration with the French.11 For many left-leaning intellectuals, the priority was to devise new methods of action. Newspapers remained an important instrument. The relative openness of Governor General Varenne in authorizing new titles saw an explosion in the number of radical sheets while established opposition papers opened their columns to radical activists.12 The period was also characterized by attempts to create new modes of action. The consideration of clandestine and illegal methods depended as much on pragmatism as on a new revolutionary attitude among the activists. The Annam Youth Party had openly declared itself at Phan Châu Trinh’s funeral, and it took the lead in defending Nguyễn An Ninh after his arrest. On May 20, 1926, L’Écho Annamite published the party’s statutes and manifesto. The party received support from lawyers Paul Monin and Phan Văn Trường and from Ninh. After the authorities’ release of Ninh’s “letters of retraction”—in which he declared his intention to abandon political action—the party imploded. Marginalized but not dissolved, it reconstituted itself at the end of 1926 as a clandestine organization with a core of fifteen members.13 On the first anniversary of Trinh’s death in March 1927, an occasion that should have required the Vietnamese opposition to unite in a common display of grief, the “moderates” and the “radicals” held separate ceremonies at the patriot’s tomb.14 The rift was taking on an air of permanence.

Renewed Government Repression and Underground Actions Early in 1927, after months of relative tolerance of Vietnamese opposition newspapers, the Varenne administration began an unprecedented series of repressive measures. Against this policy, the first expression of a Vietnamese “united front” took place during the Tân Thế Kỷ affair of May–June 1927, when Cao Văn Chánh’s newspaper was the first target. Varenne closed down the newspaper and arrested its correspondents in Annam, provoking an outcry among Vietnamese intellectual-journalists everywhere.15 Then came the Lương Văn Cần affair and the subsequent arrest of journalists from the northern and central parts of the country.16 With a succession of trials targeting journalists, Saigon’s political atmosphere grew tenser. Even before Varenne’s departure in November 1927, the administrative and judicial authorities maintained tighter control of Vietnamese opposition papers. In addition to censorship and other extralegal actions like mail interception

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and the intimidation of readers and printers, the Saigon court’s new draconian interpretation of the law dramatically increased grounds for conviction by invoking notions of “encouragement [by Europeans and natives alike] to rebel against French sovereignty” (article 5 of the decree of December 30, 1898). Above all, Article 91 of the penal code against “attacks, plots, and actions seeking to disrupt public security” was used more systematically.17 Meanwhile, the authorities scrutinized applications for new newspapers more carefully.18 The arrival of Pierre Pasquier as the new governor general in January 1928 resulted in longer and more severe prison sentences. This aggressive policy of intimidation of the independent press considerably influenced the way activists decided to pursue their actions as journalists.19 Echoing earlier calls by Nguyễn An Ninh and Trần Huy Liệu to use means other than newspapers and in response to the government’s repressive policy toward the press, activists in Saigon and its rural surroundings resumed interest in underground actions to elicit popular resistance to foreign rule. As early as November 1926, the Sûreté reported a plan to create a secret avant-garde wing of the Annam Youth Party.20 In the Mekong Delta, Cao Văn Chánh and Bữu Đình, under the pretext of organizing theater performances, set up a mysterious “Patriotic League.” Another project was “Patriotic Pirates,” an idea supported by Monin and Tứ Mật, leader of the old Heaven and Earth Society (Thiên Địa Hội) who was involved in the 1913 and 1916 insurrection attempts. A military unit called “Unafraid of Death” (Cảm Tủ) was another idea.21 The Sûreté uncovered an abandoned project by the Cholon-based society “Killers in the Shadows” (Am Sắt Đảng), which was supported by the Chinese Kuomintang. None of these attempts represented a real threat. The fact that they all occurred within such a short span of time nonetheless illustrates a new urgency felt by the activists for action outside the colonial legal framework.22 The colonial authorities were more troubled by an increase in the illegal penetration of communist propaganda into Cochinchina. At the celebrations for the Great War victory on November 11, 1926, a leaflet was found, written by Nguyễn Thế Truyền, a member of the French Communist Party and director of the Paris-based newspaper Việt Nam Hồn (Soul of Vietnam). In the early months of 1927 the Sûreté seized an unusually large quantity of communist leaflets smuggled from France. In July the police seized a subversive communist pamphlet in quốc ngữ by Trần Hữu Độ titled “School of Freedom” (Học Trường Tự Do).23 During the winter of 1927–1928 a series of strikes took place in Saigon and its commercial center, Cholon: involved were the jockeys

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at the racing stables, as well as workers at the Larue Beer factory and brick and glass factories. Only one group of strikers adopted an overtly anticolonial stance: the employees of the conservative newspaper L’Impartial (November 1927).24 Although these actions seemed at the time to be without political motivation, later investigation by the Sûreté suggested that some had been instigated by agents of Nguyễn Ái Quốc’s Vietnamese Revolutionary Youth League (Việt Nam Thanh Niên Cách Mạng Đồng Chí Hội).25 Opposition newspapers like Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times) and Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era) supported the strikes. Journalists began focusing on the conditions of the Vietnamese workers, as seen in the “Phú Riềng affair.” On September 26, 1927, coolies from Tonkin killed a French assistant at a rubber plantation owned by the Michelin company. The arrest of the alleged murderers and their trial in Saigon’s criminal court resulted in one death penalty and several sentences to forced labor for life.26 In early 1928 several activists suspected of communist allegiance returned from France, further alarming the colonial authorities. Among the activists was Nguyễn Thế Truyền, who arrived in Saigon with Nguyễn An Ninh on January 7.27 Ninh’s arrest eight months later, on October 3, 1928, after a fight with policemen, had more direct consequences. The Sûreté had suspected Ninh of having established a secret society, Thanh Niên Đảng (Young Annam Party), with a pro-communist orientation.28 The party had the same name as the Annam Youth Party founded in March 1926. It was, however, a completely different organization. Established by Ninh before his departure for France in August 1927, Thanh Niên operated as a secret society. The Sûreté described it as an “extension” of the old Thiên Địa Hội (Heaven and Earth Society). Members were required to follow very strict rules of conduct. As with Caodaist organizations, traditional and modern features of rural and urban origin coexisted. The organization was located on the outskirts of Saigon, near the villages of Bà Điểm and Hóc Môn, where Ninh’s father, Nguyễn An Khương, lived. Businesses in Cholon served as urban bases, and the organization received financial support from wealthy patrons.29 The activities consisted primarily of urging peasants not to pay taxes and spreading rumors, sometimes apocalyptic, to incite popular anger against the established political order. After Ninh’s return from France in January 1928, the organization was renamed Nguyễn An Ninh High Aspiration Youth Party (Thanh niên Đảng Cao vọng Nguyễn An Ninh). The Sûreté believed Ninh wished to affiliate his organization with the international communist movement and added to its title the term cộng sản (communist). In fact, there is no indication that Ninh

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was ever a communist.30 Following Ninh’s arrest on October 3, a Sûreté investigation in the village of Binh Hưng Đông (Gia Định province) revealed the scale of his network. The society had more than seven thousand members— mostly peasants and artisans—in the village and its surroundings. The investigation also revealed that local Vietnamese notables had been blackmailed into silence. The Sûreté was worried. A scuffle in September 1928 gave it a pretext on which to arrest Ninh and disband the organization. More than one hundred followers were put on trial in April and May 1929. Ninh was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment. The year ended with an incident that was to have even more serious repercussions. On December 8 a murder was discovered in an apartment on Rue Barbier in Saigon. The investigation over this crime passionnel, the result of a rivalry between two men over a woman, eventually led to the discovery of a network of revolutionary cells in Cochinchina.31 The murdered victim and those involved in the killing were affiliated with Nguyễn Ái Quốc’s communist Thanh Niên league. It was not until mid-1929 that a clear picture of the underground scene and the involvement of other organizations emerged. The Sûreté began a series of arrests of members of Thanh Niên; adherents of Tân Việt (New Vietnam), an organization from the central region supported by Phan Bội Châu; and members of the southern branch of the newly created Vietnamese Nationalist Party (Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng).32 What remained of these organizations would be revealed during their members’ trials in July 1930.33 The two discoveries—Ninh’s secret society in the countryside and the communist-led network of clandestine revolutionary organizations— revealed fundamental changes in the relationship between the colonial regime and the Vietnamese opposition. In the increasingly bitter struggle between Vietnamese nationalists and the colonial regime, clandestine activity became a viable tool. Rumors of complots antifrançais, fomented by repeated and increasingly visible actions by the Sûreté (random raids, threats, expulsions) and hysterical campaigns by conservative French newspapers, spread among the Saigonese public.34 The first case of open insurgency erupted in 1930, when Saigon witnessed an unprecedented series of uprisings in its surrounding provinces: peasants brandished the red flag and in some areas organized themselves as “Soviets.” This communist-led rural unrest, which lasted from May 1930 until January 1931, presented “an organized movement whose leaders were challenging the whole basis of Cochinchinese society and French colonial rule.”35 Above all, the conflict revealed

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the extent to which Vietnamese activism had been transformed in the last four years, with two contrasting scenes now apparent: a Saigon-based political press of opposition and a countryside in which resistance initiatives privileged mass-based, violent forms of actions. Uprisings that were taking place outside the public sphere of Saigon exerted a tremendous influence on the press until at least 1940.

The Newspapers’ Village After 1926 The final transformative process of the Saigon press took place after the events of spring 1926. Political journalism had proved to be a potent instrument for developing a modern political sphere in which the Vietnamese were able to contest the French colonial regime. Yet, the period also showed a contrasting picture of political maturity and structural weakness. As the unraveling of these events makes clear, Vietnamese political journalism became so politically effective that it prompted the colonial regime to step up its oppressive policies, revealing its inability to live up to its republican claims. This hardening of the regime itself indicated that the republican “legal” route to socially broad-based Vietnamese nationalist political aspirations was closing. Journalism could no longer, even notionally, function merely as a unifying, broad-based form of national politics that could make the colonial state deliver on its promises of political modernity. Meanwhile, rural and traditionalist mass uprisings against the regime in 1926, represented by Caodaism, took modernist political actors by surprise. Communist strategists were able to exploit rural issues as a popular basis for national resistance to the colonial regime in a way that the urban-focused politics and debates that engaged the political journalists could not. These developments outside the newspapers’ “village” coincided with an unprecedented expansion in the readership. In the urban and semiurban sectors, more youths, more women, and always more members of the middle and even working classes became avid readers of the opinion press. It was the mobilization of this enlarged readership base that was to motivate and govern journalistic practices in the ensuing years. Differences of strategy and practice henceforth were caused mainly by journalists’ desire to reach out to hitherto untapped social communities newly available for mass mobilization. As radicalization of the Vietnamese opposition to French control increased after 1926, political journalism’s effectiveness as a deliberative means of

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modern anticolonial nationalist agency and self-assertion was questioned. Henceforth, the gap between legal opposition represented by the Constitutionalists and the principled recognition by intellectuals across the political spectrum of the need for unlicensed, unrestricted political action meant that political journalism in the deliberative tradition of republican enlightenment could no longer mediate or negotiate conflicts of power effectively. Anticolonial Vietnamese nationalism thereafter developed techniques of mobilization beyond the capacities of urban print journalism to direct it or significantly steer it toward the development of a public sphere of peaceful contestation. It is this contradictory evolution of the Vietnamese political press that I sketch out in this final chapter. By looking at a number of newspapers and individual journalistic choices, I highlight the contradictory development of the period characterized by an increasingly popular “press of information,” on the one hand, and a new “press of political and social mobilization” seeking original strategies at the margins of the Saigon public sphere, on the other. In the former role, the press was seen as an inclusive instrument of national opposition to the colonial state—an ideologically committed or classconscious, polarized “press of opinion” but one still committed to deliberative public action even though increasingly at odds with the aspirations of the young generation. The progress made by the press in the latter role revealed the newspaper village’s fundamental inability to meet the immediate political needs of mass action at the time. These contradictory roles played by the opposition press mirrored the contradictions within the broader deliberative, public, political culture of Vietnam between 1926 and the late 1930s.

A National Press of Information In the middle of the decade, Saigon’s culture of public political inquiry witnessed the transformation of parts of its newspapers village into a professional and national “press of information.” The field was shifting from the usual top-down approach driven by one man to a more proactive and collective model of journalism, with the ultimate objective of making the papers both economically viable and politically influential. This metamorphosis led to the kind of investigative journalism with which we are more familiar today. It was an important step in the establishment of the press as a stable political force capable of sustained scrutiny of the colonial regime, in the

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pure Habermasian model. This evolution began in 1924, when L’Écho Annamite, under the leadership of Nguyễn Phan Long, turned into a daily. It later affected at least one quốc ngữ paper, Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times), especially after Trần Huy Liệu’s resignation following the events of spring 1926. This trend continued well into the 1930s.

L’Écho Annamite (1924–1930) One of the most important steps toward the professionalization of Vietnamese newspapers took place when L’Écho Annamite became a daily. Previously, only pro-government sheets such as Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette) could appear on a daily basis as a result of government subsidies. Colon newspapers such as Le Courrier Saïgonnais and L’Opinion also came out daily. Nguyễn Phan Long had resumed publication of L’Écho Annamite in January 1924. He was both publisher and owner. By the end of 1924, three months after running on a daily basis, L’Écho Annamite was printing thirty-five hundred copies per issue—not a bad start for a French-language quotidien. Its front page usually featured political editorials and international news from Havas and other news agencies. The next three pages carried advertisements and a press review. As a daily, L’Écho Annamite could better follow ongoing events, such as the trial proceedings of the Bardez affair in December 1925. The daily’s new eclecticism opened its pages to every member of Vietnam’s intelligentsia, thus turning it into a real political tribune. On October 23, 1925, it published a speech by Phạm Quỳnh, the culturally conservative director of the review Nam Phong (Southern Winds), on “the Annamites’ Aspirations”—in which, as representative of the Hanoi section of the Human Rights League (Ligue des droits de l’homme), he advocated the substitution of Vietnamese for French in the educational system.36 The February 1926 issues carried a serialized pamphlet by Marxist lawyer Phan Văn Trường, titled “Rule of Law and Rule of Decrees,” condemning the administration’s arbitrary treatment of the indigenous population. One of the paper’s early successes was an interview of the newly appointed socialist governor general, Alexandre Varenne, in which he urged the Vietnamese elite to be politically active.37 That same month the issue also ran an installment of the Constitutionalist-leaning “Cahier des voeux annamites” (Vietnamese Wish List), an enumeration of political demands signed by Vietnamese leaders. 38

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During the events of March and April 1926, L’Écho Annamite maintained a measured tone toward the colonial authorities. Given Nguyễn An Ninh’s arrest, this approach disappointed some segments of the public. In the April 3 issue, Long defended his position in the face of accusations of silence. Recently released from prison, Dejean de la Bâtie, the paper’s administrative manager ( gérant) and a regular contributor, urged the public to “trust our older leaders”—Long and Bùi Quang Chiêu—while waiting for the outcome of Ninh’s trial. On April 10 the paper published an interview of Chiêu, in which he urged the Vietnamese to remain “patient and disciplined.”39 Overall, running a daily paper somehow forced the editors to keep the newspaper as a consensual voice. Moreover, under pressure to produce more articles, Long was gradually relinquishing editorial control and turning the newspaper into a national forum of political information responsive to public expectations. L’Écho Annamite was becoming a collective editorial and commercial venture in order to serve a wide, paying audience, an enterprise involving investors, salaried journalists, and hired freelance editors. The paper accepted commercial advertisements to fund itself. After the events of spring 1926, the paper reinforced its position as a national publication of general interest. The front page was divided into two equal sections: one on domestic politics and one on international events. The second page covered provincial news, government announcements, and advertisements. Bùi Quang Chiêu wrote a regular column until his own paper, La Tribune Indochinoise, appeared in August 1926. A real journalistic coup occurred when the paper published an editorial by Phan Bội Châu in which the national leader, under house arrest in Huế, gave his conception of Pháp Việt đề huề (Franco-Vietnamese collaboration). He regarded the idea as possible only on the basis of equality between the two peoples—a prospect, he concluded, unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future.40 The very fact that L’Écho Annamite was able to feature contributions from such personalities showed Long’s desire to make it the most inclusive and consensual Vietnamese publication of opposition, at least in the French language. Importantly, the paper pioneered the use of a professional staff of specialized reporters. Dejean wrote about domestic politics; Long provided general analysis; and young freelance contributors such as Dường Văn Lời, Vương Quan Ngươn, Lê Văn Gông, Lê Trung Nghĩa, Nguyễn Văn Khánh (alias Paul Marchet), and Trần Văn Trí covered various specific topics. The paper had a correspondent ( phóng viên) in Laos, the young Hùynh Phúc Yên, future editor of the catholic Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh (Catholic Voice).41 The

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contributors each had a beat, covering topics such as international relations, economic emancipation, or cultural history. For instance, in early 1926 the newspaper presented a series of historical essays by the northern scholar Nguyễn Văn Tố: he covered topics from the ancient hydraulic system under the Nguyễn dynasty, to the country’s Cham heritage as displayed in the new Tourane Museum (now Đà Nẳng), and the tradition of Vietnamese popular songs.42 Tố broadened the scope of his investigation by writing about socialist movements in Europe; comparing colonial policies, notably French and Dutch; and reflecting on the educational system in Indochina.43 Among the most popular contributors was Dường Văn Lời, who wrote in-depth political editorials. In response to a lecture given by the liberal Paul Monet on education at the SEMC on June 16, 1926, Lời initiated a dialogue with the Frenchman.44 For two months the newspaper published this exchange. The discussion attracted record high readership and was later turned into a book by Monet and also reproduced as a bilingual pamphlet.45 Lời contended that although many French people had liberal intentions toward Vietnam, his compatriots should rely on their own strength to achieve their liberation from the “Machiavellian despotism” of the colonial administration. Lời did not favor revolution but recognized that the Vietnamese had lost patience. He predicted a violent conflict in the future. To Monet’s doubts about the ability of the Vietnamese people to self-rule, Lời replied that these weaknesses were outweighed by the burden his compatriots were now anxious to be rid of. The Vietnamese had their own leaders: “Enter at random any hut in the country. You will see that most of them hold in the most visible location portraits of Phan Văn Trường, Phan Châu Trinh, Bùi Quang Chiêu, Nguyễn An Ninh, and Phan Bội Châu.” 46 Another contributor to L’Écho Annamite was Paul Lê Văn Gông, who was posted to Tientsin, China, as an employee of the Banque Franco-Chinoise. From there he began sending regular contributions to L’Écho Annamite, in June 1926, on the theme of economic emancipation, which he regarded as essential in the transformation of China. In preparation for his return to Cochinchina at the end of August, Gông intensified his campaign by writing for L’Écho Annamite and La Tribune Indochinoise. For some time Gông and Lời alternated in writing front-page editorials for both newspapers. After the Colonial Council elections of October 1926 Gông announced the creation of a Vietnamese Credit Society (Société annamite de crédit). This was the beginning of an all-out campaign for the development of Vietnamese economic leadership. It was taken up by several newspapers, including the Marxist

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L’Annam. L’Écho Annamite was at the center of the initiatives of the established opposition press.47 L’Écho Annamite again jumped to the forefront of journalism with its investigative reporting. It was fortunate to have one of the most courageous reporters Vietnamese journalism had yet seen—Vương Quan Ngươn. Initially the paper’s correspondent in the Mekong Delta, Ngươn reported on repressive practices by local authorities. In the August 16, 1926, issue, he wrote a front-page story about the physical ill treatment of Vietnamese by Sûreté agents based in Mỹ Tho. Along with two photographs, the realistic writing described in detail various torture practices carried out by the local gendarmerie brigade chief, Rivera, whom Ngươn urged the authorities to dismiss. He also called upon the judicial authorities to carry out further investigations. The story had a major impact on Vietnamese public opinion.48 Ngươn’s work was immediately reproduced and translated by other opposition newspapers, including L’Annam, Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times), and La Tribune Indochinoise. He was given the designation “L’Écho Annamite’s correspondent.” A few days later Ngươn investigated an allegation by the liberal lawyer Maître Gallet in the Colonial Council regarding the involvement of former governor Cognacq in forging public documents.49 In the October 20, 1927, issue Ngươn’s byline appeared with another investigative article that dealt with the “Phú Riêng tragedy,” in which a Frenchman was killed by rubber plantation workers. The article demonstrated a number of flaws in the French inquiry. A true sign of Ngươn’s reputation, it was again promptly reproduced by other papers. Government retaliation was swift. In November 1926 Ngươn was beaten up by Sûreté agents.50 On January 27, 1927, an article reported that the “correspondent” was being sued by the authorities, and in April he was ordered to pay a fine of two hundred francs. This did not deter Ngươn, who wrote a searing description of the harsh treatment of Vietnamese political prisoners that was published in November.51 Ngươn and later Nguyễn Văn Bá set new standards for professional journalism in their use of evidence of systemic arbitrariness and manipulation on the part of the colonial administration, the police, and the judiciary. The popularity of these investigative journalists showed a new level of maturity among Vietnamese readers searching for alternatives to moralistic politics. From 1927 on, virulent anticolonial editorials dominated L’Écho Annamite’s columns. In the March 9 issue Nguyễn Phan Long used Marxist terminology in roundly condemning the intrinsic immorality of colonialism.52

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This quasi-revolutionary rhetoric was not fortuitous. It appeared in a context of extreme tension between the moderate and the radical groups, each with plans to hold separate ceremonies commemorating the fi rst anniversary of Phan Châu Trinh’s death.53 In November Varenne’s departure gave L’Écho Annamite an opportunity to attack the outgoing socialist governor general, whom Dejean and Long depicted as a puppet of French capitalist interests.54 Long was merciless in his denunciation of the man whom, two years earlier, he had greeted with optimism when tendering the list of Vietnamese “wishes.” He understood that Varenne’s refusal to meet such moderate demands effectively blocked nonradical action for reform, which he himself supported.55 In response to the announced appointment of Varenne’s successor in June 1928, the June 19 issue of L’Écho carried this frontpage headline: “Who Will Be the Next Governor General? The Vietnamese People Couldn’t Care Less.” Three days later Long went further: “In this colony of systematic exploitation, an unrepentant conservative and a militant socialist are the same. Sarraut, Long, Merlin, Varenne are all the same breed. The Vietnamese must expect nothing from the lying liberalism of this imperialist and greedy government.” In a style reminiscent of Nguyễn An Ninh or Trần Huy Liệu, the author quoted an article from the Toulouse-based L’Avenir de l’Annam:56 “Only the masses count. Let us educate them in the true revolutionary way. Let us organize them, as it is only organization that can bring us back freedom.”57 This strong anticolonial stand benefited the newspaper’s sales. L’Écho Annamite had become the most read Vietnamese opposition title in French. Dejean was now the director-administrator, while Long continued to head the editorial team.58 As director, Long had become a powerful political figure to be reckoned with. His skill at transcending contributors’ different viewpoints succeeded in establishing the paper as a publication of quality for the Vietnamese opposition to the French. This accomplishment demonstrated the increasing professionalization of the Vietnamese independent political press and its inexorable evolution to the Left. In mid-October 1928 Long sold L’Écho Annamite. The reason is not entirely clear, although the selling corresponds to his investment in a new newspaper in quốc ngữ, following the same formula that had made L’Écho Annamite successful: Đuốc Nhà Nam (The Vietnamese Flame). L’Écho Annamite’s November 5 issue briefly mentioned that the paper “enjoyed the support of large French trading companies as advertisers.” It was ironic and a clear sign of its commercial success that the Vietnamese newspaper that built its reputation on

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having anticolonial politics attracted French investments. Under Dejean’s direction, L’Écho Annamite strove to maintain the editorial and commercial track Long had established. The paper remained a moderate opposition publication while continuing to serve as a popular outlet for radical “pens” like those of Dương Văn Lời, Nguyễn Văn Bá, and Võ Khắc Thiệu. With Long gone, however, the paper progressively lost its appeal, and its role as Saigon’s main daily publication of opposition diminished. L’Écho Annamite closed its doors in 1931.59

Indochina Times—Morning Bell Three years after L’Écho Annamite turned into a daily, Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) created another journalistic revolution. In its third reincarnation, the paper again became a model for its independence and innovative editorial qualities while expanding its coverage throughout Vietnam. The diverse backgrounds of the editorial staff contrasted with those of other papers. As with L’Écho Annamite, the final mutation of Indochina Times was largely determined by the need to target an increasingly politicized yet diverse audience. The paper staked out its position by shifting from being a political forum to being a reliable source of information on a wide range of topics, including literature, women’s issues, and sports. The underlying pattern of this evolution was strikingly evident after Diệp Văn Kỳ purchased the journal in September 1927. Following Trần Huy Liệu’s departure, the total print run had dropped from 10,000 to 6,000 copies. A year later, circulation returned to 10,000, where it stayed until early 1928. Public demand for qualitative information soared and pushed up Indochina Times’ print runs. Yet, like most other newspapers, it was in constant financial straits. The colonial administration’s practice of intercepting mail and harassing readers resulted in a large number of unpaid subscriptions. A newly assertive censorship regime and a range of aggressive antipress legal provisions added to the difficulties. Increased competition among newspapers was another factor. From mid-1926 to early 1929, at least eight new quốc ngữ magazines and newspapers appeared or reappeared, making it difficult for any one paper to claim to represent a unified Vietnamese voice against the colonial order. After Liệu’s departure in August, the paper became less confrontational, a policy favored by its owner, Nguyễn Kim Đính, who had become an open

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supporter of the Constitutionalists and of Bùi Quang Chiêu’s newly founded La Tribune Indochinoise.60 A southern entrepreneur-journalist who sought to reconcile his politics with his business interests, Đính was, however, open to new experiments. His appointment of Bùi Thế Mỹ as editor in chief signaled Indochina Times’ new direction.61 Formerly a teacher at Nguyễn Phan Long’s private school, Mỹ was writing for L’Écho Annamite when he met Liệu in January 1926 in the Annam Youth Party. Another new face at Indochina Times was the southern poet and journalist Lâm Tấn Phác, better known by his pen name, Đông Hồ, who enjoyed national recognition for his poetry in quốc ngữ. His editorials were devoted to issues of language, education, and literature.62 Throughout his time at Indochina Times, he ran an experimental private school, the School of Intellectual and Moral Learning (Trí Đức Học Xá), in the southwestern part of Cochinchina. Another contributor was Lê Trung Nghĩa. In spring 1926 the young drawing teacher was expelled from the Bến Tre primary school for supporting students who were mourning Phan Châu Trinh. The incident led to his start in political journalism as a cartoonist. He drew for La Tribune Indochinoise and Indochina Times and later the Constitutionalist-leaning newspaper Đuốc Nhà Nam (Southern Flame). The use of political sketches on the front page of a quốc ngữ newspaper was a new and powerful instrument of political journalism. Some of Nghĩa’s caricatures of political adversaries—the conservative director of L’Impartial, de la Chevrotière, Governor Cognacq, or the pro-government Lê Quang Trinh—helped to demystify for the public personalities associated with the colonial regime. The political stance of the post–Trần Huy Liệu Indochina Times was that of a close alignment with the moderate opposition. In the August 18, 1926, issue, an article signed by Nguyễn Kim Đính, titled “The Constitutionalist Party” (“Lập Hiến Đảng”), praised Bùi Quang Chiêu as the natural leader of the Vietnamese opposition. In preparation for the October Colonial Council elections, Bùi Thế Mỹ wrote numerous articles calling on readers to support the program of French-Vietnamese collaboration advocated by the party.63 Indochina Times provided information on organizations close to Chiêu, like the association of people originating from the Bến Tre region.64 From October 1926 until the middle of 1927 the newspaper followed a campaign initiated by La Tribune Indochinoise and L’Écho Annamite in favor of the creation of a Vietnamese bank, as advocated by the economist Lê Văn Gông. As late as August 1927 the newspaper was still reporting to its readers on the Constitutionalist Party congress, which had convened in Paris under the chairmanship of a lawyer with French citizenship, Dương Văn Giáo.65 Like L’Écho

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Annamite, however, Indochina Times was pressed to provide a forum for a diverse range of opinions. It published speeches presented at the Mutual Education Society of Cochinchina66 and opinions from national political figures such as Huỳnh Thúc Khắnh and Phan Bội Châu.67 A pamphlet by Trần Huy Liệu, titled “Model of Patriotism” (“Tấm Gương Ái Quốc”), in which he continued to advocate the Chinese strategy of one unified “national party,” was serialized in August and September 1926. During this period the newspaper introduced an important innovation in the quốc ngữ press—the interview. It was not necessarily overtly political, as seen, for instance, in the literary interview of the southern novelist and journalist Hồ Biêu Chánh (pen name for Hồ Văn Trung) on the release of his latest novel, Tiền Bạc (Money).68 The newspaper also advocated social issues in a true constitutionalist way by calling on rich Vietnamese to meet their patriotic responsibilities by contributing to causes such as scholarships for poor students to study in France.69 In the August 2, 1926, issue Nguyễn Phan Long chose Indochina Times to denounce the system of tax cards for the poor, which had given rise to a large group of people without official records. Local political events such as the authorities’ forced closure of the radical opposition newspaper Tân Thế Kỷ (New Century) and the subsequent protests in April and May 1927 were covered in detail by the Indochina Times.70 Indochina Times’ transformation as a journal d’information accelerated dramatically in September 1927, when the retour de France Diệp Văn Kỳ bought the majority stake in the newspaper. Born in 1894 to the former court interpreter Diệp Văn Cương and a princess of royal blood, Kỳ had a doctorate in law from the University of Paris and had served as the vice president of the Constitutionalist Party in France in 1925.71 As a result of his father’s naturalization he also had French citizenship. He was one of the rare Saigon journalists of his generation to have acquired higher education in both the traditional Vietnamese and the Western educational systems. After failing the 1918 examination session in Huế, he left for Paris in 1920 for further schooling. Upon his return in 1926, Kỳ’s father-in-law, the wealthy landowner Lê Quang Hiên from Sa Đéc, financed the acquisition of his own political newspaper. Originally sympathetic to the Constitutionalists, he astutely positioned himself more clearly to the Left as Vietnamese politics shifted toward radical opposition. He was a savvy journalist-entrepreneur who wanted to map out his own political path. Fearing his intentions, Sûreté agents closely monitored Kỳ’s efforts to buy Indochina Times. They rightly suspected the young man of devising a broad

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political plan that involved a newspaper, a publishing house called Nhà xuất bản Bảo Tôn [(National) Preservation Printing House], a public reading room or library, and a team of dedicated activists.72 Having failed to buy Indochina Times in an earlier bid or to acquire a permit for a new paper, Kỳ struck a deal with Đính on September 6, 1927, for the huge sum of twenty thousand piastres for codirectorship of the latter’s paper. The transaction was the biggest ever for a quốc ngữ newspaper, and Kỳ found it necessary to mortgage eight of his father-in-law’s houses in Saigon. The deal attested to the recognized economic and social significance of the press, particularly for an independent title boasting a substantial readership. The government’s restrictive policy toward quốc ngữ newspapers also meant that only a few licensed titles were available, hence the high price Đính was required to pay. In addition, Indochina Times had a reputation for editorial integrity and political independence. Đính remained manager and legal owner of the paper, while Kỳ worked as publisher until the paper’s closure in December 1928. After five years in France, Kỳ knew that a newspaper’s success depends above all on the quality of its editorial content. To make Indochina Times the best newspaper he could, he deployed a comprehensive marketing and journalism strategy. With political credentials and money, he put together a team of prestigious names who could raise the paper to national status. He first convinced the famous elderly Hanoi-based poet Nguyễn Khắc Hiếu (pen name Tản Đà) to come down to Saigon. Tản Đà was an eccentric figure whose poems celebrated the virtues of free love and wine and evoked to many of his compatriots a past innocence. His literary magazine, An Nam Tạp Chí (Vietnam Magazine), was in financial difficulty. In Saigon he was put in charge of Indochina Times’ literary supplement, an unprecedented newspaper section that ran until mid-1928. To the readers’ delight, Tản Đà’s poetry and literary articles were now regularly published. Another prestigious name in the newspaper’s columns was that of the northern novelist Ngô Tất Tố, who was known for his translations of Chinese novels into quốc ngữ and for writing novels about ordinary life in Tonkin. Invited south by Kỳ, Ngô Tất Tố lived in Saigon from 1927 to 1929, writing short stories and literary articles. A number of Tố’s novels were exclusively serialized in Indochina Times’ columns, which introduced his work to a wide audience. The paper created the first major literary presence of northern authors in a press landscape more familiar with southern short story writers and novelists. Diệp Văn Kỳ’s invitation to these established northern writers to work for his newspaper was part of a strategy to broaden its circulation to the

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whole of Vietnam. Indochina Times could be run from Saigon, where it benefited from advantageous economic conditions and looser government restrictions. Its scope, however, was national and addressed readers across the country and beyond.73 Kỳ inaugurated a trend in the Vietnamese literary economy in which, to be nationally recognized, writers from the northern and central parts of the country ought to be published in Saigon. The other interesting aspect of this strategy was the fact that Kỳ, like Nguyễn Kim Đính before him, was willing to involve collaborators who were not necessarily committed to day-to-day public action but were well known for their literary and intellectual achievements among educated circles. Indochina Times targeted an educated, well-to-do national audience that was interested in more than just current political issues. Above all, Kỳ’s editorial policy showed a professional understanding of how to run a modern newspaper. Under his supervision, a clear distinction was drawn between informing and educating the public. He divided Indochina Times into two parts. One section was devoted to current affairs, political editorials, comprehensive news coverage, and international reports, which accounted for at least half of the contents of the section. The other part consisted of regular supplements featuring three themes of social modernization: women, literature, and sports. Long moralistic lectures gave way to in-depth analysis and reportage, leaving it up to readers to exercise their own judgment. The paper enjoyed a reputation for objectivity even as it held to a strong anticolonial line with a nationalistic and anticommunist, populist accent. An article dated November 3, 1927, for example, compared Vietnam’s status as a colony to that of “slavery.” Like the former president of the metropolitan branch of the Constitutionalist Party, Dương Văn Giáo, Kỳ regularly called for consensus and unity among the Vietnamese national opposition and particularly among quốc ngữ journalists.74 In October 1927 he even proposed the creation of a unified nationalist party along the lines set by Gíao in France.75 Much of the paper’s international news came from the semiofficial news agency ARIP. The broad and regular coverage ranged far and wide: a portrait of Indian writer and thinker Rabindranath Tagore;76 the life of the “founding father” of modern Turkey, Mustapha Kemal;77 a report on German field marshal von Hindenburg;78 a presentation on the British Labor Party;79 and a thorough description of internal Russian political developments.80 The turmoil in China attracted serious interest, particularly the activities of the Kuomintang Party under its new leader, Chiang Kai Shek.81

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The newspaper regarded the party and its anticommunist campaign as a worthy political model for Vietnam. Although the paper’s editors welcomed French communist sources denouncing colonialism, Mao Zedong’s movement did not appeal to them. News of other Western colonies figured regularly in the paper. It reported on a European interparliamentary committee that recommended independence for the Philippines.82 On French domestic politics, articles generally offered the Vietnamese public an insightful appreciation of the underlying political forces at play in the métropole. Anticolonial positions taken by French public figures, including representatives of the French Communist Party, were regularly published.83 Indochina Times attempted to present the international scene, including events in the “mother country,” from a Vietnamese perspective. For the new publisher, there was little doubt that Vietnam was a major international player-in-waiting and needed to have a well-informed public opinion. In its coverage of domestic politics, the newspaper emulated L’Écho Annamite by practicing “objective” journalistic inquiry and challenging the colonial political machinery’s claims to impartiality. After the Phú Riềng affair in February 1928, the paper questioned the convictions. On the announcement of the death sentence handed down to Trần Duy Tu, who was accused of having killed the Michelin rubber plantation agent Monteil, Indochina Times printed the convicted man’s words: “I would rather die than endure more of this.”84 Indochina Times also showed solidarity with newspapers under duress from the state. In response to the July 1928 trial of the young editors of La jeune Indochine, Kỳ enabled its publisher, Nguyễn Đức Long, to present his views on the closure of his paper. 85 In the November 15 issue, Indochina Times printed a list of all of the publications that had been banned in the central territory of Annam. These stories, presented in the form of investigative research, undermined the French colonial system’s façade of impartiality and its claims of fairness. In August 1928 Diệp Văn Kỳ asked the young Nguyễn Văn Bá, who was on staff at L’Écho Annamite, to become the new editor in chief. A southerner, Bá began his career as a professor at the Teacher School in Gia Định. In 1924 he quit his job to work as a journalist and writer while continuing to teach at Vietnamese-owned private schools such as the Hủynh Công Phát Institution. Author of numerous novels, Bá was another example of a young educated Vietnamese who gave up the security of the civil service to work in political journalism. The new editor in chief’s first full-scale investigation was the case of Nguyễn An Ninh’s arrest on October 3, 1928. The reports

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disputed the colonial regime’s claim of the existence of a so-called Nguyễn An Ninh Secret Society with communist leanings. According to Bá, Ninh was not an activist revolutionary but a religious and idealistic figure who was a victim of the blatant miscarriage of justice by the Sûreté. Beginning with the October 4 issue, articles appeared for two months and included an interview with Ninh in prison. The newspaper’s conclusion was that the Nguyễn An Ninh Secret Society only existed in the imaginations of the authorities and writers at conservative colonial newspapers.86 Social and cultural questions concerning Vietnam also interested Indochina Times, which published articles on the spread of Caodaism, religious freedom, and the necessity of reforming Buddhism.87 In agreement with the Constitutionalist newspapers, Indochina Times emphasized the principle of solidarity among “compatriots” of all origins and social standings. It participated in flood relief effort in northern Vietnam in January 1928. The paper also sponsored a scholarship fund campaign to send poor Vietnamese students to study in France.88 In response to the growing question of women’s place in the modern public sphere, Indochina Times created a regular supplement titled “Women and Children” (“Phụ trương Phụ nữ và Nhi đồng”). While only a few women were able to read quốc ngữ newspapers a decade previously, many now were engaging in debates about their education, their role in Vietnamese society, and their own capacity to enact social change as women and citizens of a changing nation.89 The subject of women had been raised by numerous authors, particularly in the north, by writers such as Nguyễn Văn Vinh and Phạm Quỳnh.90 The matter first appeared in the Saigon press in November 1917 with the launch of Women’s Bell (Nữ Giới Chung). It remained a concern for a number of Saigon journalists, notably Cao Văn Chánh, who, as early as 1923, started a regular women’s section, titled “Women’s Forum” (“Phụ nữ diễn đàn”) in The Southern Economic Journal. Whereas Chánh used the forum as part of an antigovernment political agenda, Kỳ’s initiative resulted from his recognition that women were increasingly interested in taking part in the general debate and that they comprised a substantial segment of his paying readers. Instead of taking sides on issues related to women, he provided a platform for debate where various subjects were openly addressed. An article published on January 5, 1928, by Vị Ngã from Trà Vinh generated heated controversy. Not only did she call for the recognition of the rights of women, but she also laid out a program of action for achieving them. The first step would be to educate women to question their role and position in society. Existing structures such as the Society of

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Mutual Education of Cochinchina or a newspaper devoted to the cause of women would be essential. Once the public was sufficiently aware of the question, concrete action should follow. An organization of women should be set up as an autonomous political body. The author acknowledged that most Vietnamese women remained socially passive. Nonetheless, for Vị Ngã, as for Nguyễn An Ninh and Trần Huy Liệu before her, it was up to the new generation to take full responsibility for changing history. Female journalists and contributors also considered more general social issues such as economic development and education. In spite of his journalistic innovations, Kỳ faced difficulties in running the newspaper. Although the circumstances surrounding the closure of Indochina Times are not clear, and no figures are available, its circulation began to decline in early 1928. Sûreté reported that the paper was in chronic financial difficulty and that the newspaper’s printer, Ardin, was threatening to stop printing unless Kỳ paid his debts immediately. In June, Kỳ had to travel to the Mekong Delta to collect on unpaid subscriptions.91 As with other newspapers, this was a real problem for independent Vietnamese newspapers because of the authorities’ interception of mail and their intimidation of readers of “subversive papers.” Threats of having one’s license withdrawn at any time, having articles removed by the Sûreté’s censorship bureau, or, worst of all, being sued for defamation or “action aimed at disrupting public order” always hung over the newspaper’s owner. This constant harassment limited the scope and depth of the journalism and reduced the readership. To these precarious conditions was added the unfair competition of always more accessible, subsidized, pro-government titles like The Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn). Despite his wife’s family’s financial assets, Kỳ had to operate within the tight economic constraints associated with running an independent quốc ngữ periodical. During this difficult period, Kỳ sought to launch a newspaper that he would run without Nguyễn Kim Đính. After an unsuccessful application in April 1927, a year later he was granted the right to launch his own paper, Thần Chung (Morning Bell). Sûreté documents reveal that, while waiting for his application to be processed, Kỳ had been implementing a policy of self-censorship with Indochina Times.92 In January 1929 Morning Bell premiered with Bùi Thế Mỹ, Nguyễn Văn Bá, and Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu as the new editing team. They were joined by the erudite and revolutionary Phan Khôi and the young Marxist philosopher Phan Văn Hùm, among other well-known “pens.”93 Kỳ’s ambition to turn Indochina Times into a national mass-circulation paper worthy of its Parisian

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models—grands journaux d’information—was carried over to the new daily sheet. For a paper appearing five times a week, Morning Bell displayed a wide range of original contributions. The topics covered were the same found in Indochina Times, yet the increase in political tension in Vietnam at the end of the decade gave the new daily a more combative character than its predecessor. This was particularly true during the insurrectional events taking place in the north with the Yên Báy mutiny of February 1930.94 Renewed repressive policy by the authorities led the paper to assert itself more defiantly, reinforcing its central position as one of the nation’s main information providers. This meant more articles censored and a risk of being forcibly suspended at any time. The general tone of the paper and the stories it ran aimed to mobilize patriotic sentiments. References to acts of resistance to arbitrary power in different societies and times encouraged readers to better identify their condition as an oppressed nation while they effectively avoided censorship.95 The paper paid dearly for its audacity: numerous articles or sections of articles were cut off. Sûreté’s internal correspondence shows, however, that Morning Bell ’s editors excelled in complicating the censors’ job, leading to friction between them.96 In addition to domestic and international news, more space was devoted to cultural and educational topics. As subjects of national education, Confucianism, Buddhist teaching, and history were raised to prominence, thanks especially to Phan Khôi and Nguyễn Văn Bá.97 At some point, a vigorous debate over the standardization of Vietnamese relegated nearly all other subjects. The insistence that quốc ngữ be exclusively based on the northern dialect in both its lexical and pronounced forms, announced future policies on linguistic centralization.98 Though of short duration, Morning Bell’s journalistic adventure was a major success. At the time of its forced closure, Diệp Văn Kỳ claimed it had 8,000 subscribers and nearly 25,000 readers, making it the most popular newspaper in the colony.99 These numbers were exaggerated: in fact, 15,000 copies per issue were sold, which, for a daily, was very high. The use of a national political information and opinion forum, which Kỳ first experimented with in Indochina Times, had been refined by the daily Morning Bell to the point where the authorities could not let it continue.100 Diệp Văn Kỳ’s Indochina Times and Morning Bell and Nguyễn Phan Long’s L’Écho Annamite shared a number of features. Both aimed at and ultimately succeeded in operating as national political forums. They established themselves as representatives of a unified Vietnamese opposition to the colonial

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order. More than that, and increasingly so after 1926, they aimed at presenting a Vietnamese perspective of the world in which their readers were living. This was true of domestic Vietnamese politics and also of the international and French political scenes. Analysis of international political affairs and their implications for Vietnam featured prominently. These trends followed parallel ones found in French newspapers, including the colonial press. The difference was that L’Écho Annamite and Indochina Times acted as essential national publications that were able to transcend the divisive nature of colonialism. They did not aspire only to “defend” Vietnamese interests but also to present a Vietnamese—albeit urban middle-class—worldview, which had to confront the anachronistic and debilitating consequences of the colonial occupation of the country. To establish themselves as credible sources of information, the two newspapers made use of new techniques: interviews, in-depth debates on and analysis of current affairs, investigative journalism, and high-quality literary entertainment—all done with exceptional professionalism. Columnists used investigative journalism for political action and came into contact with new social realities and populations, such as the laboring class at shipyards and on rubber plantations. Reportage replaced moralistic and impassioned incantations. In the process, these papers pioneered the professionalization of journalism. Diệp Văn Kỳ and Nguyễn Phan Long showed remarkable skill in adapting to the new challenges by forging their newspapers into national publications capable of informing, entertaining, educating, and ultimately mobilizing an increasingly diverse Vietnamese public. The two men acquired experience in marketing and commercial techniques. They identified specific reading populations such as women, youth, and northerners, all the while maintaining the southern Vietnamese middle class as their core supporters. To turn this urban middle class into a loyal audience, Kỳ and Long recruited well-known national writers. A number of increasingly familiar “signatures” such as Nguyễn Văn Bá, Vương Quan Ngươn, and Dường Văn Lời wrote for the two newspapers and, ultimately, other Saigon sheets.101 As national publications, the two newspapers widened the range of subjects they covered. Reporting on the political situation, they differentiated between domestic and international news, with the latter focusing on China and France. The papers supplemented material from the colonial news agency ARIP with a wide range of well-documented analysis. As a result of investigative inquiries by dedicated contributors, social issues in Vietnam

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became a new focus. Influenced by the rise of Marxism, a genre of reportage developed in the 1930s to document the conditions of industrial workers and farmers. Intellectual and cultural subjects became objects of animated debates among contributors and readers. This openness to differences of opinion stood in marked contrast to the ideological polarization between “bourgeois” and Marxist worldviews often found in the following decade. Entertainment news about Vietnamese and international sports events became a way of establishing their identities as national independent political newspapers. These changes in the practice of journalism transformed the Saigon press. The innovations undertaken at Indochina Times/Morning Bell and L’Écho Annamite were soon also found in newspapers such as Bùi Quang Chiêu’s La Tribune Indochinoise and Phan Văn Trường’s L’Annam, which I discuss in the next section. Nguyễn Phan Long and Diệp Văn Kỳ had the foresight to know that what mattered most for their papers was their capacity to create an inclusive political outlook with which a majority of readers could identify.

A Radicalized “Opinion Press” The reframing of Saigon’s public sphere following the events of spring 1926 saw a parallel evolution toward the constitution of ideologically marked “opinion newspapers” ( journaux d’opinion). This type of newspaper arguably was the distinctive sort of Vietnamese political journalism that had first appeared in 1917. Papers such as La Tribune Indigène, La Cloche Fêlée, Indochina Times (under Trần Huy Liệu), or the Southern Economist were all journaux d’opinion. They were the enterprises of one or two publisher-writers and a few collaborators who were following a single political agenda. With their collective forums, contributions by specialists, broad political orientation, and clear commercial strategy that would appeal to a diverse readership, they contrasted with the journaux d’information. After the events of spring 1926, “opinion newspapers” located themselves within an ideologically diversified spectrum of opposition. As we have seen, the Vietnamese public opposition that took shape in Saigon had divided along “moderate” and “radical” affiliations. The Constitutionalists, in spite of their harsh rhetoric against the colonized state of Vietnam, represented the moderate force, while individuals associated with the Annam Youth Party and followers of Nguyễn An Ninh and Trần Huy Liệu embraced the

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radical approach. If this division was at times determined by generation and social origins, the main difference was increasingly ideological. This movement toward political polarization resulted to a large extent from the growing influence of Marxist and socialist theories on many journalists, a response to the authorities’ resistance to political dialogue and the colon newspapers’ anticommunist hysteria. Moreover, the rise of communist movements in Europe and Asia, particularly in France and China, was beginning to directly impact politics in the Far Eastern colony. During this steady slide toward the constitution of ideologically marked newspapers, La Tribune Indochinoise and L’Annam rose to prominence. Both papers were marked by the political imprint of their publisher. At L’Annam, Phan Văn Trừơng’s crypto-Marxist ideas pervaded the editorial line. At La Tribune Indochinoise, by contrast, Bùi Quang Chiêu’s inability to depart from the Sarrautian ideology of “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration” led to his increasingly frustrating posture toward both the authorities and left-leaning intellectuals on his team . Used to the old way of doing political journalism, the two publishers shared an increasing sense of isolation, particularly with regard to the successful press of information and a new journalistic trend of mass mobilization.

La Tribune Indochinoise In appearance, La Tribune Indochinoise was the natural successor to La Tribune Indigène, Vietnam’s first independent political newspaper, founded in 1917 by Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phú Khai with the tacit support of Governor General Albert Sarraut. The paper closed in January 1925 when Chiêu, then a high-ranking civil servant in the colonial agronomic services, went to France on unpaid leave after refusing an administrative transfer that would have kept him away from political activity. Upon returning to Saigon, Chiêu launched La Tribune Indochinoise on August 9, 1926. Nguyễn Kim Đính, then owner and publisher of Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo), provided the funds and became the manager and owner of the new paper as well.102 However influential a national figure Chiêu had become, it was vital for him to resume his own newspaper. This was particularly pressing as his longtime ally—and rival—in the Constitutionalist circles, Nguyễn Phan Long, had during his absence risen in prominence by controlling L’Écho Annamite and turning it into a successful daily. By contrast, La Tribune Indochinoise’s

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circulation averaged fewer than two thousand copies per issue, barely half of L’Écho Annamite’s daily circulation. Chiêu’s journalistic approach differed significantly from Long’s. The former saw himself as leader of a movement that was integrated into the legal political framework tolerated by the colonial regime. In his eyes, the movement operated through three interconnected channels: the Constitutionalist Party, La Tribune Indochinoise, and the affiliated circles that revolved around him. Accordingly, Chiêu’s sense of political legitimacy derived from three main sources: the paper’s readership, the government’s tacit recognition of his special role, and, above all, electoral results. The Constitutionalist Party was his creation and the main justification for his public action. Although this movement had no real popular base and never represented more than a few people closely connected to Chiêu, it was a political force within the restricted colonial representative framework, especially the Colonial Council. In 1926 Chiêu’s strategy was to tap into the new forces unleashed by the events of the spring in order to strengthen his legitimacy as the main Vietnamese intermediary with the colonial government. Consistent with the official Sarrautian policy of “Franco-Vietnamese collaboration” and mindful of the past importance of La Tribune Indigène, Chiêu wanted to revive the “organ of the Constitutionalist Party” with the immediate purpose of winning the Colonial Council elections set for October.103 Unsurprisingly, La Tribune Indochinoise was the Vietnamese newspaper that followed the Colonial Council elections most closely. The campaign first appeared in the paper’s columns on September 1. During this period, La Tribune Indochinoise maintained the same elitist political style that had characterized its predecessor in the immediate postwar period. Much of its editorial content was devoted to initiatives by members of the Vietnamese bourgeoisie: creation of private schools, lectures at the Cochinchina Mutual Education Society, and proceedings of the Saigon Chamber of Commerce. The election of all ten candidates put up by the party, all from the affluent bourgeoisie, seemed to mark Chiêu’s political triumph. In the October 11 issue of La Tribune Indochinoise, Chiêu proudly displayed the portraits of all of the winners, with his own photo in a prominent position, emphasizing his uncontested leadership. He compared his party’s victory with the popular demonstration that had taken place on his return from France seven months earlier: “We can now say that the Vietnamese population has unan-

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imously endorsed our policy of Franco-Vietnamese collaboration, in the same way as it did on March 24 [of 1926].”104 Chiêu saw the party’s electoral results as directly connected with the number of copies of La Tribune Indochinoise sold. The newspaper’s editorial strategy focused on the concerns of the Cochinchinese bourgeoisie, who had elected him and his candidates. The problem was that Chiêu was increasingly alone in the belief that “native” political progress could be achieved through the colonial electoral process. His failure to acknowledge that the basis of his support was extremely limited seemed to reflect a very narrow worldview. The following excerpt from La Tribune Indochinoise demonstrates his elitism: If one accepts that Vietnamese voters are businessmen, landowners, notables, members of municipal councils, graduates of various schools, canton chiefs and underchiefs, civil servants—that is, all who think, possess and trade and contribute to the national life above the illiterate proletariat (which is still provisionally removed from national elections)—then it is no longer possible to claim that the Constitutionalists do not represent the genuine aspirations of the Vietnamese people.105

Bùi Quang Chiêu had difficulty adapting to the new mood of radical anticolonialism that was now prevalent among young journalists. Yet, as he soon realized this, he began to engage in some tactical rapprochement with a few of them. With the hiring of Dương Văn Lời, Lê Trung Nghĩa, Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu, and Trần Văn Trí, La Tribune Indochinoise took a more radical approach independent of Chiêu’s personal politics. Like Long before him, Chiêu was willing to let La Tribune Indochinoise express a range of views in order to attract a larger segment of the public, particularly the educated youth. As with L’Écho Annamite, this was an attempt to transform the newspaper into a national forum. However, Chiêu was reluctant to relinquish control of the editorials on constitutional policy and “serious” matters like international politics. Trần Văn Trí and Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu wrote vehemently critical articles about the colonial regime, while Lê Trung Nghĩa’s ferocious drawings illustrated the first page. Dương Văn Lời and later Dương Văn Giáo took the middle ground. Chiêu hired Ngẩu specifically to “radicalize” the profile of La Tribune Indochinoise. Trained as a school teacher, the twenty-two-year-old had been fired

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from his job at Sa Đéc School for disruptive behavior. In Saigon he wrote for L’Écho Annamite and L’Indochine. In August 1926 he joined La Tribune Indochinoise and quickly seized the opportunity to directly confront the conservative director of L’Impartial, de la Chevrotière.106 In October, Ngẩu piggybacked onto the campaign for economic emancipation developed in L’Écho Annamite and La Tribune Indochinoise to aggressively call for a boycott of all French goods.107 He initially did not have Chiêu’s full support, “[o]wing to the limited scope allowed for my pessimistic views by my director.”108 With time, however, Chiêu grew accustomed to his impatient colleague, aware that he needed him to ensure the credibility of the paper as a true opposition publication. In March 1927, following the forced closure of the quốc ngữ newspaper New Century (Tân Thế Kỷ) by the authorities, Ngẩu stood at the forefront of the demonstrations. In the May 9, 1927, issue of La Tribune Indochinoise he issued a solemn call to fight against “imperialist colonialism.”109 As a result of his politics, Ngẩu was finally arrested and sentenced to two weeks in jail.110 His intransigence made him a popular figure in the politicized circles of Saigon.111 This popularity annoyed Chiêu, making it impossible for Ngẩu to continue working at the paper.112 He quit in August and left for France in September, with Diệp Văn Kỳ’s financial support.113 Another sign of Chiêu’s purely opportunistic support of radical anticolonial opposition was his appointment of his own nephew, Trần Văn Trí, as La Tribune Indochinoise’s editor in chief on January 1, 1927. Originally from Tonkin, Trí followed his uncle’s path by graduating from the Lycée d’Alger and training as an agricultural engineer in Paris. There he was familiar with revolutionary circles that included Nguyễn Ái Quốc and prominent activists such as Phan Văn Trường and Nguyễn Thế Truyền. He returned to Saigon in 1926. His appointment at La Tribune Indochinoise was a subterfuge, for Chiêu had no intention of abandoning his editorial direction of the paper. It was also a way for Chiêu to control the turbulent Ngẩu.114 A political polemicist, Trí had on occasion made vigorous attacks against the colonial regime. Influenced by Marxism, he accused the authorities of “imperialism,” “colonialism,” and “exploitation.” A Freemason like his uncle, Trí also wrote articles in favor of Caodaism. By 1928, his name appeared less frequently. He finally broke his political alliance with Chiêu and left the newspaper in March 1930. Two years later, French intelligence discovered that Trí had been a member of the Nguyễn Ái Quốc–led Vietnam Revolutionary Youth Organization (Việt Nam Cách mệnh Thanh niên Hội) and, after 1930, of the Indochinese Communist Party.115 His departure revealed the fragility of Chiêu’s

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attempts to recruit and retain young radical activist writers on his newspaper staff. Lê Trung Nghĩa, a sketch artist, was another figure Chiêu hired for the vigor of his anticolonial politics. Cartoons had proven effective as an instrument of political propaganda since the days of the anti-Chinese boycott, notably in La Tribune Indigène and Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum). These cartoons made a particular impact when placed on the front page. The first drawings Nghĩa did for La Tribune Indochinoise expressed general sentiments or ideas that would appeal to a large public. For the September 3, 1926, issue, Nghĩa represented a young man in prison with a chain around his neck. The caption said, “The Vietnamese conscience under the colonial republic’s rule.” The figure was obviously that of Nguyễn An Ninh, who was under arrest at that time.116 Another sketch represented a dying Phan Châu Trinh, beside whom a Vietnamese woman wept. The caption said, “For having loved his country so much.”117 Nghĩa’s cartoons became increasingly overtly critical of the colonial establishment. His favorite targets were Cochinchina’s député Outrey, the conservative journalist Lê Quang Trình, de la Chevrotière, Governor Blanchard de la Brosse, and his still remembered predecessor, Cognacq. In March 1927 he began including the figure of Governor General Varenne. Perhaps because Nghĩa’s cartoons were only sketches, Chiêu did not feel as threatened by him as he was by Ngẩu’s or Trí’s articles. The Tân Thế Kỷ (New Century) affair provided Chiêu with an opportunity to join the radical youth in a more emphatic anticolonial stance. The socialist governor general had initiated a wave of repression that made quốc ngữ editors bristle. In January 1927, during the trial over the illegal publication Le Nhà Quê, Chiêu noted the “terror” measures used by the government, although he expressed his disagreement with “the verbal violence displayed by a few young compatriots.”118 In May, La Tribune Indochinoise reprinted an article from L’Annam: the Annam Youth Party’s “Open Demand for the French to Evacuate Indochina.”119 On June 3 Chiêu made his frustrations clearer, saying “Vietnam’s independence was the fated conclusion of France’s moral, intellectual, and economic achievements.” A bit more daring for Chiêu was a July 6 editorial, “How a Colony Can Be Lost,” followed on July 15 by a list of all of the promises the colonial government had made but failed to honor. Some of his more radical writers or staff members had already expressed these views. It was now for Chiêu to publicly endorse them. Chiêu’s support of a radical populist stand against French rule in Vietnam was above all strategic. His bourgeois nationalism made him reluctant

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to abandon his elitism and attachment to the social establishment. This was evident in advertisements found in La Tribune Indochinoise that were almost exclusively placed by and for the wealthy strata of Cochinchinese society, promoting private schools, automobiles, and land auctions. They contrasted with those displayed in L’Écho Annamite, which promoted objects of popular consumption, such as cigarettes and bicycles—most originating from French-owned businesses. The coverage given in La Tribune Indochinoise to society and charity events under Chiêu’s patronage also worked against his efforts to represent himself as a popular leader. While he allowed radical opposition articles to appear in his newspaper, Chiêu saw himself as a viable national alternative to the extremist elements in Saigon’s political scene. His detachment from the new Vietnamese opposition politics in the aftermath of the events of spring 1926 was more pronounced than the content of La Tribune Indochinoise tended to indicate. Chiêu seemed to be almost alone in referring to the Constitutionalist Party in his writing.120 At the end of 1927 La Tribune Indochinoise received support from another editor and close ally of Chiêu, Dương Văn Giáo. The latter perfectly exemplified the kind of assimilated—if not acculturated—southern Vietnamese bourgeois who owed his social status to the colonial system and its restricted meritocratic model. His achievements in French education and his stint as a volunteer soldier fighting for la mère patrie in the Great War propelled his rise from his origins as the son of a teacher and nephew of a former colonial councilor.121 After completing secondary education at Collège Chasseloup-Laubat and fighting in France as early as 1914, Giáo graduated from the law school at the University of Paris and joined the Paris Bar. A French citizen since 1923, he began his political activity as a member of the Paris-based Mutual Association of Indochinese (Association mutuel le des Indochinois), a government-sponsored circle that included members of the established Cochinchinese society. While in Paris, Giáo became the main voice of the Constitutionalist movement in France. He grew close to Chiêu during the latter’s forced sabbatical. It was Giáo who founded the metropolitan branch of the Constitutionalist Party, which he connected to the centerleft French Radical Socialist Party.122 He also set up a Paris edition of La Tribune Indochinoise (1926–1927), for which he served as publisher. Quite naturally, he contributed articles to La Tribune in Saigon. Originally an ardent believer in the French-Vietnamese collaboration project, Giáo was in contact with French and international liberal circles. In February 1927 he represented his party at

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the Brussels Congress of the International League against Imperialism and Colonial Oppression.123 Giáo’s return to Vietnam in November 1927 provided Chiêu with a unique opportunity to “rejuvenate” his paper and his own political standing. Having immediately joined La Tribune Indochinoise’s editorial team, Giáo introduced readers to a direct style that was previously lacking in Chiêu’s articles. Writing about the role Freemasonry could play in Vietnam’s future process of decolonization, Giáo made it clear that he himself was a brother.124 Giáo’s journalistic interests very much reflected his own political vision of Vietnam’s emancipation from French colonial rule. In a December 1927 article titled “Against Colonialism” he suggested the establishment of a “national Indochinese party” to bring together all political movements whose aim was to achieve independence.125 This call was reminiscent of the one Trần Huy Liệu had issued a year and a half earlier in Indochina Times when he advocated the creation of a movement modeled after the nationalist Kuomintang Party in China . However, the two men differed on the direction of the organization, particularly at a time when Chang Kai Shek’s party was trying to annihilate its former ally, the Chinese Communist Party. Giáo was more familiar with broad-based parties such as the moderate French Radical Socialist Party or India’s Congress Party. Liệu, by contrast, was looking at a much more centralized and regimented organization akin to the Chinese model. There was no risk of excessive centralization and regimentation amid the Constitutionalist ranks: in the days that followed his call for unity, Dương Văn Giáo realized that Bùi Quang Chiêu would not readily support him. Although he continued to advocate for a regeneration of the Vietnamese political elite, Giáo thereafter saw his role confined to initiatives of no direct political consequence.126 Feeling politically constrained by the old man, in August 1928 he announced his withdrawal from political activity.127 Less than two months later, however, he became editor in chief of Đuốc Nhà Nam (Vietnamese Flame), a new quốc ngữ moderate paper that was set up with Long’s support. On Vietnamese New Year in February 1928 La Tribune Indochinoise presented a new format. The first page was divided into seven columns, with the occasional inclusion of photographs.128 During this period the paper supported other journalists’ initiatives to protest the government’s arbitrary policies. In April it campaigned on behalf of Phan Văn Trường, the publisher of L’Annam, who was facing charges over articles he had printed in his newspaper.129 On July 14, France’s National Day, La Tribune Indochinoise displayed

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further evidence of its radical tone by denouncing the enslavement of “thousands of Vietnamese compatriots” on the rubber plantations.130 On March 15, 1929, La Tribune reproduced an article by Nguyễn Thế titled “Independence of Their Country Is the Only Salutary Option for Indochinese.”131 By the end of the decade La Tribune Indochinoise had established itself as a major voice in the political debate. Nguyễn Phan Long’s withdrawal from L’Écho Annamite in October 1928 somewhat benefited La Tribune Indochinoise. However, the paper’s socially exclusive audience and its close association with Chiêu and the Constitutionalist group, in spite of sporadic outbursts of radical anticolonialism, kept it on the fringes of the post-1926 Saigon political spectrum. In the end Chiêu chose to align the paper with the interests of a specific segment of the Vietnamese public—the assimilated bourgeoisie. In his efforts to construct a broad-based editorial team and thus his own political authority, Chiêu promoted the notion that radicalism was a political stance rather than a political agenda on its own terms. Though this allowed activists such as Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu, Trần Văn Trí, and Dương Văn Giáo to support him for a while, they were increasingly attracted to revolutionary solutions that Chiêu was not prepared to accept. Chiêu’s political ambiguities were difficult to sustain. He could not reconcile his anticolonial politics with his hostility toward radical youth, whom he saw as “extremist.”132 His politics began to take on a more rigid form of nationalism, one that was strongly anticolonial in tone yet equally antirevolutionary and bourgeois in its concerns.133 This political strategy took him further away from his ambition to be an inclusive leader. Bùi Quang Chiêu’s diminished power within Vietnamese political circles was accentuated when Nguyễn Phan Long created the first official Constitutionalist newspaper in quốc ngữ, Đuốc Nhà Nam (Vietnamese Flame). Launched on September 26, 1928, Vietnamese Flame represented an attempt to draw a majority of the public into the moderate opposition by using L’Écho Annamite’s successful methods of inclusiveness and journalistic professionalism. A triweekly, large-format newspaper, its circulation was ten thousand copies per issue—a substantial figure comparable to the new Morning Bell. Vietnamese Flame was funded mostly by Long, who sold L’Écho Annamite and his private school.134 He hired Dương Văn Giáo as editor in chief—a strategic move to bring under his patronage a man whose ambitions had been shattered by his former mentor, Chiêu. The “friend of the oppressed,” the paper took on a radical tone reflecting Giáo’s own stance. The paper claimed it would defend the interests of the Vietnamese with the ultimate objective of

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achieving political independence. Causes such as human rights and social justice would find an ally in the newspaper.135 With references to the contemporary Russian example, the editors pledged to pay particular attention to the social classes of peasants and industrial workers.136 After he secretly converted to Caodaism in 1928, Dương Văn Giáo turned the newspaper into an open voice of the “renewed church.”137 In doing so, he chose to rely on a wider popular readership (and a larger subscription base) than the circle of notables usually associated with the Constitutionalist movement and its president. Giáo’s objective was to establish a firm ground for a moderate, anticommunist Vietnamese politics beyond the assimilated Saigon bourgeoisie. This was something Bùi Quang Chiêu was not prepared to do.

La Cloche Fêlée—L’Annam The other main example of journalisme d’opinion, equally committed to colonial legality yet ideologically revolutionary, was La Cloche Fêlée. On November 26, 1925, the Broken Bell (La Cloche Fêlée) reappeared, more than a year after its closure by the colonial government. Its founders, Nguyễn An Ninh and Dejean de la Bâtie, came back as members of the new editing team but with the old lawyer Phan Văn Trường as its principle political editor. As before, the paper appeared twice a week; the circulation in the first weeks averaged one thousand copies per issue.138 Trường was a veteran activist with a long history of underground, as well as open, political activity. In an article titled “Our Director, the Lawyer Phan Văn Trường,” Ninh introduced Maître Phan as “a complete Vietnamese, shaped by two cultures.” Born in 1875 near Hanoi, Trường was naturalized as a French citizen in 1911. Having moved to France to study law in 1910, he was the first Vietnamese admitted to the Paris Bar. He was also among the first Vietnamese avant-garde activists in Paris; others included Phan Châu Trinh, Nguyễn Thế Truyên, and Nguyễn Ái Quốc. As early as 1912, he set up a mutual self-help association, Đồng Bào Thân Aí (Brotherhood of Compatriots) to serve as a secret platform to support the activities of the exiled Phan Bội Châu and Prince Cường Để. Following the 1913 bombing incident in Hanoi, Trường, together with Trinh, spent a year in jail until he was released in 1915 for lack of evidence. He was later sent to Toulouse to serve as an interpreter in an armaments plant employing Vietnamese workers. Demobilized, he returned to Paris, where he used his apartment to hold

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secret meetings with other Vietnamese in exile while pleading cases at the cour d’appel in Paris. The French armed forces were particularly interested in his extraprofessional activities. They noted, for instance, that Trường regularly “expedited parcels containing socialist and other revolutionary newspapers to Indochina.”139 To elude surveillance, Trường lived between Paris and Mainz in postwar, French-occupied Germany. He succeeded in keeping his intense underground political activity separate from his professional life without much interference from the French police.140 This relative état de grâce ceased when Trường established himself in Saigon in early 1925. In the Cochinchina of Governor Cognacq, Maître Phan’s “advanced political opinions” were not welcomed. His French peers prevented him from registering with the Saigon Bar. L’Écho Annamite reported this as the Frenchmen’s attempt to maintain white monopoly in the legal profession, the colonial authorities had likely supported them. Despite being a French citizen and having practiced in Paris, Trường was forced to work as a private consultant in his own country.141 In introducing Trường to the Vietnamese public, Ninh paid tribute to the lawyer he had met in Paris: Maître Phan is not a beginner in newspapers. Very interested in international politics, he occasionally contributed to some of the most progressive newspapers in France and Indochina, either under his own name or under a pen name. He contributed most recently to La Tribune Indochinoise, L’Écho Annamite, and L’Indochine.142

Trường’s influence on the political direction of the newspaper was immediately noticeable. A new slogan ran on the first page: “Organ of Democratic Propaganda,” followed by a quotation from Mencius: “The people are everything. The state is of secondary importance. The prince is nothing.” The quotation was translated into quốc ngữ and Chinese. The newspaper’s editorial content reflected the ideological leaning of the slogan. It was markedly different from that of the first La Cloche Fêlée. Under his editorial leadership, the paper began to systematically introduce readers to the Marxist notions of historical materialism and capital accumulation, as well as Leninist theories of Western imperialism. In his first editorial, titled “A Socialist Governor General”—a reference to Varenne—Trường set forth his politics: “Colonial possessions are essentially the product of capitalism; without capitalism, there cannot be colonies. Socialism—at least in its pure doctrine—

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must condemn any colonial conquest and support the liberation of all subjected populations, that is to say, colonies.”143 He contrasted the two forms of socialism that had emerged since the Third International. The first, represented by the French Communist Party: remained faithful to the pure socialist doctrine, openly in favor of revolution, like Bolshevik Russia . . . [T]he other socialism, to which Varenne adhered, did not support complete and immediate liberation of the colonies. In agreement with the capitalist bourgeoisie, [these] socialists believe that colonies are useful for the métropole’s prosperity; their policy tends toward more liberal treatment of indigenous people.144

With this first article, Trường laid out the political direction of the new Cloche Fêlée. In subsequent issues, he provided in-depth editorials that offered comprehensive Marxist analyses of current politics. His writings stand out as one of the first theoretical exercises in the new political thinking in Vietnam. Nguyễn An Ninh’s influence was still recognizable in the choice of topics and literary references. Lafcadio Hearn, one of Ninh’s favorite writers in the first La Cloche Fêlée, had his book Le Japon (translated from the original in English: Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation) serialized beginning December 3, 1925. Bertrand Russell’s Principles of Social Reconstruction was serialized beginning December 17, 1925. However, Ninh’s political approach had undergone a substantial change. He seems to have abandoned his initial hope for the alliance of civilizations as advocated by Tagore. His emphasis was now on regaining cultural self-esteem: Vietnam’s Chinese cultural roots were more relevant than those of the West or even India, as he explained in his first editorial. The path China followed to free itself from feudalism and foreign domination was now seen as more effective.145 Ninh openly advocated the necessity of a mass-based, organized revolution. Trường’s Marxist-Leninist theories provided him with the intellectual and ideological framework he sought to achieve his goal of national regeneration and liberation. In the same article, Ninh went on to use classical communist rhetoric against what he called “colonial imperialism.” Two weeks earlier, in another article, he had denounced “the colony of exploitation by the capitalists, whose interests consist in maintaining our servitude.”146 Ninh’s main concern was still to find the best way of achieving national liberation rather than radical social transformation. In a pamphlet titled

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“France in Indochina,” he emphasized the need to “organize a modern form of resistance to colonialism, which is a modern form of oppression.”147 He saw the use of violence as a last resort. In an article titled “Annamites and Gandhism,” he quoted Gandhi, who had apparently claimed that when nonviolent action proved unable to resolve a political deadlock, violence was better than resignation. The Vietnamese, Ninh concluded, can legitimately resort to violent action as the ultimate form of resistance. However, mobilizing the population should be the first objective of the intellectual avantgarde—another revolutionary Leninist concept he borrowed. To achieve these objectives, Ninh urged Vietnamese activists to first make use of French law. This was a tactical stance that was needed prior to the establishment of true conditions for action.148 Trường shared this line of reasoning. Considering Ninh’s popularity, this evolution in his reflections on political action must have had a substantial impact on the young generation. Dejean, too, pushed his political advocacy to new limits. Although he engaged in violent verbal attacks against the colonial authorities, he also openly recognized, as a French-Vietnamese métis, the uneasy situation he faced in making political decisions. This led him to advocate “genuine Franco-Vietnamese collaboration” rather than a break with France.149 His position contrasted fundamentally with those put forward by Ninh and Trường. Despite their theoretical differences, the three men remained allies for the time being. During the events of spring 1926, La Cloche Fêlée’s political direction shifted, especially following the arrests of Nguyễn An Ninh and Dejean de la Bâtie on March 24, 1926.150 Starting with the May 6 issue, La Cloche Fêlée was renamed L’Annam. With Ninh in jail, Trường assumed more control of the newspaper. Except for the last two issues, he maintained his directorship until the paper’s closure in February 1928. Phan Văn Trường’s position within Saigon’s political press became well established. As early as July and August 1926 he was the object of a hostile press campaign by Constitutionalist newspapers. They cast suspicion on his longtime relations with the northern activist and photographer Khánh Kỳ. On his return from France, where he had lived for ten years, Kỳ was found in possession of hand grenades in Haiphong in September 1921.151 La Tribune Indochinoise also revealed that Trường owned some three hundred hectares of land in Cà Mau, making him a capitalist landlord himself.152 Like his colleagues at Indochina Times and the Constitutionalist newspapers, Trường saw journalism as a platform for political ideas. Although it is improbable that he maintained links with the international communist

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network, as a political journalist he openly defended the doctrines of the Marxist-Leninist movement on Vietnamese soil. Through his directorship of La Cloche Fêlée /L’Annam, Trường presented an all-encompassing Marxist perspective on the historical process in the making. In the middle of the events of spring 1926, he published Marx’s Communist Manifesto (after first publishing the 1792 French “Declaration of the Rights of Man”). He responded to the turmoil of his time with bold and radical action. Trường regarded Vietnam’s contemporary political situation through the prism of the Marxist theoretical distinction between “structure” and “superstructure.” In thinking about world history, he relied on a selection of analyses that had been published in L’Humanité, the official publication of the French Communist Party. His articles dealt with the consequences of imperialism in Vietnam, which he considered a typical expression of Western capitalist exploitation. With regard to international relations, the old lawyer believed in a nascent “Russo-Chinese” anti-imperialist alliance that would soon turn into a “Russo-Asian bloc” able to resist Western powers. In the case of Indochina, Trường believed that representatives of the colonial authority—Sarraut, Varenne, or Cognacq—all served the same interests: those of le grand capital and the “two hundred families” that effectively controlled France. Like their British, Japanese, and American counterparts, their objective was to “prevent the constitution of a Russo-Chinese bloc.”153 Trường saw Sarraut, the symbol of colonial reformism, as “one of the worst profiteers of colonization.” To Trường, those who had believed in Sarraut’s policy of Pháp-Việt đề huề or had benefited from it (i.e., the Constitutionalists) would be “left to pay the consequences of their miscalculated choice.”154 Echoing the “class against class” strategy of the Third International, Trường made the Constitutionalists one of the main targets of his writings.155 Having introduced readers to the historical mechanisms that he believed determined the course of politics, Trường encouraged other contributors without Marxist credentials to undermine respect for the colonial regime by revealing its scandals and abuses. He regarded these as symptomatic expressions of what he called the “colonial comedy.”156 On his return from China in July 1926, his friend and colleague Paul Monin wrote in L’Annam a series of incisive articles about the “miscalculated” French policy toward China, which he saw as a rising giant. The paper serialized a book by the liberal Paul Monet, Français et Annamites, in June 1926. There were also excerpts of Georges Garros’s pamphlet Les Forceries humaines, which had been serialized in La Tribune Indochinoise.157

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Trường’s Marxist reading of history was above all political and elitist. Although strongly influenced by the theory of dialectical materialism, he was not much interested in resolving the issue of social inequality. Almost none of his articles drew attention to the impoverished conditions the Vietnamese faced. He referred to the economic sufferings of his compatriots only when these were the consequences of colonial oppression. He was primarily interested in the geopolitical dimension of Lenin’s doctrine of imperialism and its explanation of the underlying mechanisms of economic exploitation. Despite his internationalist rhetoric, his concerns betrayed a pragmatic attitude toward any initiative or movement that could serve the cause of Vietnam’s national liberation. Though La Cloche Fêlée/L’Annam spelled out its own clearly developed Marxist orientation, it also aimed to serve as a vehicle for the expression of criticism and discontent on the part of a wide range of Vietnamese opposition movements.158 Like Indochina Times and L’Écho Annamite, L’Annam took the task of investigative journalism seriously. It uncovered a scandal involving the French capitalist Homberg in Indochina and his collusion with official institutions such as the Bank of Indochina.159 In August the paper printed extracts of a debate that took place in the Colonial Council, during which the lawyer Gallet openly accused former Governor Cognacq of falsifying administrative documents in 1923.160 Scandals such as that following the arrest of writers at the Le Nhà Quê newspaper prompted Trường to engage in a thorough legal investigation. In this case, as in many others, he drew on his legal training to show that the charges were falsified.161 When one of the paper’s occasional contributors in central Vietnam, Hà Huy Tập, was dismissed from his teaching job at Vinh College for having sent “seditious” articles to L’Annam, the newspaper launched an all-out campaign in support of school strikes in Annam in April 1927.162 That same month, following the outbreak of famine in Tonkin, the newspaper published front-page photographs of the starving population, urging “compatriots” to contribute to help the victims, “who could not expect support from the authorities.”163 One rare form of solidarity in favor of the urban poor was the free publication of job advertisements.164 L’Annam occasionally supported Constitutionalist initiatives such as the boycott of non-Vietnamese goods in November 1926.165 Another original feature of Trường’s newspaper was its regular reportage of the political activities of Vietnamese in France. In a serialized pamphlet, “Une histoire des conspirateurs annamites à Paris” (A Story of Vietnamese Conspirators in Paris), he recalled his experience in France and his

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relationship with Phan Châu Trinh. In this account, which appeared just before the martyr’s death, Trường was critical of what he regarded as Trinh’s “naïveté” toward the French. There was almost no mention of the Marxist ideas that Trường advocated.166 Seven months later the newspaper published the “Manifesto for Independence,” a text that had been addressed to the League of Nations by the Paris-based newspaper Việt Nam Hồn (Vietnam’s Soul) and by representatives in France of the clandestine organization Phục Việt.167 Also at that time, the paper printed an appeal by Nguyễn Thế Truyền’s Party of Annamite Independence.168 Phan Văn Trừờng kept his newspaper’s columns open to a variety of opinions. In an issue dated July 25, 1927, an article praised “the United States of the Soviet Union”; meanwhile, a letter by Léon Werth, Nguyễn An Ninh’s friend and the author of the political pamphlet “Cochinchine,” harshly criticized the Russian Bolshevists for their “odd sense of justice.” Werth’s position was certainly not shared by Trường, but both articles were printed. Toward the end of 1926, Nguyễn Huỳnh Diệu, a rich landowner from Trà Vinh, became L’Annam’s principal financial sponsor, and the Tonkinese Nguyễn Khánh Tòan became L’Annam’s new editor in chief. Tòan was trained as a teacher and had settled in Saigon a few months earlier. He had made a name for himself in launching the illegal newspaper Le Nhà Quê in November. The new team also included individuals from the northern and central regions, such as Vũ Đình Dy, Bùi Ngọc Ái, and Hà Huy Tập. They worked alongside the northerners Dejean de La Bâtie and Phan Văn Trường, who continued as director. Soon however, Dejean stepped down after an argument between the two. In an open letter published in L’Écho Annamite in April 1927, the twenty-nine-year-old journalist reproached his fifty-two-year-old publisher for his authoritarianism and conservatism. The event revealed not only the political differences between Dejean and Trường but also the generational and social distance, as in the case of Bùi Quang Chiêu and his young colleagues at La Tribune Indochinoise. For Dejean, this event was more than a mere incident in his career as political journalist. His situation as a person of mixed race increasingly affected his capacity to side with a number of Vietnamese activists who no longer recognized him as really “one of them.”169 From late spring 1927 on, Trường’s own involvement in the newspaper began to wane. During this period the old militant found himself embroiled in a succession of exhausting judicial procedures instigated by the colonial administration, which was determined to crack down on the opposition

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press. In May the authorities charged Trường in connection with an article from L’Humanité that L’Annam had reproduced, one that called on the “native colonial soldiers” in the French empire to mutiny. In June he was prosecuted for his alleged involvement in the preparations for the commemoration of the death of former northern reformist Lương Văn Cần.170 The paper’s editor in chief, Nguyễn Khánh Tòan, and the owner, Nguyễn Huỳnh Diệu, were also charged in connection with the event.171 Threatened by the Sûreté, the gérant Conjandassamy refused to lend his name to the newspaper. During the investigations, the Sûreté searched L’Annam’s headquarters on several occasions. They seized documents concerning the newspaper’s accounts. Against this chaotic background, Trường remained nominal publisher until his formal arrest on July 21. Three days later L’Annam announced the news in a dramatic fashion. The paper then fell silent for eight months. Trường remained in jail until his formal trial in October.172 The last two issues of L’Annam came out on February 2 and February 12, 1928. They bore the same Marxist stamp as those under Trường’s direction. Ninh appeared to have been definitively converted. A quotation by Lenin, printed in bold type on the last page of the February 2 issue, defiantly summed up Trường’s political stance: “It is only through revolutionary struggle against imperialism that the oppressed people of the colonies will succeed in freeing themselves from exploitation.” L’Annam is an example of a post-1926 political newspaper that operated within the narrow framework of colonial legality but with the distinction of carrying a revolutionary message infused by radical nationalism and Marxist-Leninist theory. The newspaper owed its stance to Phan Văn Trường’s views on political activism, which continued past his editorial leadership. Despite his reliance on Marxist-Leninist theory, Trường was not really a revolutionary in the Leninist sense of the term. As a trained lawyer, he believed in public activity within the limits of the law. Fundamentally a reformist, he refused to be associated with subversive ventures. When Nguyễn An Ninh was arrested in March 1926, his supporters approached Trường to ask him to take over the leadership of the Annam Youth Party or at least to take part in an alliance of various activists who wanted to distance themselves from the Constitutionalists. Trường declined the invitation. Despite his revolutionary rhetoric, he would not head an illegal organization or a “conspiracy.” Two years later, as he fell victim to harassing judicial inquiries, Trường decided that the best way to protest against the colonial authorities’ infringements of the right of free expression was to run as a candidate for

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 191

the position of député of Cochinchina in the April 1928 elections. Ironically, he found in Bùi Quang Chiêu one of his most ardent supporters. This protest candidacy well illustrates Trường’s inclination to achieve his political objectives within the framework of colonial rule despite his radical writings. His dedication to political journalism and Marxist-Leninist political views earned him respect even among Frenchmen. In his book Français et Annamites: Entre deux feux, the liberal author Paul Monet wrote the following: For every sincere and convinced patriot like Phan Văn Trường, doctor in law, former barrister at the Court of Appeals in Paris, who so cruelly suffered from the colonial administration’s mistakes and had declared himself clearly and courageously anti-French, there are tens, hundreds of petty characters, incapable and arrogant, who indulge themselves in the worst demagogical political action.173

Between 1926 and 1930 the development of an open political debate created extreme tension among intellectuals who believed that political action should stay within the legal limits imposed by the colonial regime. In their view, political journalism needed to remain committed to education for and propaganda aimed at the wider public. Newspapers such as L’Écho Annamite and Indochina Times worked to simultaneously maintain an inclusive position and establish an anticolonial identity. La Tribune Indochinoise was not as successful in following the same pattern. The newspaper was, in spite of Bùi Quang Chieu’s—half-hearted—attempts to open its columns to more radical activists, relegated to a partisan and class-conscious role, not so different from Phan Văn Trường’s L’Annam, albeit from the opposite end of the political spectrum. Among “legalist” newspapers, L’Annam assumed a partisan stance. This difference between “partisan” and “consensus” political action was not necessarily intentional, especially in Chiêu’s case. In fact, few political differences distinguished him from Nguyễn Phan Long. It was less a question of personal political convictions than of opportunistic strategies pursued in a constantly changing environment. What made Chiêu a “consensus” political figure in the early part of the decade, when he was publisher of La Tribune Indigène and head of his self-proclaimed Constitutionalist Party, later turned him into the representative of a privileged group that controlled the Vietnamese seats in the Colonial Council. Chiêu was thereafter sidelined on the right of the political spectrum. The attacks he was subjected to from the pro-government

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press—largely on account of his self-centered personality—contributed paradoxically to fuel resentment and anger among young radical activists, for whom he came to embody the duplicity of the Saigon bourgeoisie.174 Fundamentally, however, Long and Chiêu shared the same fate. Both were representatives of a waning political stance that owed its existence to the initial occupation of modern political space provided by the colonial authorities. It is no coincidence, therefore, that they eventually joined forces in 1930 by becoming codirectors of La Tribune Indochinoise.175 Personal differences were in the end less important than the principled determination of a man like Phan Văn Trường, who voluntarily played the constitutional game to advance ideas that ultimately represented a radical rejection of the established political order. Trường had been a lawyer in France for many years and therefore remained respectful of the law. Like Long and Chiêu, he was convinced that it was only through an open deliberative process that he could achieve his objectives. Trường was thus both a militant and a democrat. Politically, he accepted the authority of legal pluralism. Along with Chiêu, Long, and Diệp Văn Kỳ, he belonged to what I call “institutionalized opposition journalism.” He believed, however, that colonialism and the colonial order were part of a global capitalist domination that needed to be destroyed. This Marxist explanation did not encourage Trường to reach out to a wide and diverse public. On the contrary, he understood the potentially divisive nature of his discourse, which he paradoxically sought to inculcate through legal and public means. What mattered to him was to objectively “unmask” what he called the “colonial comedy” and to have a few but determined readers convinced of his theory. In his efforts to build an avant-garde, Phan Văn Trường was acting as a convinced Leninist. Considerations of the legalist politics of Bùi Quang Chiêu and Phan Văn Trường should not let us forget that these journalists remained socially exclusive. By definition, it was a luxury to own a newspaper in 1920s’ Saigon. L’Écho Annamite and Indochina Times relied upon a public made up of urban, educated, and uppermiddle-class Vietnamese. La Tribune Indochinoise was founded for the assimilated wealthy bourgeoisie, whose interests Chiêu was always committed to defend. Despite its Marxist rhetoric, L’Annam, for a time funded by a rich landowner, was more likely read by middle-class bourgeois or functionaries who could read French than by factory workers or peasants. Though a distinction of genre existed in the established political press they represented, their common objective was to illuminate the conscious-

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 193

ness of their readers, either implicitly—the “information” press—or more explicitly—the “opinion” press. In any case, this newly established Vietnamese political press was fundamentally “political” and oppositional to the regime in place. Its style can be linked to the Third Republic French press tradition of presse d’opinion as opposed to the early British practice of separating “current affairs” and “opinion.” Whether in the columns of Indochina Times or in L’Écho Annamite, current affairs did not determine the papers’ editorial content. It was the editors’ political orientation that determined the topics presented. First, readers were made to feel that they were part of a community of citizens and their various debates. Second, they were made to feel they had chosen a clear political stance that they were intellectually engaging and defending. Both the Vietnamese “information” and “opinion” presses of the late 1920s represented sides of the same coin of staunch opposition to the political order. If, in the early 1920s, readers were being “led,” “educated,” or “enlightened” by self-appointed political journalists, they increasingly relied on substantive and diverse political voices articulated within distinctive genres, philosophical positions, and ideological orientations. The emergence of “forum papers” in the Saigon newspaper village marks the beginning of a transition from a political culture in essence elitist and paternalistic—with the hybrid Confucian-French charismatic intellectuel as its model—to one that recognized the inherent diversity and complexity of Vietnamese society as “an aggregate of components needed to be acted upon with its different claims and rights.”176

A Press of Mobilization On the margins of the mainstream political press and its post-1926 developments, a growing number of Saigon activist-journalists strove to break away from the restricted framework of colonial legality. This new trend of radical journalism paradoxically marked the limits of a subversive public culture of debate in the wider landscape of Vietnamese politics. The aim of the “classical” or “mainstream” political journalists described earlier was to encourage political agency out of individual critical judgment—even when readers were addressed in a patronizing or moralizing style. These journalists held the underlying belief that individual political awareness was a necessary prerequisite to any form of collective action. This perception was rarely

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publicly articulated or even conceived in those clear terms. In their practice of journalism, however, individuals like Nguyễn An Ninh and Trần Huy Liệu aimed at questioning each of their readers in the depth of their intelligence and beliefs, beyond social conventions. Even “consensus-building political journalists,” like Diệp Văn Kỳ and Nguyễn Phan Long, believed in their capacity to influence readers, whom they saw as both customers and compatriots, through plural and argumentative journalistic contributions. Likewise, although limited by their exclusive social or ideological conceptions, Bùi Quang Chiêu and Phan Văn Trường continued to believe in the power of the pen and tirelessly tried to convince their readers through their demonstrated analysis. All of these journalists belonged to a tradition that ultimately aimed at politically “educating” readers, taken as individual units of a larger group. It was through the shared belief in the discourses and values publicized by the newspapers that those readers and journalists could unify into a political force. In the second part of the decade, a growing number of activists came to see journalism as part of a wider anticolonial national project whose urgency required bypassing individualistic strategies of “mobilization through education” and building collective action through all means, including illegal ones. The range of newspapers that emerged took place outside or on the periphery of the legal public space, like the spread of Caodaism and communism in the countryside. These journalists attempted to reach out to segments of the wider Vietnamese public to encourage them to act collectively and radically. Within Saigon’s newspaper village a new division thus appeared between papers used for political education and discussion and those intended principally as instruments of mass mobilization. At the time of its slow but steady emancipation from the government’s grips, Saigon’s political public sphere of contestation thus underwent a dramatic revision of its role that would lead eventually to the reduction of its capacity to act as the main Vietnamese counterpoint to French rule. In this final section I touch upon such undercurrents in Vietnamese political journalism by pointing to two parallel trends that emerged simultaneously: a press aimed at forging new forms of communal mobilization among identified social groups and a press of political mobilization through confrontation with the ruling power. This parallel development corresponds to the transformation of the Vietnamese political sphere, with some journalists considering underground action or populist ways of conducting mobilization and with political debate no longer an end in itself.

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 195

“Guerilla Journalism,” or Mobilization Through Confrontation The young Lâm Hiệp Châu’s single issue of Jeune Annam (Young Annam), published and circulated without authorization amid the political turmoil of March 1926, created a precedent for the new form of journalism of direct defiance of the colonial authorities, which was repeated in the following years.177 The objective of this “guerilla journalism” was to provoke official reactions and to polarize the Vietnamese public opinion against the regime. The original motives behind Jeune Annam are not clear. A “native” of Cochinchina, Lâm Hiệp Châu would undoubtedly have had his application rejected. He decided, therefore, to ignore the legal procedure altogether. Some later said he was an agent provocateur of the Sûreté. All that is known is that on the night of the creation of the clandestine Annam Youth Party, March 20, Châu addressed the group of men gathered and proposed to launch a newspaper to serve as the party’s official publication—a proposition the new party’s founders rejected as too foolhardy.178 Nonetheless, Châu proceeded on his own.179 He was arrested the following day, along with Nguyễn An Ninh and Dejean de la Bâtie. Jeune Annam is noteworthy not so much for its content but for pushing the boundaries of political confrontation. With a significant print run of twentyfive hundred copies, the two-sheet weekly called itself the “Tribune of National Liberation.” Châu had borrowed a set of printing fonts from Malraux’s L’Indochine Enchaînée and made use of Nguyễn Kim Đính’s printing facilities.180 He had to fill the columns of his newspaper in one day; therefore, the paper had almost no original editorial content. Articles were badly written (or even copied). Jeune Annam was filled with articles extracted from the French Communist Party publication L’Humanité and its anticolonial voice, Le Paria, as well as the Hanoi-published L’Argus Indochinois. Except for the latter, these articles were overtly subversive in tone and content. One piece on China’s leading role in the awakening of Asia was signed by the Paris-based activist member of the French Communist Party, Nguyễn Thế Truyền. Another one, on the appointment of Varenne as governor general, was by Nguyễn Ái Quốc, the future Hồ Chí Minh. The texts, taken from Clementi’s L’Argus Indochinois, were of two different origins: one was the translation of a manifesto issued by the nationalist organization Phúc Việt.181 The other was a reproduction of a tract written by Abd el-Krim, the leader of Morocco’s resistance movement against Spanish and French rule. One article signed by Nguyễn Bất

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ended with these words: “We do not wish to win our freedom with blood unless . . .” The only original contribution was a short appeal signed by Châu, urging people to prepare for Phan Châu Trinh’s funeral, which would be an opportunity for “national mourning.” Lam Hiệp Châu was the first to use a newspaper as a public instrument of political confrontation. Jeune Annam showed that a paper could be printed and distributed in a matter of hours and that it could carry a highly subversive, communist message. Using the press for a single strategic purpose, Châu went beyond political propaganda. His undertaking represented a new form of journalistic activism. With Jeune Annam he demonstrated that the press could be used as a tactical political instrument rather than as merely an end in itself. A few months later Cao Văn Chánh and his newspaper, Tân Thế Kỳ (New Century), pushed the limits of open confrontation even further.182 In the fall of 1926 the political environment in Saigon seems to have calmed down. The moderate Constitutionalists had triumphed in the Colonial Council elections in October. Nguyễn An Ninh was in jail, and the more subversive opposition was temporarily reduced to silence. Into this quiet entered another young activist-journalist. On November 1 Cao Văn Chánh, who for a few years ran the obscure Essor Indochinois (Indochinese Progress), launched a daring initiative with Tân Thế Kỷ (New Century).183 The publication proved to be the most virulent of all of the quốc ngữ newspapers published in Saigon during this period. The first independent Vietnamese-language daily in Saigon, New Century sold an average of six thousand copies per issue—a large circulation. The investment required to publish the four-page journal was considerable.184 Its chief editor was a Caodaist, Lê Chơn Tâm (pen name Mông Trân). In his late thirties, Tâm was the author of numerous novels in quốc ngữ, and he was known as one of the inventors of the southern opera genre, cải lương. He and Chánh were also involved in establishing an underground association called Việt Nam Ái Quốc Liên Hiệp (Vietnamese Patriotic League) in November 1926.185 Together with the southerners Chánh and Tâm, the other contributors to New Century originated from Annam. Two of them had a significant influence: Bữu Đình and Đông Sỹ Bình. Although related to the royal family in Huế, Bữu Đình nevertheless came from a poor social background. After attending a Franco-Vietnamese primary school, he moved to Saigon to work as a clerk for the postal service. He soon linked up with young radical activists such as Nguyễn Phó, Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu, and Cao Văn Chánh. In 1923 he

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 197

began contributing to Vietnamese papers under the pen name Hà Trì. He became known for the virulence of his articles, the majority of which targeted the royal court in Huề.186 Đông Sỹ Bình was a native of Nghệ An province. Working as secretary at the French résident supérieur’s office in Huế, he experienced the reality of relations between the French authorities and the Vietnamese court. An early member of the Tân Việt movement and a supporter of Phan Châu Trinh, Bình resigned from his position in 1926 to devote himself to political activity. He first worked as a local correspondent for newspapers in Saigon and Hanoi. He also wrote nationalist poetry and was instrumental in promoting movements such as student strikes and in collecting funds to help flood victims in Tonkin (November 1926).187 These men devoted their editorial attention to matters concerning Annam. They were passionate opponents of the Huế monarchy. Bữu Đình served as the unofficial editor in chief for the region. Even though New Century was based in Saigon, it was the first real Annam opposition newspaper. More than a thousand copies were mailed and sold directly in the country’s central region.188 The paper, therefore, had a dual political commitment—to Annam and to Cochinchina. It was also noteworthy for its front-page, Cao Đài–inspired slogan: Công lý, nhân đạo ( Justice and humanism). New Century’s editorials were, however, less concerned with justice and humanism than with immediate confrontation with the authorities. In explaining the newspaper’s name, Chánh warned that the new era would be marked by a massive war in the Pacific in which China and Japan would fight against the United States, leaving the “small and arrogant” colonial European powers no choice but to surrender their colonies. The twentieth century—the new century—was to be the critical historical moment when Asians would recover their freedom and Vietnam would be respected as a nation. The section of the first issue in which this editorial appeared was partially censored.189 Lê Chơn Tâm penned a similar editorial titled “How Can We End Our Condition as Slaves?” in the second issue, but it was entirely censored.190 The journalists’ uncompromisingly radical tone had the primary purpose of testing the reach of colonial censorship. The Sûreté’s censorship board systematically blanked out most of the political editorial content, and the paper was distributed as such. To the surprise of the Sûreté, the more the newspaper’s pages were “blanked,” the more the Vietnamese public bought it as a mark of solidarity with the defiant staff. As Sûreté chief Arnoux noted: “This newspaper aims at appearing with as many blanks as

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possible in order to increase its sales. We should not wait too long before putting an end to this tactic.”191 New Century’s editorial team understood that they could gain political capital from the harshness of colonial law. The struggle lasted for the duration of the newspaper’s existence, taxing the mental energy of Arnoux, Governor Le Fol, his successor, Blanchard de la Brosse, and Governor General Varenne. In his correspondence, Arnoux, who had been closely associated with Governor Cognacq, expressed his frustration over Varenne’s liberal policy and Governor Le Fol’s refusal to shut down New Century.192 After twelve issues—many of which were heavily censored—New Century took the added step of printing subversive slogans in the blank sections carved out by the censors, overtly breaking the law. These slogans did not appear on the copies that were sent to the government’s legal depository (dépôt légal); however, Sûreté reports noted them. The November 12 issue included a sentence saying, “Censored articles will be turned into leaflets and distributed everywhere.” The next issue informed readers, “It is because the censorship service was late that the paper came out late; our compatriots must communicate this to everyone.”193 From November 20 on, Chánh addressed the censors directly: “The whole article has been erased. In the next issue we will establish the responsibility of Nguyễn Văn Mân, head of the Censorship Board.” The newspaper threatened to display the censored articles on wall posters, with the names of those carrying out the censorship.194 The November 22 issue reprinted all of the censored articles from the previous issues. Moreover, L’Essor Indochinois published in French articles that had been censored in New Century.195 For that occasion, the French-language newspaper printed three thousand copies that went out to all New Century subscribers. In the face of such an inventive and determined strategy, Paul Arnoux repeatedly urged Governor Le Fol to shut down the newspaper: Cao Văn Chánh, who has lost his mind, does not deserve to run a newspaper. I clearly propose banning New Century. To censor it or suspend it would only make it more popular among the natives. . . . Such provocative action against the Censorship Office and the threats against the persons working for that service cannot remain unpunished. I urge you, Monsieur le Gouverneur, to yield to my suggestion, by now many times repeated, to close down this newspaper.196

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Unwilling to resort to such extreme measures, Governor Le Fol decided to have a personal talk with Chánh. The editor in chief allegedly promised to “calm the ardor” of his colleague Bữu Đình, whom he identified as the person responsible for the whole strategy.197 However, the resistance did not end. In the December 2, 1926, issue, Bữu Đình wrote an “open letter to the Governor of Cochinchina,” which was completely censored; Sûreté records contain excerpts. Bữu Đình wrote of the difficulty a journalist faced in trying to do his job properly, a job that “consisted of being the intermediary between the government and the people.” He addressed the governor directly: “Are there limits to freedom of the press in quốc ngữ ? If yes, what are they? What subjects can the Vietnamese not address? What is the purpose of the press?” He ended his article by urging the authorities “to fulfill their responsibility” by answering his questions, as the public was growing increasingly impatient.198 With the appointment of the new governor of Cochinchina, Blanchard de la Brosse, the decision to ban New Century was finally made. Blanchard justified his action to Varenne: Since its first issue, New Century has published biased articles that have had to be censored. Despite continuous censorship, despite the numerous warnings, the newspaper’s editors have persisted in denouncing the “oppressive government, which holds in slavery twenty million people.” These editors went as far as inserting the censored articles in the subsequent issues. Mr. Cao Văn Chánh was given firm warnings by my predecessor. In the March 14 issue, he inserted two censored articles in quốc ngữ in the columns of L’Essor Indochinois, a journal that is not subject to censorship. I am therefore in favor of removing the authorization for Cao Văn Chánh to publish his quốc ngữ newspaper.199

While waiting for Varenne’s answer, Blanchard asked the Sûreté to ask the Saigon court attorney about the possibility of prosecuting Chánh. The attorney advised the colonial administration against such action for “lack of evidence of an offense.”200 Chánh succeeded in holding the French authorities hostage to their own legal system. The mildly liberal approach of Governor General Varenne and his representative in Cochinchina, Le Fol, both of whom were reluctant to suppress a newspaper but at the same time unwilling to grant the quốc ngữ press the same rights as the French, had, to the delight of radicalized activists like Chánh, created a public fiasco.

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Tensions between New Century and the colonial authorities also arose from a lingering conflict involving the newspaper’s editors from Annam and the court of Huế, resulting in the arrest of three contributors: Bữu Đình, Đông Sỹ Bình, and Trần Thiên Du (pen name Tam Hà). From its beginnings, the newspaper ran numerous articles about central Vietnam that portrayed the court of Huế and the quan lại, the mandarins, as “slaves in the hands of the powerful barbarians.”201 Bữu Đình and Đông Sỹ Bình led the antimonarchist campaign. Yet, it was not until the Huế authorities arrested the former in February 1927 and the latter the following month that the Sûreté realized the importance of this “Annam connection.” Sûreté investigations discovered that Bữu Đình and Đông Sỹ Bình were working under the guidance of Phan Bội Châu, who was in internal exile in Huế.202 One month after Bữu Đình’s arrest in February, New Century was banned in the protectorate. Chánh responded by publishing in L’Essor Indochinois a text in quốc ngữ addressed to the “compatriots in Annam,” in which he denounced the repressive measures imposed by the imperial authorities on readers in Annam, who were apparently subject to imprisonment for merely being found in possession of a copy of New Century.203 A few days later the paper attempted to publish an article in which Chánh said he would legally challenge the résident supérieur’s decision. The piece was censored in its entirety. One of the solutions he put forward was “hiring another quốc ngữ newspaper to achieve the objective of ridding Annam of its mandarins.”204 On April 19, 1927, the new governor general Pasquier issued an arrêté (administrative order) for the suppression of New Century throughout Indochina, unwittingly creating the “Tân Thế Kỷ affair.” The decision had followed the separate arrests of Bữu Đình, Đông Sỹ Bình, and Trần Thiên Dư in Annam. The succession of events triggered a political crisis in Saigon, uniting most of the Vietnamese opposition in its rejection of the government’s repressive policy toward the newspaper and the press in general. Four times the activists tried to hold meetings, only to be forbidden to do so each time. A majority of opposition factions signed a pamphlet titled “Quang Cảo Đồng Báo” (“Announcement to the Compatriots”) and published it in their papers on May 15. The organizers wanted the pamphlet, which openly called for the government to lift the ban in the name of freedom of expression, to be distributed and posted in public places. The authorities forbade this latter action.205 Two days later the authorities received a final blow. The ban against New Century had prompted Cao Văn Chánh to look for another quốc ngữ newspaper

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 201

to mount a new attack against the French administration and the imperial court in Huế. Chánh convinced Trần Quang Nghiêm, the owner of Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia (Franco-Vietnamese United Family) to give him free use of his journal.206 The paper, which was launched in February and had acquired its own fame for its hostile tone toward the regime, reappeared on May 17 after a suspension of more than a week.207 That was to be its last issue. Lê Thành Lư, who had been very active during the demonstrations on behalf of New Century, was the main architect of the operation. His goal was to turn the Franco-Vietnamese United Family into a single-issue public manifesto against colonial repression of the quốc ngữ press. Ten thousand copies were printed and distributed free of charge on the streets of Saigon without prior submission to the censors. Reflecting the tensions that followed New Century’s closure and the uniting of most political activists in support of the quốc ngữ press, the last issue of Franco-Vietnamese United Family openly defied the government. A long editorial placed the responsibility for the suppression of New Century squarely on the shoulders of Governor General Varenne and the court in Huế. In an article titled “Our Rights to Freedom of Expression,” Lư argued that the colonial government was determined to deprive Indochina’s twenty-five million inhabitants of the very conditions necessary for progress: education and information. The article concluded by saying, “If free access to knowledge is denied to us, then we would rather die.” Lư included a poem that urged his compatriots to beware of a government conspiracy to empty the banks of gold reserves, which would leave the population with useless banknotes. The authorities arrested Lư for publishing the poem, confiscated a limited number of issues, and immediately rescinded the journal’s license.208 Nevertheless, the operation had succeeded in creating a furor among the public.209 Meanwhile, L’Essor Indochinois reappeared on June 16 after a two-month suspension. Because of the successive crises of New Century, Chánh emerged as another symbol of antigovernment oppression. In response to an article praising the virtues of “assimilation,” by Dejean de la Bâtie, who had just joined L’Essor, Chánh explained that nationalism was “the only valuable ideology.”210 At the forefront of a campaign that indicted the colonial regime for the hollowness of its republican rhetoric, the twenty-five-year-old had become known for his strident nationalism and sense of independence from organized structures, parties, or interest groups. His untiring determination to confront the authorities up front was unmatched. After the closure of New Century, Chánh launched the ephemeral L’Action Indochinoise, the first official

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Caodaist paper, in August 1928 and the following May helped launch Phụ Nữ Tân Văn (Women’s News), a well-respected literary magazine.211 A year after moving to Paris in July 1929 to take university courses, he joined the French Communist Party and thereafter embraced historical materialism.212 New Century, Franco-Vietnamese United Family, and, before them, Jeune Annam represented a new type of newspaper that served as rallying instruments of political confrontation with the colonial government.213 Their main editorial concerns were to directly engage the censors and to build mass mobilization against the regime. In doing so, they fundamentally changed the role of journalism. Political accountability through open debate and inquiry was no longer enough for this new, young generation of radical activists. While the tumultuous politics of 1926 dramatically transformed the way Vietnamese journalists saw their civic role, the increasing stratification of society and the economic prosperity of the era also led to innovations in their work. Cognizant of the development of new segments of society, various publishers had for decades sought to incorporate them into their reading public. As early as 1918, Nữ Giới Chung (Women’s Bell) had appeared under the auspices of the colonial administration with the precept of reaching out to female readers. La Tribune Indigène and other French-language newspapers tried to woo the limited population of French-speaking Vietnamese. The quốc ngữ press addressed mainly Vietnamese who had been educated in the French-Vietnamese school system, lived in the urban areas of Cochinchina, and had a disposable income. The general economic prosperity of the 1920s and the parallel expansion of a literate adult population transformed the landscape of the Saigon press. These changes further encouraged the professionalization of journalism and marketing strategies. Writers and publishers became more attuned to the complexities of Vietnamese society and the reading public. This was matched by new intellectual ideas, especially from abroad, that emphasized a better understanding of social, regional, generational, and gender priorities. Western socialist references to the “proletariat” influenced journalist-activists in their search for a working class whom they could address and represent. Other influential currents included early feminist activities and the importance of women as a specific audience; localized interests from the north and center of the country; and communities with specific religious affiliations, including Catholics and Cao Đài adepts. This new attention paid to social diversity led to investigative journalism that focused on the conditions and aspirations of particular groups. New press initiatives were carried out to

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mobilize sectorial supports. In doing so, journalists widened the scope of the political debate beyond broader issues of political sovereignty or morality. In the rest of this chapter I discuss these new journalistic experiments by following one select sample of papers—the Labor Party newspapers Nhựt Tân Báo and L’Ère nouvelle (both titles meaning New Era), as well as Huỳnh Phúc Yên’s Catholic Voice and Thanh Nien Tân Tiến (Progressive Youth)—all sharing the same targeted audience: the emerging category of urban workers whom they regarded as a social group that needed to be mobilized as a political force. Similar attempts were made toward women, Caodaists, Catholics, and the widening segment of disenfranchised, educated youth.

Mobilizing “Workers” By the 1920s, political leaders understood the power of the press to make history and not merely to report it. As it was with the initiatives of the Indochinese Labor Party and later the Progressive Youth Party, their newspapers also emerged as vehicles for the creation of a mass-based social movement around the new notions of “workers” and “labor.” Though southern Vietnam was the economic engine of French Indochina, the region had few industries able to mobilize a coherent industrial proletariat. The notion of “workers” referred to by contemporaries was therefore broader. It was that of small-time entrepreneurs and minor civil servants in Saigon and secondary southern market towns, including automobile drivers, shop owners, artisans, and small landowners (sometimes referred to as “rural workers”), commercial employees, junior government clerks, elementary school teachers, and other private educators—all parts of a social segment that, in a context of relative economic prosperity, was able to lift itself well above the poverty line into a precarious lower middle class. The Phái Lao Động Đông Dương (Indochinese Labor Party) was officially founded on November 12, 1926, after a meeting in Saigon, to which “all Vietnamese workers had been convened through the use of printed leaflets and advertisements in the press,” according to the Sûreté.214 Cao Triều Phát was the figure behind the Labor project and its main financial supporter. Born in 1889 in the southern province of Bạc Liêu, Phát was the son of a rich minh hương landowner. After attaining secondary education at Chasseloup-Laubat, he volunteered as a military interpreter during World War I and stayed in France until 1924, where he was in contact with nationalist Vietnamese

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circles. There he joined the League of Human Rights and became an active member of the Freemasons. After returning to Vietnam, Phát resumed the management of his estate, which was worth millions of piastres. He soon developed close links with the Caodaists and converted. His interest in labor issues led him to launch a party of the same name.215 One French lawyer exerted strong influence on Phát: Maître Loye, a close friend of Monin, credited with the establishment of the Crédit Agricole Mutuel de Cochinchine and who espoused the virtues of mutualism. The new party was to exist publicly through its two newspapers: Nhựt Tân Báo and L’Ère Nouvelle.216 Phát was its president, while journalist Cao Hãi Để served as its treasurer and editor of the newspapers. In an official letter Phát informed the colonial administration that “the party intends to work for the general well-being of the workers, for the improvement of labor techniques, and for the moral and material uplift of the country.” The party, he wrote, did not intend to be politically active. His application never received an answer.217 First published in 1922, Nhựt Tân Báo had undergone several makeovers. In February 1926 Cao Hãi Để leased the rights to run Nhựt Tân Báo. L’Ère Nouvelle was launched by Để and Hùynh Văn Chính on August 17, 1926, as the French version of Nhựt Tân Báo.218 Để served as publisher of both papers, while Phát was their “political advisor.” Cao Hãi Để was not new to journalism. A former primary school teacher from Mỹ Tho, Để had begun his career with Nguyễn Chánh Sắt at Matters of Agriculture in 1922. He had published numerous works in quốc ngữ on issues ranging from agriculture treaties to political pamphlets. His lack of education and charisma restricted him to the role of editor in chief, an activity he performed to earn a living. Để’s antigovernment sympathies led to his imprisonment in 1929.219 Nhựt Tân Báo also included the former driver Lê Thành Lư, who had worked for FrancoVietnamese United Family.220 The two newspapers claimed to be published under a unique, interprofessional “collective editorship”: “Our editors, who are they? They are workers, artisans, businessmen, industrialists, teachers, government secretaries, employees, civil servants . . . who work with their hands to contribute to the country’s prosperity.”221 Both Labor Party papers had similar—limited—print runs: 1,300 copies for Nhựt Tân Báo and 1,000 for L’Ère Nouvelle. The quốc ngữ journal came out once a week, and L’Ère Nouvelle twice.222 The slogan of the former was “Journal of Scientific and Literary Interest” while that of the latter was “Organ of the Indochinese Labor Party.” The fate of Vietnamese “workers,” whether industrial, commercial, or agricultural, was the focus of the papers’ coverage.

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As early as August 1926 L’Ère Nouvelle ran an article heralding the Indochinese Labor Party as an entity that would act on behalf of “workers of all conditions and races” in the colony.223 The following March both papers declared their intention to systematically disregard political issues that did not address “the fate of local, native workers.”224 Articles on the exploited workers of Indochina denounced the economic abuse of Vietnam as a result of its political subjugation.225 The papers put forth “labor” as a corrective to the negative forces of capitalism.226 Although references to communism did sometimes appear, with Phát at the helm, a strong emphasis was placed upon social issues discussed by nineteenth-century European non-Marxist socialists, who foregrounded mutualism, trade unionism, and cooperatives.227 The “organization of the Vietnamese proletariat” was the best way to “enduringly establish the foundations of a real democracy in Vietnam.”228 On the occasion of the foundation of the Labor Party, L’Ère Nouvelle unveiled a comprehensive program. In a move reminiscent of “state socialist” ideas still circulating within the ranks of the French Socialist Party (SFIO), the paper urged the colonial authorities to establish a “higher consultative council of labor” to advise the administration on the conditions of Indochinese workers.229 The council would be charged with the prevention of accidents, assistance to children and the elderly, and the creation of trade unions for peasant proprietors and workers. It would also oversee agricultural associations, mutual insurance societies, personal insurance for workers, social security measures, and pension societies.230 This program was completed by other propositions of a more general nature: mandatory primary education,231 labor legislation for all of the colonies,232 and personal tax reform.233 In a speech reprinted by the two papers on July 1927, Cao Triều Phát encouraged the organization of Vietnamese workers into cooperatives that would be structured as a “federation” (liên bang). Social solidarity, moral and material, through trade unions and mutual societies was necessary for ensuring the well-being of the workers of Indochina. Claiming to be a “peasant” himself, the wealthy, land-owning Phát ironically believed that “rural workers” needed to be defended against “capitalist landowners.”234 The party sought integration into the international Socialist movement.235 L’Ère Nouvelle and Nhựt Tân Báo published feature articles on the life of the French socialist Jean Jaurès, 236 the question of unemployment in France,237 and the labor movement in Japan.238 The party’s leaders wanted recognition from the International Labor Organization. To this end, the party’s representative in France, Maître Hersant, had planned to meet Albert

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Thomas, director general of the ILO.239 L’Ère Nouvelle’s and Nhựt Tân Báo’s domestic coverage focused on the conditions of workers in the colony: at the Messageries Maritimes shipping line;240 Vietnamese employed in Laos;241 the abuse of opium among the Indochinese proletariat.242 There were reports on strikes across Indochina, such as a student movement in Quy Nhơn and a drivers’ strike in Tourane (today’s Đà Nẵng).243 The Indochinese Labor Party took much inspiration from the French concepts of fraternity, humanity, and republicanism. An active member of the French League of Human Rights and a Freemason, Phát was very interested in their moral and philosophical platforms.244 This ideology of human fraternity, perhaps also influenced by Caodaism, reappeared in an article published in L’Ère Nouvelle that addressed “the French of Indochina and France, along with the Vietnamese people and the ‘Indochinese workers.’ ” Under the provocative title “Why Do the Vietnamese Hate the French?” the article argued that the French had thus far failed to address the Vietnamese need for true consideration as a dignified people.245 In championing the working section of the population as the seat of true progress, Phát argued that workers would fi nd their leaders only from within their ranks. One of the first openly anti-intellectual publications, the Labor papers expressed disdain for the influence of regular columnists and other useless “intellectuals”: “Men who will undertake the task of reorganizing their country must not be ‘talkers’; they must be quiet and hard working.”246 Labor newspapers criticized the Constitutionalists, portraying them as social demagogues, along with individuals such as Nguyễn An Ninh, who was accused of being a “coward.”247 Toward the end of 1927, the Labor papers were marked by an increased radicalization, notably due to the relative isolation in which they found themselves and the authorities’ lack of reaction. This was the condition in which Lê Thành Lư found himself and to which he brought his experience as a member of the working class who had immersed himself in the ideas of international Marxism. The twenty-eight-year-old from Vĩnh Long had worked as an automobile driver but failed to set up a bus service business. He found a job at Nhựt Tân Báo and then at Franco-Vietnamese United Family, where he was hired to do advertising propaganda in the delta area. He began signing his articles. He played an active role in the “Tân Thế Kỷ affair,” which made him stand out as one of the Indochinese Labor Party’s leading figures. The only real worker in the movement’s leadership, Lư was a rare case of a member of the economic proletariat to join the circle of

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intellectual-journalists.248 Under his guidance, Nhựt Tân Báo incorporated communist ideas generally associated with the Chinese Kuomintang and Sun Yat Sen’s “people’s principles.”249 Around the end of 1927 the two labor newspapers began to pay particular attention to the Soviet Union. Positive descriptions of the country became commonplace, and articles from the French Communist Party’s official publication, L’Humanité, were regularly reproduced.250 L’Ère Nouvelle even printed a major article on Lenin titled “Writer and Theoretician.”251 Lư’s departure from the organization in January 1928 was regarded by the Sûreté as a sign that the party would soon disband. In an article published before he left the newspaper, Lư questioned the Labor movement’s ability to effectively mobilize Vietnamese workers. However, he made no secret of his continued commitment to the communist cause.252 Twice in 1928 Phát requested permission to hold a public meeting as a way to revive the moribund movement but was denied it. Despite Phát’s obvious efforts to downplay the Labor Party’s image as a subversive movement, the colonial administration refused to recognize the organization. The Sûreté saw his enterprise as a communist machination involving a number of suspect individuals with revolutionary tendencies. Many intellectuals in Saigon did not take the party seriously, either. Skeptics viewed the organization as the creation of a rich man, Cao Triều Phát. The Sûreté grasped a crucial weakness in the movement: the leaders’ lack of credibility among established public intellectuals: This party has not received much support from the Vietnamese intellectuals of Saigon, who, from instinctive repugnance, do not seem ready to act alongside members of the working class. The most sophisticated are not the best democrats. Moreover, Cao Triều Phát and some of his friends do not enjoy much respect in the eyes of his compatriots.253

Phát’s disappointment was above all a recognition of the Labor Party’s failure to mobilize the “working masses”—urban workers, drivers, civil servants, and laborers in private industry and agriculture. Although the travaillistes were the first in Saigon to clearly identify the political potential of these sectors, their representation by a political party and two newspapers remained theoretical. A combination of mutualist socialism and fraternal humanitarianism, the organization’s “program” did not clearly articulate the origins of political and economic alienation, nor did it provide a compelling call to action.254 The significance of the Indochinese Labor Party lay in

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its acknowledgement that society was changing and in its introduction of these developments into political debate. Its publications brought the working class and the concept of social progress to the forefront of public politics. The inclusion of Lê Thành Lư and a number of teachers on the newspapers’ editorial boards showed that the public sphere that had emerged over the past few years could no longer be restricted to well-educated and well-born individuals. An uneasy alliance existed between the editors (most of whom were teachers), minor land-holding peasants, and automobile drivers, who were the movement’s core supporters.255 Perhaps the party’s most visible legacy was the creation of professionally based organizations, especially corporations of automobile drivers.256 Some of these survived long after the Labor Party had disappeared from the public scene.257 Reaching out to the same working-class groups and to members of the Vietnamese Catholic community was the goal of Huỳnh Phúc Yên at the Công Giáo Đồng Thinh (Catholic Voice) and the Thanh Niên Tân Tiến (Progressive Youth). A native of Annam, Yên had studied at Quốc Học College in Huế and graduated from Indochinese University in Hanoi. While working in Laos as a telegrapher, he began to write for Saigon-based newspapers as a local “correspondent.” Yên sought to extend his style of radical activism beyond his Catholic base without abandoning or compromising his faith. Catholic Voice was launched on September 16, 1927, under the umbrella of the Catholic Foreign Missions with support from a few French and Vietnamese liberal Catholics. Among them was a French widow, Madame Bietry, whom the Sûreté suspected of masterminding the whole enterprise. The exact circumstances are not clear, although they show the Foreign Missions was relatively lax in allowing a political initiative as radical as this one to take place. Sûreté records indicate that it was Bietry who helped promote the young Yên (pen name Focyane) as the daily’s first editor in chief. Catholic Voice’s second title held no religious connotation: Nhựt báo thông tin tức thời sự (Current Affair Daily News). The topics covered by its articles are not very different from those of other opposition newspapers. Yên wrote a number of moralizing texts that displayed a strong nationalism coupled with a sincere devotion to Christianity.258 His editorials alternated with those written by the old Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, former publisher of Matters of Agriculture. The tone of the contributions indicates that a circle of politicized Catholics, Vietnamese and French, thought it necessary to voice an unambiguous anticolonial position distinct from atheist thoughts, especially

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communism. An important text by Yên titled “Should We Follow the Communist Path?” was unambiguous about the revolutionary ideology. It condemned its intrinsic “violent” character (quá khích) as being opposed to the needs of the Vietnamese. Instead, the paper advocated “civilized progress” (văn minh tiến bộ), a humanity where “all individuals were equal before God and would cherish their homeland.”259 Other articles dealt with topics that appeared in other opposition newspapers: equality between men and women, preservation and modernization of national customs, Western and Eastern civilizations, and children’s education. References to Catholicism and spirituality appeared in several articles. Some articles dealt with non-Christian religions—the Japanese Shinto pantheon, for instance.260 In December 1927 the newspaper embarked upon a number of initiatives as part of a larger political strategy. In the December 17 issue Yên invited Vietnamese to form a league named Leftist Youth (Thanh niên Tả Tiêu Hội). The league’s goal, like that of the Indochinese Labor Party, was to strengthen solidarity ties among all Vietnamese men and women between the ages of twelve and forty-five through mutualism (thuyết hỗ sinh). The movement would seek government support and would be open to everyone without membership dues.261 A more targeted attempt was made the following month to start a trade union of Vietnamese and Chinese journalists working at French- and indigenous-language newspapers.262 In March 1928 Yên announced his intention to create his own party, Việt Nam Thanh Niên Tân Tiến Đảng (Party of the Vietnamese Progressive Youth). Perhaps due to the muted reception for these ideas, Yên decided to launch a press campaign that targeted a special group of workers in Saigon: rickshaw drivers. He saw the rickshaw ( pousse-pousse) as “an instrument of humiliation of the Vietnamese race.” On March 22, 1928, Yên organized a meeting whose unstated objective was to publicly announce his movement. His strategy was reminiscent of the precedents set by the Annam Youth Party and the Indochinese Labor Party while his use of a symbolic form of “oppression,” the rickshaws, called to mind Gandhi’s popular campaigns. In case the authorities refused to recognize his initiative, Yên warned, he would use clandestine means, “as did the Annam Youth Party.” A number of high-profile journalists joined the meeting: Diệp Văn Kỳ (Indochina Times), Dương Văn Giáo (Tribune Indochinoise), Hồ Văn Ngôn [Điện Xa Tạp Chí (Automobile Magazine)], Bonvicini (L’Opinion) and Grand (L’Impartial). Madame Bietry and Nguyễn Chánh Sắt were also present. Yên urged his journalist colleagues to assist him in mobilizing popular support against the use of rickshaws. He

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laid out his plans to set up committees and support funds and, if necessary, to resort to a boycott of rickshaws.263 The idea of a mutual fund for the city’s 5,000–7,000 rickshaw drivers was supported by Nguyễn Chánh Sắt. If, after three months, the mobilization campaign did not accomplish its objectives, the committees would use violent means against uncooperative rickshaw drivers, material owners, and customers. Not everyone at the meeting supported the move. The publisher of Indochina Times, Diệp Văn Kỳ, thought rickshaw coolies should be allowed to continue their job provided that strict regulations protecting their health were enforced, as was the case in China and Japan.264 The Constitutionalist Dửờng Văn Giáo, also eager to reach out to a popular audience, supported the boycott, advocating the replacement of rickshaws by motorized taxis. The campaign intensified when Yên called on Bùi Quang Chiêu and other elected Constitutionalists to raise the issue in their provincial or municipal councils. Members of the moderate party responded in the form of an article by Chiêu, in which he expressed his full support for Yên’s initiative, claiming that the condition of Saigon’s “horse men” was a “national shame.”265 The movement received the backing of Vietnamese students in France, who vowed to never take a rickshaw on their return to Vietnam. The campaign also targeted Caodaists and “extremists” like Trần Hữu Độ and Nguyễn An Ninh. Their full support left Kỳ isolated in his opposition.266 With the debate over rickshaws, Yên succeeded in engaging the Saigon press. The subject attracted much reaction from the public in the papers’ comments section. According to the Sûreté, this reception to Yên’s initiatives demonstrated a new interest among anticolonial activists in the position of the Catholic Church. Soon after the rickshaw affair a Sûreté report noted that, “Until a few months ago, opposition newspapers never missed an opportunity to criticize the Catholic Society of Foreign Missions. All those attacks have now disappeared. The editors avoid disturbing their Catholic compatriots.”267 For Yên, the campaign had one main goal: to prepare the ground for the establishment of his association. In time, this association would become a party whose purpose would be to train the Vietnamese youth to defend their interests and would present the option of boycotting “all that shames our race,” such as coolie-drawn rickshaws or the destructive addiction to alcohol and opium of Vietnamese consumers, who paid a tax to the French government. The association vowed “to fight any action by the government that would damage the dignity of the Vietnamese people.” Men and women of all

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ages and religions were welcome to join. In an almost militaristic fashion, members would be divided into three categories: (1) active members (chánh hội viên) who were 15–45 years old; (2) foreigners, such as Siamese, Chinese, Lao, Cambodians, and mường moi (highland minorities), and students between 12 and 15 years of age, who would be dues-paying members (từng hội viên); and (3) people older than 45, who would be veteran members (trưởng hội viên). The campaign’s martial-sounding tone stated that “the provincial sections must follow decisions dictated by the Central Group in Saigon.” It would use the Mutual Education Society’s (SEMC)’s provincial offices and have a local director.268 A “readers’ forum” would be set up for the immediate creation of “workers’ committees” and “women’s committees.”269 Yên’s press campaign finally led to the suspension of Catholic Voice at the end of April 1928. Alarmed by the political virulence of the newspaper, the Catholic Foreign Missions in Paris blocked access to funds and stopped paying salaries.270 Less than a year later, on March 1, 1929, Yên reappeared by launching Progressive Youth. The journal enjoyed a substantial print of six thousand copies per issue, indicating continued support for Yên, most likely from Catholic circles, both Vietnamese and French. Calling itself the “organ for the defense of the interests of youths,” Progressive Youth published sixteen issues until May 3, when it was taken over by Lê Thành Lư, who turned it into a communist sheet. Progressive Youth displayed the same interest in social development as Catholic Voice. The new paper promoted professional mutualism while praising the central role of youth for “social responsibility.” Yên defined a concept of “social nationalism” (chủ nghĩa quốc gia xã hội) that was reminiscent of the French movement of social Catholicism and the métropole’s non-Marxist socialist tradition.271 Social Catholicism was perhaps what most inspired Yên’s political initiatives and those of his Catholic supporters. A doctrine that emerged in France during the Industrial Revolution, social Catholicism aimed to build a humanistic society based on Christian principles as opposed to materialist theories. It later took the concrete form of a mass movement that left a durable impact on French society and, through French priests and missionaries, in some of its colonies.272 This movement was called Le Sillon (the furrow). Led by journalist Marc Sangnier, the movement combated the Marxist Left, as well as the monarchist Action française. Sangnier’s ideals of the triple emancipation—political, economic, and intellectual—advocated civic education for women, modernization of democratic representation, and advanced social legislation. Colonialism was criticized because it was based on

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violence and greed.273 Yên’s multiple associations and journalism initiatives are not unlike Le Sillon’s maze of circles, youth associations, newspapers, and other activities aimed at politically empowering workers.274 Yet even with no clear proof of direct connections between Yên’s initiatives and French Social Catholicism, one is nonetheless struck by the similarity of their goals and actions. As with the Labor movement the year before, however, Yên was unable to inspire popular support. The project failed for lack of coherence and perhaps because Vietnamese were suspicious of his allegiance as a Catholic. His objective alliance with the Constitutionalists, even though his actions were closer to those advocated by radical activists, did not help to enhance the visibility of his actions.275 Moreover, as with the Labor Party Vietnamese Progressive Youth was focusing on numerically limited and socially atomized urban social groups. In addition, for their refusal to link their social goals with a strong teleological—even messianic—ideology, both movements failed to effectively mobilize the section of Vietnamese society whose interests they claimed to defend. The end of Huỳnh Phúc Yên’s project with Progressive Youth was precipitated by an incident in which one of his colleagues stole the newspaper’s subscription fund. In the June 19, 1929, issue (the first of the new series under Lê Thành Lư’s directorship) he resigned.276 Yên’s ephemeral political adventure illuminates the activists’ active search not only to break the colonial regime’s adamant refusal to engage in real political dialogue but also to widen the scope of political debate beyond the dialectic of opposition between an established political elite and an aspiring one. It was an attempt to inspire new sections of Vietnamese society: in this case, politicized urban workers and Catholics. If Yên’s initiatives did not succeed, they nonetheless added to the sense that social mobilization strategies using newspapers in combination with associations, “leagues,” or other similar groups—either in the open or underground—were what was needed. Like those of Cao Triêu Phát and his Labor Party, Yên’s initiatives were part of a new phenomenon that operated outside the rigid boundaries of political debate imposed by the French. Existing on the edge of legality and illegality, peaceful persuasion and regimented enlistment, Yen’s efforts were also part of a seismic shift in the symbolism of political legitimacy. Intellectual-journalists turned the press into an instrument of individual and collective strategy that functioned outside the colonial regime and its

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ideological and legal restrictions on political expression. This withdrawal did not necessarily imply a direct confrontation with the authorities. The act of opposing a political regime from within the very institutional framework that had been forcibly imposed appeared to these intellectuals to legitimize the regime. However, in denying that the colonial system had any support in Vietnamese society, it became essential for these intellectuals to ensure that they themselves were socially “representative.” Hence, for the first time, they made genuine attempts to relate political action to the public or at least to segments of it. This new social concern reflected a fresh contemporary awareness of the growing diversity and complexity of Vietnamese society, signaling the shift from an elitist political culture in which the Vietnamese public opinion was taken from granted, to one that required the active mobilization of a mass-based, socially conscious opposition. Cao Triều Phát’s and Hùynh Phúc Yên’s journalistic experiments sought to represent the new category of “urban workers.” As the workers’ avant-garde agents, they saw themselves as promoting a socially conscious public sector. A more typically populist thinker, Cao Văn Chánh used New Century to test the limits of colonial repression in order to further undermine the authorities’ standing in the eyes of the indigenous population. Attempts to represent the people of Annam against both the French and the Huế monarchy also gave Chánh’s newspapers unique credibility. These publishers did not renounce the possibility of a mass-based political confrontation. On the contrary, they saw their public action as complementing underground political activities. Chánh used a strategy of direct provocation aimed at triggering official reactions that would compel people to flood the streets, as they did in March 1926. This approach was most apparent after the closure of New Century (the Tân Thế Kỷ affair). Another strategy pursued was that of the Labor Party activists, who combined the use of newspapers with that of an organized movement in the form of a legal political party and professional networks. Only the latter survived. Although their political ideas often lacked clarity and coherence, they saw the potential to transform social aspirations into a political force. Having failed to make his organization’s goals relevant to a broad sector of the public, Phát eventually joined the Cao Đài Church, the only successful mass-based movement in southern Vietnam. The struggle to mobilize different segments of Vietnamese society in significant numbers was just beginning. In this initial phase, they were still prisoners of the fact that they were addressing mainly an urban population. More than Caodaism, which remained limited

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in its range of political and social options, communism would eventually become the first ideological and organizational apparatus to effectively mobilize critical masses of the indigenous society and confront the colonial order, largely because of its capacity to take root in the countryside. Begun in the aftermath of the events of 1926, this form of mobilization journalism on the margins of the public sphere found its epitome in the 1930s in the form of the weekly newspaper La Lutte (Struggle). A legal façade of the communist movement resulting from the policy of a united front between the Saigon Stalinists and Trotskyites, La Lutte ran from 1934 until 1937. Described by Daniel Hémery, the French-language weekly succeeded in combining legal journalism with underground activities of mass mobilization in the countryside and among Saigon’s working classes. The insurrectional events of 1930–1931 in Cochinchina had shown a fundamental displacement of the center of gravity of anticolonial opposition and revealed that rural villages in particular were the main location of revolutionary activity. The authorities waged a campaign of vigorous anticommunist repression primarily to prevent activists from leaving the countryside and to effect a connection with the urban political sphere. The need to fortify the legal front therefore became necessary for the militants. Nguyễn An Ninh and his colleagues Nguyễn Văn Tạo, Tạ Thu Thâu, and Trần Văn Thạch tried first to take over existing quốc ngữ newspapers. They also presented their own candidates on the Saigon Municipal Council and the Colonial Council. These attempts ultimately led to the launch of La Lutte in October 1934.277 This political experiment eventually failed because of an internal split in 1937. More than a simple newspaper, La Lutte was the prototype of the legal revolutionary press in Vietnam, with the communist movement as its main engine. It had one foot in the cities and the other in the rural areas. As a legal newspaper engaged in a revolutionary—and illegal—opposition to the colonial order, it embodied the convergence of an institutionalized opposition press and a marginal political journalism as it emerged in the 1920s. This trend developed at the expense of more socially exclusive newspapers like those of the Constitutionalists or of national forum publications whose fate remained dependent on the colonial legal system, with no “operational forces” in the countryside to sustain their anticolonial action.278 The post-1926 period was marked by the solidification of the “newspaper village” and its partial institutionalization within southern Vietnam’s political landscape. Despite being undermined by the concomitant phenomena of the rise of Caodaism, the voluntary withdrawal of a number of intellectual-

The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 215

journalists, and a new range of restrictions imposed by the regime, its role as principal newsmaker remained essential. Coupled with the changing political climate, the pervasive presence of the press elicited a parallel trend toward increased professionalism in some papers and the exploration of new strategies of social mobilization in others. In their attempts to carve out a space of public engagement, Vietnamese journalist-activists indeed resorted to two main yet contradictory modes of political journalism: the first, legally conformist, did not overtly confront the colonial regime. It continued to privilege individual agency with either an emphasis on plural debate and factual information or an ideologically narrow political enfranchisement through education. The difference was only of degree. The other emerging form of political journalism sought to achieve mass mobilization either by radicalizing the Vietnamese public by defying the authorities or by targeting specific segments of the public. In the years that followed, mass mobilization was to become more important than political agency grounded in autonomous critical judgment exercised by individuals reached in their private depths by the journalists’ arguments.

Conclusion

T

he emergence of a public sphere of oppositional political activism in Saigon challenged traditional Vietnamese patterns, as well as those associated with the colonial power. It produced forms of political expression previously unknown in Vietnam, combining an individualist desire to leave one’s mark through public action—an impulse associated with the cross-cultural urban modernity embodied by journalists—with aspirations for collective and national political liberation. The central thread that underscored the Vietnamese press was the painful yet necessary combination of an essentially elitist, top-down mode of expression with the need to shape, reflect, and mobilize an autonomous native public opinion able to politically legitimate the journalistic enterprise. The ability of Vietnamese public politics to effectively tackle the pressing question of foreign colonial domination must indeed be appreciated in light of activists’ perceptions of their own role. Their commitment to a diversity of expressions was determined by their sense of individual responsibility toward society, which could not be simply based on an abstract pursuit of truth and justice, as in the case of contemporary Western intellectuals. In their attempts to publicly assert their voice, these journalists retained a sense of social responsibility and a belief that the collective good of the

Conclusion 217

community, politically and culturally, ultimately depended on them. This tension weighed acutely on their shoulders. The Western model had produced a growing sense of individualism without providing a framework within which people could come together in a new collective project. Vietnamese journalists, as public individuals, strove to build that project with the power of their words and their own civic stand. The desire to make an immediate impact in the fight against colonialism led Nguyễn An Ninh to his dual and dangerously contradictory path of action: through his editorials, to convince the minority of educated compatriots to act as responsible individual citizens, and through his underground action in the countryside, to stir up revolutionary mass mobilization among the rural majority. This second strategy became a natural option for many Vietnamese nationalists in the 1930s.1 It led to the circumscription of free expression within boundaries imposed by imperatives of collective discipline, thereby compromising open debate as a political goal. Unwittingly perhaps, consumed by the desire to seize the day and relying on the belief that the ends and the means would ultimately converge, Ninh contributed in the end to the political limitation of Vietnam’s first open political forum, which he, more than anyone else, had helped to initiate. In a country where more than 80 percent of the population lived in rural areas, the practical prospects of mass—mostly rural—mobilization suggested by the rise of Caodaism and Ninh’s secret society not only alarmed the French authorities but also led many activists to discard newspapers altogether as inadequate instruments of political action. This development tended to offset any dreams of peaceful, political development in the minds of the protagonists. Ninh’s assessment of the political immaturity of his compatriots and the need to resort to more classical forms of mass-based actions seem, in retrospect, valid. As a number of historians of the 1945 revolution in Vietnam have argued, had it not been for World War II and the considerable changes in power relations it brought, the political status quo in Vietnam would not have been so easy to break.2 Hồ Chí Minh, when he seized the opportunity of the moment in order to make history, had a precursor in Ninh when he intuited early on that Vietnamese response to colonialism would need to make use of all the political resources available. Historians of the Vietnamese nationalist revolution may be advised to reflect on this early period of public politics as more than just a prologue. The colonial power, for the first time, had lost its monopoly over the terms and modes of expression it had laid down as the basis of its legitimacy. The

218 Conclusion

March 1926 events, largely the result of the concerted action of the Vietnamese press, marked the symbolic rejection and the ultimate failure of the rhetoric of gradual political emancipation under French tutelage. Two years later, the circle was closed with the force of an unbridled independent Vietnamese press, both militant and informative in character. An irreversible development had occurred. It began with the creation of a symbolic counterculture that discovered its strength and developed its internal diversity while maintaining unity against the colonial power. It would break and pursue multiple political directions, creating an array of options based on the realization that rational debate would not alone achieve political sovereignty. Nonetheless, the taste for free expression, including advocacy of militant political action, had left an indelible mark. The 1920s’ Saigon newspaper forum was an important factor in leading to political rupture. The evidence provided by the political press clearly shows that that rupture came into existence well before the dates officially associated with the end of the colonial period, and the relevance of political journalism outlived the period of colonial occupation. In the next decades, though the main locus of political—and military—confrontation shifted to the countryside and to regimented mass mobilization, the phenomenon of the newspaper as an active force of political and social power continued its own course, making political journalism more than a historical parenthesis. At the beginning of the following decade, the southern Vietnamese political scene was characterized by the coexistence of a legal political realm, very much the province of journalists, and an increasingly illegal one dominated by communist-led mass movements that showed their strength during the 1930–1931 insurrectional events in the countryside. On the public front, what characterized the 1930s could already be seen at the end of the previous decade: a pluralistic political spectrum with a socially segmented range of public forums and a refusal to directly interact with the regime and its defenders. The radical Marxist opposition journalism, represented by La Lutte as it emerged in the aftermath of the 1930–1931 insurrections and the ensuing repression, constituted the culmination of a process started in the early 1920s. Peaceful public argumentative inquiry through the press balanced mass mobilization actions. La Lutte featured all the attributes of an opposition newspaper while its operations took place in conjunction with underground activities in the countryside and in the city. With La Lutte, communism and Marxist ideology, whether represented by Trotskyites or Stalinists, came to prominence as the principal alternative to the status

Conclusion 219

quo. Moderate Constitutionalist newspapers were increasingly marginalized on the right of the political spectrum. La Lutte’s failure in 1937, with the imprisonment of its founders, meant the temporary lessening of the role of political journalism as a driving force of political contestation. As seen by the end of the 1920s, the content of the press during the 1930s featured a growing interest in domestic social and cultural subjects, as well as international news. While the political scene was shifting toward a radical opposition between two irreconcilable sides—the Vietnamese versus the French—the 1930s saw a thorough process of reassertion of Vietnam’s cultural and literary heritage, simultaneously brought about by an embrace of individualistic values at the philosophical level and new collective ideologies ranging from social Catholicism to Buddhist revivalism and Marxism. All these combined to create an intellectual and cultural phase of introspection too often dissociated from political agency. This trend was best exemplified in Saigon by the magazine Phụ Nữ Tân Văn (1929–1934). Throughout the 1930s the press continued to play a considerable role in the social and cultural transformation of Vietnamese society.3 The intellectual and political fermentation that characterized Saigon’s first newspaper village in the 1920s and 1930s came to a close with the establishment of the pro-Vichy regime in Indochina and its systematic policy of repression. With the exception of the Popular Front interlude, the 1930s witnessed a final regressive phase of the regime, when early hopes by the French to institutionalize their political legitimacy within the Vietnamese social realm by means other than force were abandoned. Having lost touch with the Vietnamese intelligentsia in the mid-1920s, the colonial regime found that the raison d’être of French rule was its survival at all costs. The anti-French Japanese coup of March 9, 1945, and, subsequent to the Japanese surrender, the establishment of the Việt Minh as the main national political force, paradoxically led to the elimination of many activists of the 1920s. A number of them met a tragic fate: Bùi Quang Chiêu, Diệp Văn Kỳ, Dương Văn Giáo, Cao Văn Chánh, Phan Văn Hùm, Tạ Thu Thâu, and probably others were killed in the days following the Japanese surrender in August 1945.4 Their free way of doing and embodying politics was not acceptable to the new creed of nationalist-combatants led by Hồ Chí Minh. Likewise, the pro-Vichy regime of Admiral Decoux left Nguyễn An Ninh to die of exhaustion in the Poulo Condor jail colony in 1943. Other journalistactivists of the 1920s, such as cartoonist Lê Trung Nghĩa, fell victim to the ensuing Indochinese war.5 Others continued for a time to be at the center

220 Conclusion

stage of Vietnamese politics, but, except perhaps for Trần Huy Liệu in northern Vietnam, the hour of fame and political relevance of these men was behind them.6 As in most revolutions, these initiators of a modern public sphere were destroyed by the historical forces they unleashed. In the end, though their presence is visible in the historical records, their fate did not differ much from that of so many other figures at the center of this book, who simply vanished and of whom no trace can be found.7 Yet, their collective legacy as pioneers of the Saigon newspaper village lived on. For nearly three decades, Saigon continued to play a unique role as Vietnam’s forum of independent debate—this, in spite of a succession of authoritarian regimes and corrupt wartime politics associated with foreign interventions and internal destabilizing maneuvers. From the dictatorial rule of President Ngô Đình Diệm (1955–1963) to the reign of President Nguyễn Văn Thiệu (1967–1975), the Saigon newspaper village survived notwithstanding state censorship and the ensuing mass production of commercial media. Independent journalists continued the 1920s’ practice of makeshift artisanal pamphlets and quickly written journals. Even during times that were dangerous for its initiators, this resilient tradition of open contradictory expression continued until April 30, 1975, when the regime surrendered to the forces of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. After that date, the newspaper village, as an autonomous force, came to an end. For the victorious Hanoi leaders, the Saigonese culture of public politics, in its anarchic wealth of individual opinions (chính trị đa dạng), was not acceptable. The reason was not simply its subversive political and ideological content but also its inherent libertarianism, which contradicted the very idea of a culturally clean and homogenous, linear historical continuity upon which the regime built its legitimacy. After 1975 the enforcement of a centralized, state-controlled press would lead to the effective suppression of Saigon’s civic sphere of contestation.8 Vietnam’s first modern forum of public politics must continue to interest historians and all those who are not satisfied with the current official Vietnamese vision of a country fixed in monolithic certitudes. It attests to a pattern repeated elsewhere at different times in history against omnipotent, despotic political systems. Other instances include the political effervescence of early twentieth-century Calcutta in British India; the May 4, 1919, movement in China; or, closer to us, events in China in 1989, in Indonesia in the 1990s, and in Iran, also in the 1990s.9 Vietnamese official historiography, somewhat reinforced by its Western mainstream counterpart, to-

Conclusion 221

day remains marked by the experiences of resistance to European and American imperialism and by the ideal of the postcolonial nation-state model as represented by the one-party Hanoi regime. Vietnam’s modern history is presented as a protracted, continuous, and, of necessity, violent confrontation, determined by the imperatives of collective liberation. Though understandable in view of the horrors perpetrated during the years of military conflict and foreign meddling, it is imperative that we challenge this monolithic, simplistic, and insufficiently analytic history. It is time to view Vietnam’s modern history as just as complex as that of other national responses to modernity: not as a single, seamless continuum but as a variegated and conflictual field of social interactions—like Saigon’s newspaper village itself—in which individuals and communities strove to regain their dignity and thereafter imagined a new, shared national identity. To nurture an open vision of its own diverse historical past is one of the major challenges now facing today’s Vietnam as it finds itself again in the midst of a transformation of unparalleled scale and rapidity.

abbreviations

CAOM CF DPTB EA GGI GOF Goucoch HCM City IDEO NF NA2 NXB SEMC SLOTFOM SPCE TPHCM

Centre des archives d’outre-mer La Cloche Fêlée Đông Pháp Thời Báo L’Écho Annamite Gouvernement général de l’Indochine Grand Orient de France Gouvernment de Cochinchine Ho Chi Minh City Imprimerie d’Extrême-Orient Indochine nouveaux fonds (Ministry of Colonies) National Archives 2 (Ho Chi Minh City) Nhà Xuất Bản (publishing company) Société d’enseignement mutuel de Cochinchine Service de liaison des originaires des territoires français d’outre-mer Service de protection du corps expéditionnaire Thành Phố Hồ Chí Minh (HCM City)

For the sake of clarity, I have kept the French spellings of common Vietnamese places, including Hanoi, Saigon, Cholon, and Vietnam. I have replaced Annam with Vietnam when qualifying the whole country. I have also kept French newspaper titles in their original form as a way to distinguish them from Vietnamese titles that have been translated into English.

notes

Introduction 1. In 1926, by contrast, the Vietnamese communist movement was just a handful of obscure émigrés who were taking refuge in Canton and Paris. The young leader, Hồ Chí Minh, was then enmeshed in united-front politics as he attempted to get funding for his training program for anti-French activists. See Quinn-Judge, Ho Chi Minh. 2. On urban-based native political opposition to colonial rule in Java, see Shiraishi, Age in Motion; in Shanghai and Beijing, see Schwartz, Chinese Enlightenment; and in Calcutta, see Sarkar, Bengal, 1928–1934. 3. Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World. See also Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments. 4. Jürgen Habermas, Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit (Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1962). The English version is The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. I have used here the French translation, L’espace public, 9. 5. Habermas’s central thesis is corroborated by recent works on ancien-régime France; see, for instance, David Bell, The Cult of the Nation in France: Inventing Nationalism, 1680–1800 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003). Some historians have pointed out the limits of Habermas’s theory in that the universal forum he described excluded numerous social groups. See, for instance, Fraser, “Rethinking the Public Sphere.” In its sociological configuration, the 1920s’ Saigon journalistic public sphere was indeed limited to educated, middle-income urbanized categories. In the colonial context, however, with the de facto political exclusion of an entire population, the

226 Introduction

public sphere primarily defined a collective counterculture of legitimacy—against the colonial power. The Saigon political newspapers proved subversive by the discursive space they shaped in which rhetorical exchanges were the bases of a collective awareness of common issues and shared interests, leading ultimately to the constitution of an all-embracing national public space. On the subversiveness of rhetoricality, see Hauser, Vernacular Voices. 6. The French word moment can imply a stage in historical development where opportunities of change bearing considerable significance converge. The term “native” is used here (and is used hereafter) primarily for its current meaning of someone who belongs to a particular place by birth. As with the French term indigène, its past derogatory definition, which qualifies indigenous inhabitants under European control, must nonetheless be acknowledged. 7. Anderson, Imagined Communities. On the purely political aspect of this analysis, however, Habermas’s emphasis on the dialectical process that existed between the central authority (i.e., the colonial state) and the emerging, contesting elites (i.e., the Vietnamese-educated, urbanized classes, at fi rst aided by isolated liberal Frenchmen) appears more convincing than Anderson’s all-encompassing and rather mechanical theory of the rise of a shared communal, “imagined,” sentiment among natives. 8. On the rise of communism in the 1930s, see Khánh, Vietnamese Communism. 9. Boudet, “ La conquête de la Cochinchine par les Nguyễn.” 10. Cities can be studied for their intrinsic political-cultural role in that their internal social dynamics and the forms of interaction existing within their human sphere of influence (their hinterland) contribute to a sociocultural awareness that influences the shaping of an “imagined,” as well as an “experienced,” community. See Anderson’s Imagined Communities. 11. See Cooper and Stoler, Tensions of Empire. 12. On the introduction of European-centered modes of historicization in nonWestern “colonized” political cultures, see Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000). 13. The conjunction of an intellectual and technological revolution represented by the development of mass print materials in the Vietnamese vernacular is the focus of McHale’s Print and Power. 14. This “radicalism,” which went beyond mere political posturing, was first identified and analyzed by Tai, Radicalism and the Origins of the Vietnamese Revolution. 15. Following a decision by President Ngô Đình Diệm, documents deemed of political character (archives de souveraineté ) were not handed over to the former metropole at the time of French withdrawal, in breach of a 1953 agreement signed with the three “independent” states of the “French Union” (Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam). 16. Cooper and Stoler, Tensions of Empire, 18. 17. Cooper and Stoler, Tensions of Empire,18.

1. Social Order in the Colonial City 227

1. Social Order in the Colonial City 1. Lefebvre, Urban Revolution, 17. 2. Gottfried Korff, “Mentalität und Kommunikation in der Großtadt: Berliner Notizen zur ‘inneren’ Urbanissierung,” in Großtadt: Aspekte empirscher Kulturforschung, ed. on behalf of the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Volkskunde by Theodor Kohlmann and Herman Bausinger, 343–61 (Berlin: Kulturforschung, 1985). Quoted in Schlor, Nights in the Big City, 16. 3. Anderson, Imagined Communities. Besides Anderson’s recognition of the creative character of the colonial city, other works have touched upon the subject for Southeast Asia, including McGee, Southeast Asian City. 4. Few studies on Vietnam focus on this “protopolitical” aspect of the colonial city. The first most insightful research on the subject was by Alexander Woodside, who explored the creative process of socialization in colonial Vietnamese cities. Woodside, “Development of Social Organizations in Vietnamese Cities in the Late Colonial Period”; Community and Revolution in Modern Vietnam. Saigon’s northern counterpart, Hanoi, recently received two important monographs: Philippe Papin, Histoire de Hanoi (Paris: Fayard, 2001); William S. Logan, Hanoi: Biography of a City. On urban-originated Vietnamese intellectual activities, see David Marr’s Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, 1920– 45, and Tai’s Radicalism. A new stream of research on the subject includes McHale, Print and Power; Nguyễn Văn Ký, La société vietnamienne face à la modernité; Lockhart and Lockhart, Light of the Capital, particularly the introduction, 1–50. 5. The administrative boundaries between Saigon, Chợ Lớn, and Gia Định are disregarded here. 6. On the early history of Saigon, see Nguyễn Đinh Đầu, “Địa lý lịch sữ Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh.” See also Philippe Peycam, “Saigon des origines à 1859.” 7. Before the arrival of the French, Saigon was called Gia Định, the name of the administrative province of which it was the center. The origin of the name Sài Gòn is still discussed today. “Sài” would have meant wood in Chinese, while “Gòn” is the Vietnamese word for the local cotton wool, also called kapok (translation by Trương Vỉnh Ký, Souvenirs historiques sur Saigon et ses environs, 4. Recent historians, however, believe that the name derives from the Vietnamese pronunciation of the Khmer Prei Nokor (City in the Forest): “Rài Gòn,” which became “Saì Gòn” (see Nguyễn Đình Đầu, “Về Địa Danh Sài Gòn,” in Địa Chí Văn Hóa Thành Phố Hồ Chí Minh, vol. 1, 215–31). 8. On the Tây Sơn movement, see Dutton, Tây Sơn Uprising. 9. A Saigon-based intellectual circle had existed in the first half of the nineteenth century with the group known as the Gia Định Tam Gia (The Three of Gia Định). It included the historian Trịnh Hòai Đức, the poet Ngô Nhân Tịnh, and the writer Lê Quang Định. See Nguyễn Đinh Đầu, “Về Địa Danh Sài Gòn,” 192. On the exam sessions held in Saigon, see Nguyễn Đinh Đầu, “Sĩ Phú Gia Định-Binh Dương.” 10. Peycam, “Saigon des origines à 1859,” 43. 11. The main canal linking the two centers, Kinh Bến Nghé had twenty-one villages on its banks (Trương Vĩnh Ký, Souvenirs historiques, 19–22).

228 1. Social Order in the Colonial City

12. Sơn Nam describes this enduring mentality in his classic, Đất Gia Định-Bến Nghé Xưa và Người Sài Gòn. See also Peycam, “Saigon des origines à 1859,” 37. 13. This rather classic defi nition of the force of change introduced by colonial rule echoes Anderson’s emphasis on the introduction of modern “state machinery,” with its corollaries—bureaucratization and the development of colonial education; the local economy’s integration into global capitalism; and the resulting phenomena of physical mobility and periphery-center duality—all essential conditions for the emergence of new forms of political communal consciousness. 14. On the modern state’s forms of social control, see Foucault, Power/Knowledge. For a discussion of the fundamentally “disjointed” nature of the French “imperial nationstate” (regarding its tension between republican universalism and colonial particularism), see Wilder, French Imperial Nation-State. 15. Osborne, French Presence in Cochinchina and Cambodia. 16. Brocheux and Hémery, Indochine, 85. On a comparative spectrum, in 1925 there were as many French bureaucrats for the 30 million “Indochinese” natives as there were British bureaucrats for 325 million Indians. See Isoart, Le phénomène national vietnamien, 200. 17. Foucault, Discipline and Punish. 18. By the 1920s, the French police force was the epitome of bureaucratic technological intelligence, a trend considerably reinforced during World War I. See Noiriel, Immigration, 308. 19. Shiraishi, “New Regime of Order,” 74. 20. Quoted in Brocheux and Hémery, Indochine, 112. On the repressive apparatus of the colonial system, see Morlat, La Répression coloniale au Vietnam; Brocheux and Hémery, Indochine, 111–12; and Peter Zinoman, Colonial Bastille. 21. According to French law, the term indigène qualified the aboriginal population of a colonial territory. It did not elicit any determined juridical quality. See Emmanuelle Saada, “Une nationalité par degrees: Civilités et citoyenneté en situation coloniale,” in Weil and Dufoix, L’Esclavage, 193-228. 22. Until 1933 the French administration maintained the precolonial status of the Minh Hươngs, stipulating that the sons of a Chinese father and a native (Vietnamese or Khmer) mother be called Minh hương and enjoy a special status between that of foreign Asians and natives. “Offspring of marriages between minh hương fathers and native mothers, however, were treated as fully assimilated natives in regard to taxation, military service, corvée and the right to leave the country” (Engelbert, “ ‘Go West’ in Cochinchina, 67. 23. Brocheux and Hémery, Indochine, 187–91. 24. Trương Bữu Lâm, New Lamps for Old. 25. Woodside, Community and Revolution, 10. 26. Brocheux and Hémery, Indochine, 206–12. 27. Chandler, History of Cambodia, 151–52. 28. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 121. 29. Gouvernement Général de l’Indochine, Direction des Affaires Économiques, Annuaire statistique de l’Indochine.

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30. Dương Như Đức, “Education in Vietnam under the French Domination.” 31. Kelly, “Franco-Vietnamese Schools,” 194. 32. Kelly, “Franco-Vietnamese Schools,” 173. 33. These tendencies resulted less from government intervention than from indigenous initiatives in response to the new environment of opportunities. For a description of the economic changes incurred by colonial rule on Cochinchina and in particular its impact upon village politics, see Popkin, Rational Peasant, 170–82. 34. Brocheux and Hémery, Indochine, 123–27. 35. “The specialization, integration and monetization of the economy massively disrupted social relationships. The permanency, intimacy and shared values which had checked abuse in the past yielded to the stronger imperatives of modern economics, backed up by modern force” (Trương Bữu Lam, New Lamps for Old, 25). 36. In its efforts to distinguish the profile of Vietnamese newspapers’ readers, a Sûreté report used terms such as “middle class” for the Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era); “Vietnamese elite” for the Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Time); “educated masses” for Nổng Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture); “intellectuals, businessmen, capitalists, industrialists” for Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo (Southern Economist); “Vietnamese of all classes” for Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette). See Sûreté annual report, March 1922–May 1923, GGI, 7F, 65474 (2), CAOM. 37. Thompson, French Indochina, 143. 38. Sanson, Economics of Insurgency in the Mekong Delta of Vietnam, 24–25. 39. Annuaire du Syndicat des Planteurs de Caoutchouc de l ’Indochine, 1926. 40. The decree of June 1922, which widened the electoral basis for the Colonial Council from 1,700 to 21,000 indigenous voters, aimed precisely at including the Vietnamese middle class in the electorate. 41. L’Écho annamite, Apr. 27, 1927. 42. Quoted by Hémery, in Révolutionnaires vietnamiens et pouvoir colonial en Indochine, 217. 43. Trần Văn Giàu, “Lược Sử Thành Sài Gòn Từ Khi Pháp Xâm Chiếm (1859) Dến Tháng 4–1975,” in Địa Chí Văn Hóa Thành Phố Hồ Chí Minh, vol. 1, 352. 44. One of the Ba Son workers was Tôn Đức Thắng, the future president of Communist Party–led independent Vietnam (1969–1980). See Christoph Giebel, Imagined Ancestries of Vietnamese Communism: Tôn Đức Thắng and the Politics of History and Memory (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2004), 89. 45. The affair blew out of proportion after the colon press led by L’Impartial accused the strike organizers of acting in conjunction with an international communist conspiracy. This version was later amplified by the Vietnamese communist historiography to highlight the precocious role of Tôn Đức Thắng (for instance, see Trần Văn Giàu, “Lược Sử,” in Địa Chí Văn Hóa TPHCM, vol. 1, 350–354). A study of the event and the various interpretations surrounding it is made by Giebel, Imagined Ancestries, 87–126. 46. Hémery, Révolutionnaires viêtnamiens, 221. The young Lê Thành Lư is the only activist journalist I found to have come from a “working class” background. Lư’s interests in promoting unionism among auto drivers and in supporting strikes like that of the typographers in November 1927, are evidence of his social awareness.

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47. For instance, a strike of coolies that began in the southern town of Vĩnh Long in January, 1928. Sûreté Annual Report July 1927 – June 1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM. 48. Tainturier, “Architectures et urbanisme sous l’administration française [de Saigon]”; see also Wright, Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism. 49. The two administrative entities of Saigon and Cholon merged in 1931 to create the Municipalité de Saigon–Cholon . 50. Lefebvre, Urban Revolution, 115–33. 51. Choay, L’ histoire et la méthode en urbanisme. 52. Le Plateau was being used by the Vietnamese mandarins even before the French conquest. Though rarely acknowledged by French sources, the elements of continuity with the precolonial Vietnamese use of space should not be underestimated. See Sơn Nam, “Di Sản Sài Gòn,” in Saigon, 1698–1998, 239. 53. Wright, Politics of Design, 166. 54. Construction works regularly unearthed remains of the Vietnamese military city, as in 1926, when foundations of the citadel built by Emperor Gia Long in 1790 were unearthed on Rue Chasseloup-Laubat. A preliminary archaeological study of Saigon’s precolonial urban layout was published in 1935 by Louis Malleret in “Éléments d’une monographie des anciennes fortifications et citadelles de Saigon,” Bulletin de la Société des Études Indochinoises 4 (1935): 5–108. 55. Hébrard’s city-planning ambitions in Indochina only partially materialized in Hanoi. See Tainturier, “Architectures”; on Hébrard, see Wright, Politics of Design and “Tradition in the Service of Modernity.” 56. Respectively, Auguste Delaval and Ernest Hébrard. See Tainturier, “Architectures.” 57. Lyautey’s “traditional” native policy in Morocco itself contrasted with the absence of a similar impulse in neighboring French Algeria. On Phnom Penh and the “Khmer quarter,” see Edwards, Cambodge, 40–63. On Morocco and examples of the nouvelles médinas, see the case of Casablanca analyzed by Cohen and Eleb in Casablanca, 201–13. 58. Mus, Sociologie d ’une guerre, 124–28. Describing changes brought by colonial urbanism in Dutch Indonesia, Rudolf Mrázek highlights this feeling of uneasiness among natives: “Urbanization made the insecurity more distinct, as the modern natives, pushed and pulled out of the innermost parts of their homes, were increasingly living uncomfortably close to the Dutch. This was to be a complex culture of feeling to be out of place” (2002, 55). 59. Baudrit, Guide historique des rues de Saigon. 60. In 1919 the Chinese community in Saigon effectively followed anti-Japanese actions in Mainland China by boycotting goods from the archipelago state. See Marsot, Chinese Community in Vietnam under the French, 40–42. See also Engelbert, “ ‘Go West’ in Cochinchina,” 56–82. 61. The category “Indians” did not include those from the French Indian territories, who were French citizens (more than three hundred were registered in the electoral rolls). See Nasir Abdoul-Carime, “Les communautés indiennes en Indochine française,” in Siksacakr 7 (2005): 19–24; Pairaudeau, Indians as French Citizens in Colonial Indochina.

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62. The dialect associations of Chinese in Saigon included five distinct congregations: Teochiu, Hokkien, Hainan, Hakka, and Cantonese; Indians were separated by religion—Hindus and Muslims. 63. The two boycotts bore distinct differences. The one in 1915 was orchestrated by French indigènophile circles, especially the Catholic Jules-Adrien Marx, director of the newspaper La Cochinchine libérale, who, in the middle of the nationalist fever of the Great War, identified the Vietnamese with the “true French,” both victims of “cosmopolitan profiteers” (the parallel between the Chinese in Asia and the Jews in Europe was a recurrent theme among right-wing French colons). By contrast, the 1919 movement was instigated by Vietnamese journalists themselves, following the example of the Chinese anti-Japanese boycott of the same year. See Peycam, “Les Intellectuels sud-vietnamiens.” 64. On June 19, 1928, a Vietnamese, Hùynh Văn Táo, was injured after he had a fight with two Muslim Indian textile salesmen at 22, rue Viénot. In Vietnamese neighborhoods the following day, a leaflet was distributed. Its text ended as follows: “Can Vietnamese be beaten easily? Indian textile salesmen must be boycotted.” Four days later, at 7 a.m., two hundred Vietnamese—school pupils, retired soldiers, and “Tonkinese secretaries”—attacked the shop where the salesmen worked, smashed its windows, hit the owners, and looted it. Twenty-two people were immediately arrested, and five were brought to court. These kinds of incidents greatly concerned the French police. Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928; GGI, 7F, 65476(a), CAOM. 65. The latter figure should be compared with the proportion of French in all of Cochinchina, which was 0.2 percent in 1921 and 0.1 percent in all of Indochina. In the same year, more than 60 percent of the European population of Cochinchina was concentrated in Saigon. Gouvernement Général de l’Indochine, Direction des Affaires Économiques, Annuaire statistique de l’Indochine. 66. Claude Farrère, Extrême-Orient (Paris: 1924), quoted in Gilles de Gantès, “Coloniaux, gouverneurs, et ministres,” 68. 67. See the ferocious account in Cochinchine by the young left-leaning French writer Léon Werth (1926) on the appalling relation between members of Saigon’s French community and the Vietnamese. 68. On the ambiguous legal personality of the métis in the French colonies, see Saada, Les Enfants. For Saigon, see Kim Lefebvre, “Èves jaunes et colons blancs,” in Brocheux and Hémery, Saigon 1925–1945, 111–19; and Franchini, Continental Saigon. 69. L’Annam (March 1, 1927). 70. Another interesting figure was Henri de la Chevrotière, a Réunion-born métis of mulatre and Vietnamese descent. Contrary to Dejean, de la Chevrotière chose to represent the “ultracolonist” side. The director of L’Impartial became the main voice of colon interests, flirting with the protofascist “league” movements. 71. The case of Phan Văn Trường shows that acculturation often brought with it an acute sense of loss for a romanticized Vietnamese “classical” culture, which Trường associated with Chinese culture. This nostalgia is apparent in his personal account of his days in France: Une histoire de conspirateurs annamites à Paris (1928). 72. Werth, Cochinchine, 35.

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73. Intercepted mail from his Paris address revealed that Dương Văn Giáo was involved in various intellectual circles there and was in contact with personalities such as Paul Boncour, Félicien Challaye, René Cassin, and Léon Jouhaux. Sûreté note dated Feb. 13, 1928, Goucoch, IIA. 45/233 (2), NA 2. Giáo was not, however, immune to internal tensions over cultural identity as his sudden conversion to Caodaism in 1928 (following his breakup with his French wife) perhaps indicates. 74. Sûreté annual reports: March 1922–May 1923, GGI, 7F, 65474 (2), and July 1923– December 1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. 75. L’Indochine (Oct. 7, 1948). See also Gouvernement Général de l’Indochine, Direction des Affaires Économiques, Annuaire statistique de l’Indochine. 76. Recent studies of the rise of modern national sentiments in Southeast Asia have pointed to the creative processes engendered by the colonial urban context, whereby new forms of awareness and interactions at both the individual and the collective level occurred. See, for instance, Shamsul, “Nations-of-Intent in Malaysia; or Shiraishi, Age in Motion. Comparative literature is a valuable resource for historians of colonial social urbanism. Three recent studies on “native” literature in colonial Vietnam and Indonesia emphasize the extent to which the metropolis played a critical role in forging new forms of individual consciousness and social identity: All point to the feeling of estrangement among the Western-educated, middle-class youth, from their elders or their homes in the countryside, their new sense of individual agency (chủ nghĩa cá nhân) magnified by the city’s material and social cultures, yet constrained by tradition and colonialism, leading a number of them to search for a new role in the community. New modes of interaction between individuals and, with them, expressions of collective identity announced the constitution of newly imagined national and social paradigms (for Vietnam, see Schafer and Thế Yuên, “Novel Emerges in Cochinchina,” as well as Lockhart and Lockhart, Light of the Capital; for Dutch Indies’ Batavia, see Kato, “Images of Colonial Cities in Early Indonesian Novels.” An expression of the new social configuration of the colonial city is evident in the emergence of “voluntary associations” among urban Vietnamese. These solidarity groups or secular associations of individuals, commonly referred to in Vietnamese as hội, began to appear in the first decade of the twentieth century and multiplied until the early 1920s. They constituted horizontal structures organized around criteria of belonging (geographical, professional, educational), which individuals willingly joined and participated in on equal terms. Inseparable from the framework of the colonial city, these networks—also found in major colonial urban centers in Asia—represented a transition from the social to the political sphere. (See Peycam, “From the Social to the Political”; on Southeast Asia see Owen, Emergence of Modern Southeast Asia, 259–60). 77. Woodside, Community and Revolution, 71. On the modern mutation of the Confucian “scholar” in China, see Jullien, “Du lettré à l’intellectuel.” 78. On the emergence of the intellectuel in France, see Charle, Naissance des intellectuels. See also Sirinelli and Ory, Les intellectuels en France. 79. The figure of Saigon’s intellectual-journalists corresponds to Antonio Gramsci’s definition of the “organic intellectual” in that their political consciousness was conditioned by their integration into the new colonial social configuration. Gramsci, Selec-

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tions from the Prison Books, 9. Daniel Hémery (1992) was the first to apply this analysis to Vietnam. See also Hémery (1983).

2. French Republicanism and the Emergence of Saigon’s Public Sphere 1. “Beyond Teleology: Alternative Voices and Histories in Colonial Vietnam” was the title of a conference organized in March 2007 at the University of Washington. 2. I am here referring to Partha Chatterjee’s reflections on anticolonial nationalism, which “creates its own domain of sovereignty within colonial society well before it begins its political battle with the imperial power.” Chatterjee, Nation and Its Fragments, 6. 3. In the official genealogy of France’s colonial history, two phases of expansion must be distinguished. The first took place in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in India and North America, on the West African coast, and in the West Indies, which saw most of the territories lost to Britain in the Treaty of Paris of 1763; the second phase, which began with the conquest of Algeria in 1830, was systematically pursued during the Second Empire (1851–1870) and, above all, the Third Republic (1871–1940). 4. Ernest Gellner’s functionalist description of a necessary congruence between the political conception of the nation and the construction of the nation-state unit fits well within the context of late nineteenth-century France: Nationalism as a political doctrine can exist only if the state reaches a certain level of functional development (unification and centralization of modes of communication, establishment of a national educational system, a common, official, administrative language, and a uniform body of civil servants). This model does not work as well with cases of nationalism shaped “against” perceived oppressive forces like Western colonialism. In such contexts, the notion of an “imagined” or ideal community of like-minded members as described by Benedict Anderson and Partha Chatterjee seems more appropriate. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 2nd ed. (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2006). 5. The notion of geographically delineated borders in the construction of national realms—what Thongchai Winichakul has called the “geo-body” of a nation—became crucial in Europe with the competing nation-building models of France and Germany and their confrontation over the bordering provinces of Alsace-Lorraine. Two conceptions of national geographic integration clashed—one based on historical and political ties, for the French, the other based on linguistic and cultural connections, for the Germans. The practice of geographical mapping of “national” realms introduced by Europeans in Southeast Asia in the nineteenth century was not older than that which took place in the newly colonized regions. See Thongchai Winichakul, Siam Mapped: A History of the Geo-Body of a Nation (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994). 6. In the 1880s the policy of greater imperial expansion was successfully defended by “opportunist republicans” such as Jules Ferry and Léon Gambetta. It was resisted by other republicans, who believed that France’s energies ought to be concentrated on regaining the lost provinces of Alsace-Lorraine.

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7. Gilles Manceron, 1885: Le tournant colonial de la république: Jules Ferry contre Georges Clemenceau, et autres aff rontements parlementaires sur la conquête coloniale (Paris: La Découverte, 2006–2007), introduction, 89–154. 8. “C’est parce que la France postule l’égalité des hommes qu’elle a, plus que d’autres, le droit de coloniser le monde.” In Blanchard, Bancel, and Lemaire, La fracture coloniale, 35. 9. Ernest Renan, “What Is a Nation?” (“Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?”), lecture given at the Sorbonne University, Mar. 11, 1882, in Geoff Eley and Ronald G. Suny, eds., Becoming National: A Reader (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 41–55. 10. This notion was best expressed in the depiction of unity of France and the belief in a special connection between its people and the world, materialized by its universal “mission of education.” This mission found another expression in the métropole, with the policy of compulsory primary education, introduced in 1884 by the same Jules Ferry, which republicans hoped to extend to the whole colonial realm. In the colonies as in the metropolitan provinces, the aim was to educate and civilize “backward” populations. 11. As prime minister, Jules Ferry laid out two main arguments for French colonialism by drawing on the social Darwinian theory of competition for survival among nations and peoples. The first was that France, to remain a major international player, needed to sustain a colonial policy that would guarantee its grandeur against competing European countries—especially Britain. The second was that the universal principles of the republic could serve as legitimate justification for imperial conquests: the will to “civilize” overseas natives and progressively bring them the light of liberty. Ferry openly advanced his theory that “inferior races” subject to colonization were not in a position yet to benefit from these principles. This circular argument asserted the legitimacy of the new regime and promoted it as a “colonizing republic.” See Savarese, L’ordre colonial. 12. Historians of colonization Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper convincingly argue that empire was largely the product of internal social strategies of power consolidation that enabled the European bourgeoisie to assert itself. Cooper and Stoler, Tensions of Empire. I borrow the expression “imperial nation-state” from Gary Wilder. 13. As the French colonial slogan pompously claimed: “Every man on earth has two fatherlands: his own, and France.” 14. Charles-Robert Ageron, L’Anticolonialisme en France. 15. Thompson, French Indochina, 405. 16. Pierre Guivral and Guy Thuiller, La vie quotidienne des députés en France de 1871 à 1914 (Paris, 1980); quoted in Gantès, Coloniaux, 448. 17. In 1937 the American author Virginia Thompson observed that “the anti-colonial feeling is still strong in France. After each native uprising [in Indochina]—1908— 1913—1930—it comes to light and denunciations abound” (Thompson, French Indochina, 405). The author even referred to the “spontaneity of French approval for any nationalist movement, even in their colonies” (410). 18. Betts, Assimilation and Association; Lewis, “One Hundred Million Frenchmen.” 19. Lewis, “One Hundred Million Frenchmen,” 147–48. In 1905 Clémentel, the minister of colonies, was charged with implementing the new policy.

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20. The rumor of an imminent Japanese invasion of Indochina spread widely among the French population. See the letter by Georges Garros to the dignitaries of the Masonic lodge, “Les Fervents du Progrès,” dated Jan. 11, 1908, in Fonds Outre-mer du Grand Orient de France, 1739 bis, GOF, Paris. 21. “There is only one serious defence of Indochina: the native,” in Jean Ajalbert, Indochine en péril (Paris, 1906, 14), quoted in Gantès, Coloniaux, 381. See also Lamothe, lieutenant governor of Cochinchina, personal note to Governor General Klobukowski, April 1908, quoted in Agathe Larcher, “La voie étroite,” 391. 22. The cần vương or “save the king” resistance movement began in 1885 with the flight of Emperor Hàm Nghi from the imperial capital, Huế. Led by the scholar-mandarin Phan Đình Phùng, the movement lasted until 1896 and was concentrated in the country’s central provinces. Monarchist in essence, the cần vương was nonetheless remembered by Vietnamese as one of the first organized attempts to resist French rule. 23. A vivid example of this difference in conceptions between Phan Châu Trinh and Phan Bội Châu appears in a conversation Trinh had with Nguyễn Ái Quốc, the future Hồ Chí Minh, in Paris in 1919, in which the old activist rejected the idea that “people should die uselessly, without any results.” This fundamental dilemma also impacted the course of action followed by the future president of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. See Quinn-Judge, Hồ Chí Minh, 17. 24. The Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục was established in 1906 by the scholar Lương Văn Cần. Modeled after Keio University in Japan, it was privately funded. It aimed at introducing Western ideas into Vietnamese society and included among its instructors figures such as Phan Châu Trinh. The use of quốc ngữ was promoted as the “national language,” and strong emphasis was placed on modern subjects like geography, mathematics, and science. The organization tended to follow a reformist rather than revolutionary orientation, although advocates of the latter were involved in the school’s activities. 25. Ageron, L’Anticolonialisme, 21–32, 39–44. 26. Bertrand Cammilli, La Représentation des indigènes en Indochine (Toulouse: Imprimerie Jean Fournier, 1914), quoted in Thompson, French Indochina, 401. This resolution had been adopted unanimously by the Chambre des Députés at the initiative of Francis de Pressensé, president of the Ligue des Droits de l’Homme. See Ageron, L’Anticolonialisme, 32. 27. On Sarraut and “Sarrautism” in Indochina, see Larcher, “La voie étroite,” 387– 420; Gantès, Coloniaux, 468–501; Hémery, “En Indochine française.” 28. Sarraut’s report to the Ministry of Colonies, May 5, 1913. Quoted in Larcher, “La voie étroite,” 408. 29. Larcher, “La voie étroite,” 398. See also Tai, “Politics of Compromise” (on Sarraut’s policy see especially 378–80). 30. This trend occurred in other colonies around the same time, particularly in the Dutch Indies, as shown by Shiraishi, “New Regime of Order.” 31. For an account of the development of colonial repression in Vietnam, see Morlat, La Répression coloniale au Vietnam. 32. In a speech given on Feb. 18, 1914, Sarraut explicitly referred to “the new social situation” in Indochina as a result of French colonization. Quoted in Larcher, “La voie étroite,” 398.

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33. Sarraut was twice minister of colonies (1920–1924, 1932–1933). He developed his reformist conceptions in two volumes: La Mise en valeur des colonies françaises [The Improvement of French Colonies] (1923), and Grandeur et servitude coloniales [“Colonial Grandeur and Slavery”] (1931). On Sarraut’s colonial reformist policy see Wilder, French Imperial Nation-State, 81–84. 34. Aside from Gantès’s doctoral thesis, this aspect of modern Vietnamese political history has been somewhat neglected by historians. Tai in “Politics of Compromise” and Osborne in French Presence have both partially discussed colon politics in Cochinchina. 35. Virginia Thompson wrote perceptive notes on the colons’ mentality: “There is an absence of real spiritual unity. French colonial society refuses to recognize the leadership of the bureaucracy imposed upon it from above, or to associate with the conquered native population beneath. Colonial society stagnates in sterile vanity and is indifferent to everything which is not European.” Thompson, French Indochina , 414. 36. Brocheux and Hémery, Saigon 1925–1945, 165. 37. Pairaudeau, “Indians as French Citizens,” 141–77. 38. McHale, Print and Power, 47. 39. On the colonial press, see Gantès, “Médiocrité et influence.” 40. Thompson, French Indochina, 421. 41. Gantès, Coloniaux, 276. Still, in 1922 the British consul general in Saigon noted the following in his quarterly report: The apparent immunity of the Saigon papers has long been a matter of surprise. From time to time they contain direct charges of malfeasance of one sort or other directed against some highly placed official or prominent merchant. Names and figures are openly cited and when no denials are forthcoming nor other action taken by the authorities, the local “man-in-the-street” is inclined to believe that the story is well founded. (Quarterly Report of Events of Interest in Consular District of Saigon, Oct. 20, 1922 [FO371/8277/9630/W9630, PRO])

42. “The French information press, here, balances its budget thanks to subsidies it receives from financial groups that effectively control it. State within the state, it represents a powerful force against which our governing leaders, even the most energetic, give in” (article signed “Alpha” in La Tribune indochinoise, June 19, 1929). 43. One exception regarded the subject of naturalization, with Marx’s Cochinchine Libérale’s campaign in February 1918 in favor of the mass naturalization of all Vietnamese veterans of the Great War. 44. A critical appraisal of Western colonialism began in Europe that was paradoxically inspired by the growing popularity within intellectual circles of “orientalist science”—best exemplified in Indochina by the École Française d’Extrême-Orient (EFEO) [French School of Far-Eastern Studies]—and its corollary, the reevaluation of non-Western civilizations. The rejection of European “blinded arrogance” was, for instance, denounced by EFEO scholar Sylvain Lévi, a sentiment that can be linked to

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the general feeling among many intellectuals at home of a “crisis of civilization.” Pierre Singaravélou, L’École française d’Extrême-Orient ou l’institution des marges, 1898–1956 (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1998), 270. 45. On Monin, see, in chronological order: Ministry of Colonies, “Indochine Nouveaux fonds”; carton: 100 entitled “Presse (1919–1925)”; and L’Impartial, May 7, 1924. See also “Report on Activities of Mr Monin” in Monthly Report of Events of Interest in Consular District of Saigon, by British consul general Gorton, March–April 1926 (FO 371/11831/85/ W2846, PRO); and Sûreté Annual Report, June 1928–May 1929, GGI, 7F23 (2), 65476, CAOM (“Décès de Maître Monin,” 6). 46. For instance, the radical Vietnamese opposition newspaper La Cloche fêlée (1923– 1924) had the following as its first slogan: “Propaganda Organ of French Ideas.” 47. For a critical analysis of the process of the Europeanization of thoughts in the practice of history by non-Western intellectuals, see Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000). 48. Coulet, Sociétés secrètes en terre d’Annam. 49. The Thiên Địa Hội was particularly popular among Chinese and Minh hương of Teochiu and Hokkien origins. See Engelbert, “ ‘Go West’ in Cochinchina,” 74. 50. On the genesis of these politico-religious movements, see Tai, Millenarianism and Peasant Politics in Vietnam. 51. What was “anachronistic,” however, was the use of a Eurocentric model opposing modernity and tradition. Partha Chatterjee has shown how this dichotomy marked a complex intellectual strategy on the part of the “colonized” to create new spaces of agency that Western rationalism and historicism could not embrace. The resort to “traditional” millenarianist activities, though unable to reduce the grip of colonial politics, enabled the colonized to distinguish two areas of agency: one shaped by the “colonizers” and the other, more “spiritual,” by the “colonized,” over which the invaders had no control. See Chatterjee, Nation and Its Fragments. 52. On Caodaism, see Smith, “Introduction to Caodaism.” On another subsequent political-religious movement, Hoa-Haoism, see Bourdeaux, “Emergence et constitution de la communauté du Bouddhisme Hòa Hảo.” 53. The role of the Thiên Địa Hội in the Chinese and Vietnamese revolutions is still largely unexplored, although a number of early nationalists in both southern China and Cochinchina belonged to the society. 54. For a detailed biography of these three intellectuals see Brébion and Cabaton, Dictionnaire de bio-bibliographie. See also two collective articles: Trần Văn Giàu, Thanh Lãng, and Hòang Xuân Việt, “Chữ quốc ngữ trên đất Sài gòn”; and Tầm Vu, Nguyễn Văn Trung, and Nguyễn Văn Y, “Văn học quốc ngữ ở Sài gòn.” 55. Osborne, French Presence, 128. 56. Nôm is an adaptation of Chinese demotic characters devised to provide a written form of spoken Vietnamese in precolonial Vietnam. 57. Trương Vĩnh Ký alone published sixty-seven titles, including dictionaries, treaties on grammar, education, geography, history, morality, sciences, and philosophy, as well as witness accounts, literature, legends, and short stories. Many of these works

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were translations. For a detailed bibliography see Christine Nguyễn, “Petrus J. B. Trương Vĩnh Ký.” 58. On literary modernization in China see Liu, Translingual Practice. 59. Trần Văn Giàu, Thanh Làng, and Hòang Xuân Việt: “Chữ quốc ngữ,” 151. The spread of quốc ngữ is too often simply associated with French agency, especially due to the administrative needs of the colonial authorities. What made the new script so compelling as a sustainable substitute for Chinese characters was that it served as the main transmitter of the “new knowledge” produced by Ký and his colleagues. 60. Phạm Thế Ngũ, Việt Nam Văn Học Sử. The same author mentions Ký’s condemnation of Vietnamese Catholics as intolerant of their Buddhist compatriots (71–73). See also Bouchot, Pétrus J-B. Trương Vĩnh Ký. See especially the political report Ký wrote on the political situation in Tonkin, dated Apr. 28, 1876 (34–41). 61. Among the earliest titles were the following: Phan Yên Báo (1868), Nam Kỳ Báo (Cochinchina Journal), 1897; Nhật Trinh Nam Kỳ (Cochinchina Daily), 1883; Nam Kỳ Địa Phân (Southern Diocese), 1883; Bảo Hộ Nam Dân (Protector of the Southern People), 1888; Nổng Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), 1901; Nhật Báo Tinh (Daily News), 1905–1908; and Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette), 1907. 62. Schafer and Thế Yuên, “Novel Emerges in Cochinchina.” In referring to the development of the modern literary tradition in Vietnam, McHale in Print and Power describes the southern literary tradition as shallow in content, in opposition to one characterized by its “high culture” in the north (16). If such a distinction can be made, I would agree with Schafer and Thế Yuên, who consider the development of a southern literary tradition as rooted in the specific experience of the region traumatized by its brutal integration into the French politico-administrative framework, a process that seems to have encouraged local writers to cling to Confucian moralistic formalism. The “sentimentalist” style of many early southern novels, like that by Hồ Biêu Chánh, is perhaps rooted in this sense of loss, while it is also true that with a wider audience available, southern novelists in quốc ngữ could adapt their production to less socially and intellectually exclusive circles than in the north. These differences tended to disappear as more exchanges between the two realms occurred. See Schafer and Thế Yuên, “Novel Emerges in Cochinchina,” 881–82. 63. In the course of the 1920s, the colonial government promoted Trương Vĩnh Ký and the other Catholic interpreters as models of “loyal collaboration.” Their image as “modernists” nevertheless transcends the political context in which they lived. 64. Osborne, French Presence, 122. 65. Osborne, French Presence, 167. 66. See La Cochinchine libérale from September 1908 to May 1909. 67. As director of La Cochinchine libérale, Jules-Adrien Marx was an experienced journalist who had worked for Le Figaro and founded L’Asie française and was close to Vietnamese Catholic interests. As demonstrated by his support of the anti-Chinese boycotts of 1915 and 1919, Marx made a point of defending the interests of the “natives” against his own compatriots. See Lamagat: Souvenirs d’un vieux journaliste indochinois, 158–63.

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68. Prior to the 1922 reform, the Colonial Council’s Vietnamese “electorate” consisted of a college of electors made up of delegates chosen by the notables of all the villages of Cochinchina. Since these notables were not elected officials, the native electorate was not democratically representative. Until the 1922 reform, the Vietnamese voters numbered fewer than two thousand. 69. Among the signatures were those of the colonial councilors Đỗ Hữu Phương, Diệp Văn Cương, Lê Phát Anh, Trần Bá Thọ, and Lương Khắc Ninh. 70. The Société d’enseignement mutuel de Cochinchine (in Vietnamese, Hội Khuyến Học Nam kỳ) is hereafter referred to by its French acronym: SEMC. 71. The SEMC later expanded its activities by running an elementary school, accounting and business training courses, a library and by organizing public talks. In an environment where gatherings were closely watched by the colonial authorities, the SEMC was to serve as a unique forum for its members. Conferences dealt with issues such as morality, modernization of the Vietnamese language, and literary developments. After World War I, the SEMC dared sponsor lectures with strong political content. This new dynamism coincided with the arrival on the SEMC’s board of politically active individuals like Bùi Quang Chiêu and novelist Hồ Văn Trung. Even during periods of serious divisions among Saigon’s educated elite, SEMC meetings succeeded in drawing together people from opposite ends of the political spectrum. With newspapers, SEMC’s lectures were among the first visible manifestations of Saigon’s emerging public sphere. See Peycam, “From the Social to the Political.” 72. Tổng đốc: “province chief” in the traditional mandarin hierarchy. An honorary title used by the French authorities to reward Vietnamese collaborators. 73. See the government’s publication L’éducation en Indochine (Hanoi: IDEO, 1931). 74. Baudrit, Guide historique des rues de Saigon, 482. 75. Trí phủ: honorary rank for Vietnamese civil servants working in the French administration. 76. For the “Gilbert Chiêu affair,” see Brocheux, “Note sur Gilbert Chiêu,” and Smith, “Development of Opposition to French Rule,” 100–4. 77. Report written by Saigon’s general attorney ( procureur général) to the governor general, Indochine NF, 8–28, CAOM, p. 19. 78. Later investigations, however, revealed that he was deeply in debt; Brocheux, “Note sur Gilbert Chiêu,” 73. 79. As a French citizen, Trần Chánh Chiêu was tried under French metropolitan law. At the end of the trial in April 1909, the court decided on a non lieu (nonsuit) verdict for lack of evidence. 80. Not so different from the private philanthropy found in a number of countries today, the powerful role played by the southern Vietnamese economic elite helped to legitimize their social position while maintaining a form of peaceful competition with holders of state power. 81. Phan Xích Long had also claimed to have received a letter from Prince Cường Để, a direct descendant of Emperor Gia Long, who established the Nguyễn Dynasty and unified Vietnam in its modern state. Cường Để was a known anticolonial activist, and the letter allegedly confirmed Long’s royal descent. See Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 222.

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82. Prior to the attack, a royal proclamation was printed, declaring Phan Xích Long’s intention to overthrow French military installations and calling specifically on merchants to flee and convert their colonial banknotes into solid copper cash. French money and commercial capacity were thus specifically targeted. 83. Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 223. 84. Sûreté’s confidential report, L’agitation antifrançaise dans les pays annamites de 1905 à 1918 (Phnom Penh: National Archives of Cambodia, Fonds Résidence Supérieure du Cambodge, F.70, 5738). 85. On this tumultuous period in China’s modern history see Li, Political History of China. 86. This high number must be contrasted with that of three hundred thousand men whom Britain drew from India, a territory at least twenty times more populous than French Indochina. 87. The years 1916 and 1917, in particular, witnessed demonstrations of a new national consciousness in various Asian colonies. This was especially true of India with the launch of the “home rule” movement by the Congress Party. In the Dutch East Indies, the organization Sarekat Islam convened its fi rst national congress, while the Indies Social Democratic Association, founded in 1914, took on an explicit nationalistic tone. In Burma, the council of the Young Men’s Buddhist Association took its first political stand against the British habit of wearing shoes on pagoda premises. 88. As in the March 1913 incident in Saigon, the attackers relied on mystical support. Ten attackers, as well as one of the prison’s sentries, were killed in the fighting. On these events see Smith, “Development of Opposition,” 106–8; Coulet, Sociétés secrètes en terre d’Annam; Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 230–31. 89. Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 230–31. 90. The plot was the last monarchist-led anticolonial effort in Vietnam. Nguyễn Thế Anh, Monarchie et fait colonial au Vietnam, 237–44; Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 231–33. 91. Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 234–36. 92. Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 233. 93. This evolution parallels a trend of institutional reforms found in other colonies. In India, the Government of India Act of 1919 gave control over some aspects of provincial government to the Indians. Similarly, a partially elected body with advisory powers, the Volksraad, was inaugurated in 1918 in Dutch Indonesia. A degree of selfgovernment was also passed in Burma that same year. In the American Philippines, even full independence was promised by the Jones Act (1916). 94. This policy, in which newspapers were to play an essential role, was not, however, accompanied by the kind of institutional reform that took place in India or Indonesia. 95. They included the following: Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), August 1916; Nam Trung Nhựt Báo (Central and Southern Daily), April 1917; Nam Vịet Tế Gia Nhựt Báo (Southern Family Daily), October 1917; Nữ Giới Chung (Women’s Bell), February 1918; Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum), October 1918; Thời Báo (Time), October 1918; Đèn Nhà Nam (Light of Vietnam), December 1918; and in French, La Tribune indigène, August 1917. Two other newspapers appeared in the rest of Cochinchina: An Hà Nhựt Báo (Western Mail) in Cần Thơ,

2. French Republicanism 241

September 1917, and Đại Việt Tập Chí (Greater Vietnam Review) in Long Xuyên, January 1918. A similar phenomenon took place in Hanoi, especially with the launch of Winds from the South (Nam Phong Tạp Chí ), a magazine directed by the Vietnamese literary figure Phạm Quỳnh, with the assistance of Sarraut’s own chief of political and indigenous affairs, Louis Marty. See Phạm Thị Ngòan, “Introduction au Nam Phong (1917–1924).” See also Morlat, Les affaires politiques de l’Indochine, 216–20. 96. Larcher, “La voie étroite,” 397–404. 97. La Tribune indigène, Nov. 5, 1917. 98. Phủ: An honorific title that, in the precolonial period, corresponded to the position of prefect. 99. The Sûreté chief Paul Arnoux wrote the following: I have known [Lê Quang Liêm] in Paris, where he rendered us precious services in the surveillance of the group of Nguyễn Aí Quốc and Phan Châu Trinh, to whom he never denied being close. It is the main reason he was considered [by the French surveillance] as suspect, more so than for the energy with which he defended his compatriots against the military authority. (Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923, GGI, 7F, 65474 (2), CAOM)

100. Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923, GGI, 7F, 65474 (2), CAOM. 101. Founded in 1889, the École Coloniale in Paris aimed to train future metropolitan and native colonial high civil servants. In the early 1920s a number of its graduates were beginning to fill important positions in the administrative hierarchy. Cohen, “Lure of Empire.” 102. Sûreté’s Annual Reports 1922–1923, 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (2), 65474 (3), 65475 (4), 65475 (5), CAOM; also GGI, F07, 65412, “Propagande, presse en langue annamite en Cochinchine,” CAOM. 103. Sûreté file on Bùi Quang Chiêu (SPCE, carton 350, CAOM). See also Gouvernment général de l’Indochine (GGI), Souverains et notabilités d’Indochine; Smith, “Bùi Quang Chiêu and the Constitutionalist Party.” 104. GGI, 7F, 64940, CAOM. 105. La Tribune indigène, Oct. 22, 1917. 106. File “Propaganda—Secret Funds” (GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM). 107. Notably Đào Thị Luân, from the Hanoi-based Trung Bắc Tân Văn (New Literature of the North), and Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, from the Saigon newspaper Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture). Đào Thị Luân was in fact a pen name used by northern journalist-intellectual Nguyễn Văn Vinh to protect his identity. See Vũ Ngọc Phan, Nhà văn hiên đại. 108. Nữ Giới Chung, Feb. 22, 1918. 109. GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM. 110. Nữ Giới Chung, Feb. 1, 1918. 111. See article titled “Nam-nữ bình quyền là gì?” (“What Does Equality Really Mean?”) in Nữ Giới Chung, Feb. 22, 1918, in which the question of gender equality in Vietnam was dismissed on the grounds that Vietnamese women did not have as much education as Western women and therefore could not demand the same rights.

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112. Frederick Cooper, Ann Stoler, Alice Conklin, and others have alluded to this colonial strategy of targeting “native” women to advance the impact of “civilization” upon indigenous societies. To my knowledge, not enough research has yet been devoted to the specific issue of instilling political values of “collaboration” with and acceptance of the colonial order within the “native” social body. See Alice Conklin, Mission to Civilize; Cooper and Stoler, Tensions of Empire. 113. Nữ Giới Chung, July 19, 1918. This explanation is confirmed by Phan Văn Hum’s memoirs, published in Báo Độc Lập, Apr. 22, 1970. 114. Report on the political situation in the third quarter of 1917, Goucoch, SL 362, NA2. 115. La Tribune indigène, Aug. 12, 1919. 116. Note of the Sûreté chief (Hérisson), Apr. 2, 1921 (GGI, 7F, 65474, CAOM).

3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 1. “The modern newspaper is most characteristically an institution of a secular, urban, national, democratic, capitalist social order” (Hallin and Mancini, Comparing Media Systems, 62). 2. Other modes of public expression such as voluntary organizations and elected assemblies like the Colonial Council also played a part in shaping the Vietnamese public sphere. Their limited representativeness and the limited room to maneuver in the tight confines of colonial legality meant that they had much less impact on Vietnamese society than the newspapers. 3. Anderson, Imagined Communities. 4. This transformation of the Vietnamese press toward professionalization, by the second half of the decade, is concomitant with a trend found in the French metropolitan press. See Charle, Le siècle de la presse. 5. The analysis varies in depth and details, depending on editorial density, duration of existence, and the number of journalists involved. A real limitation in rendering a fair and systematic picture of the Saigon press is the difficulty of reading a large quantity of its production expressed in early twentieth-century (southern) Vietnamese, a written idiom that did not follow the semantic and linguistic standards of today’s Vietnamese. 6. An article from Le Courrier d’Haïphong, republished by L’Écho Annamite (EA) in its Sept. 24, 1929, issue said the following: “The number of printing houses existing in Cochinchina, above all in Saigon, increases at a visible pace (s’accroit à vue d’oeil). This trend would be a blessing if it weren’t for the very limited number of trained typographers available, contributing to an inflation of salaries affecting the printing houses.” 7. Diệp Văn Kỳ paid twenty thousand piastres to direct—without owning—Nguyễn Kim Đính’s Đông Pháp Thời Báo. 8. Publisher-entrepreneurs like Nguyễn Kim Đính and Nguyễn Văn Của and, before them, French publishers like Blaquière and Héloury had long sought innovative methods to attract readers.

3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 243

9. The Indochinese piastre was on a silver standard of 1 piastre = 24.3 grams pure silver until 1930, when it was pegged to the French franc at a rate of 1 piastre = 10 francs. 10. A 1937 government report estimated that the newspapers’ readership in Cochinchina was about one newspaper for three hundred Vietnamese. This estimate is greatly in excess of a realistic figure for the end of the 1920s, but it provides an idea of the extent of the relationship between the Vietnamese population and Saigon’s public sphere. See Fascicule, rapport sur la presse en Cochinchine, Goucoch, IIA, 45/243 (11), NA2. 11. The sector of commercial printing, in theory free to operate, was under the authorities’ pressure to regulate itself; the Professional Syndicate of Cochinchinese Printers was established in October 1925, bringing together Saigon’s largest printing houses. One of the syndicate’s clauses was that “French subjects” (i.e., all non-French citizens) could not exceed one-third of the boards of these establishments. Many small Vietnamese businesses refused to enter such a controlling structure (Statuts du syndicat professionnel des imprimeurs de Cochinchine, Goucoch, IIA, 45/306 (16), NA2). 12. A complete list of the laws and decrees that regulated the regime of the press in Cochinchina is included in Fascicule, rapport sur la presse en Cochinchine, Goucoch, IIA, 45/243 (11), NA2. Illegal restrictions also existed in the form of personal blackmail directed at journalists, intimidation of readers, and interruption of mail. These practices were not unique to the Vietnamese press. 13. EA, July 16, 1929. 14. They were Nam Kỳ Địa Phận (Religious Week), Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), and Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette, i.e., the south). 15. Le Midi Colonial, quoted in La Tribune Indigène, Dec. 27, 1917. 16. On the foundation of La Tribune Indigène, see also Smith, “Bùi Quang Chiêu,” and Tai, “Politics of Compromise.” 17. Bùi Quang Chiêu’s early debt to the colonial authorities was subsequently used by colons in their attack against him, while Sûreté records often referred to his “ungratefulness” and duplicity. For Chiêu’s early career, see “Dossier Bùi Quang Chiêu,” SPCE, 350, CAOM. Non-Sûreté information included GGI, Souverains et notabilités d’Indochine. Among secondary sources see Smith, “Bùi Quang Chiêu”; Brocheux and Hémery, Saigon 1925–1945, 153–58. 18. On Nguyễn Phú Khai see Sûreté’s Annual Reports 1922–1923, 1923–1924, 1925– 1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (2), 65474 (3), 65475 (4), 65475 (5), CAOM; also GGI, F07, 65412, “Propagande, presse en langue annamite en Cochinchine,” CAOM. 19. They included the Catholic Bạch Văn Thâm and Louis Trần Văn Minh, the businessman Nguyễn Văn Kiền, and the quốc ngữ journalist Hùynh Văn Chính. Trần Văn Minh was Nguyễn Phú Khai’s brother-in-law. Born in 1881 in Chợ Lớn, Minh Province, a Catholic, served in Sarraut’s cabinet as interpreter. Naturalized as French in 1912, he participated in the war effort in France. On his return to Vietnam, certainly with the encouragement of Sarraut, he became involved in journalism as an occasional contributor to La Tribune Indigène. He later launched a publishing company, Imprimerie du Centre. To secure his business interests, Louis Minh later chose to be “apolitical,” which in practice meant that he maintained ties with the government. Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923, GGI, 7F, 65474 (2), CAOM. On Bạch Văn Tham see the same chapter in EA.

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20. La Tribune Indigène, Feb. 7, 1918. 21. A Sûreté note of June 1923 described the type of newspaper’s readership: “La Tribune Indigène is very popular among Vietnamese who read French; they are generally civil servants and employees of different administrative services. If few of them dare subscribe personally, they receive it through nonfunctionary friends.” Sûreté note dated June 1, 1923, SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 22. Nguyễn Văn Của owned the pro-government Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Province Gazette). Trained as an accountant, he was led by his interest in investing commercially in the press sector to launch the Nam Trung Nhựt Báo (South and Center Daily) in 1917, to purchase a printing house, Imprimerie de l’Union in 1918, and the following year to buy Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn, which he merged with Nam Trung. Của thereafter played a discreet yet influential role as “moderator” on the political scene. A French citizen, he maintained good relations with both the French and the Tribunists. Sûreté Annual Reports, 1922–1923, 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (2), 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5), CAOM. 23. A weekly supplement, La Petite Tribune Indigène, appeared from September 1918 until August 1919. 24. This program was put forward by Colonial Councilor Diệp Văn Cương. 25. Faithful supporters of Sarraut’s policy, the Tribunists and, in particular, Bùi Quang Chiêu (president of the association of naturalized Vietnamese, La France indochinoise) defended instead “the progressive admission of Vietnamese to civil and political rights [of French citizenship] against the foolish plan of mass naturalization” (La Tribune Indigène, Feb. 4, 1918). This attitude was symptomatic of the newspaper’s social and cultural elitism, which sought to incorporate into the French citizenry only a limited group of “enlightened” Vietnamese who would work toward the political emancipation of Vietnam on behalf of the whole native population. On the naturalization controversy see Tai, “Politics of Compromise,” 380–83. 26. La Tribune Indigène, Feb. 18, 1918. 27. La Tribune Indigène, Aug. 5, 1919. To Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn was also added the Frenchlanguage weekly supplement of La Tribune Indigène, La Petite Tribune Indigène; it targeted Vietnamese servicemen in France and appeared from September 1918 until August 1919. 28. Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn, Dec. 30, 1918. 29. “Pháp Quốc thắng trận: chỗ ham muốn của dân ta.” 30. In this instance, it is the colons who gave that appellation to a “native” movement. This differs from other colonial situations. In 1926, however, still in Saigon, the Annam Youth Party (Đảng Thanh Niên An Nam) was created, this time on the initiative of the activists themselves. Other Vietnamese movements later used the reference to “youth” and “young,” including the communist Thanh Niên Cách Mạnh Đồng Chí Hội (Youth Revolutionary Organization). On the near universal association of “youth” with political contestation against established powers see Atabaki, Modernity and Its Agencies. 31. A factory was set up in Rạch Miều by Nguyễn Thành Liêm. Nguyễn Phú Khai’s factory was in Mỹ Tho, along with that of Jacques Lê Văn Đức. On July 1915 Governor General Roume made a special visit to Nguyễn Phú Khai’s and Lê Văn Đức’s rice mills as a form of official encouragement. See La Cochinchine Libérale, July 27, 1915. Although

3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 245

supported by the colonial authorities, these earlier initiatives remained isolated and consequently failed to have a lasting political impact. On the 1915 initiatives see La Cochinchine Libérale, July 6 and 8, 1915, and Sept. 14 and 16, 1915. 32. This anti-Japanese boycott campaign was part of a massive anti-imperialist, cultural, and political nationalist movement that grew out of student demonstrations in Beijing on May 4, 1919. The “May fourth movement” marked the upsurge of Chinese nationalism and a shift toward mass political mobilization. On the May fourth (1919) movement in China see Chow, May Fourth, and Schwartz, Chinese Enlightenment. For a more socially contextualized approach to the movement see Weston, Power of Position. 33. Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, July 27, 1919. 34. La Tribune indigène, Oct. 30, 1919. 35. La Tribune indigène, Aug. 26, 1919; Aug. 30, 1919. 36. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 4, 1919. 37. The emergence of a “native political elite” seemed to Maspéro a minus. Report by Governor of Cochinchina Maspéro on the political situation, second quarter 1919, Goucoch, SL 364, NA2. 38. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 4, 1919. 39. The newspapers were Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette), Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), Thời Báo (Time), Đại Việt Tập Chí (Vietnam Magazine), and Nam Trung Nhựt Báo (Southern and Central Daily). See Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Sept. 11, 1919. 40. On the tense political atmosphere reigning in Saigon during the député election campaign, see Lamagat , Souvenirs d’un vieux journaliste indochinois; for a vivid portrait of Paul Monin see the British consul’s quarterly report by Consul General Gorton (March–April 1926): FO371, vol. 11831, file 85, doc. W2846, PRO. 41. Report by the governor of Cochinchina on the political situation, fourth trimester 1919, Goucoch, SL 364, NA2. 42. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 6, 1919. 43. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 20, 1919. 44. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 20, 1919. 45. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 18, 1919. 46. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 22, 1919. 47. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 28, 1919. 48. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 25, 1919. 49. Pro-Monin titles included Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum), and Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion). Pro-Outrey tiles included Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette) and Nam Trung Nhựt Báo (Central and Southern Daily). See La Tribune Indigène, Dec. 11, 1919. 50. The French administration’s new attitude was confi rmed in subsequent correspondence between Bùi Quang Chiêu and the administrator Pierre Pasquier, future governor general of Indochina. See letters dated Apr. 29, 1919, and May 26, 1919, in GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM. 51. Letter dated Dec. 2, 1919, in correspondence between the government general and the government of Cochinchina, GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM.

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52. GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM. 53. La Tribune Indigène, July 29, 1919. 54. See the article signed “Un dân d’Annam” (A Vietnamese proletarian). La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 4, 1919. 55. La Tribune Indigène, Sept. 10, 1917. 56. La Tribune Indigène, Dec. 4, 1918. 57. La Tribune Indigène, Feb. 7, 1918. 58. La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 12, 1917. 59. Organizations affiliated with La Tribune Indigène included the Mutual Society for the Encouragement of Education in Cochinchina (SEMC), of which Bùi Quang Chiêu served as president until 1924 and again from 1926 on; Association of Native Civil Servants, whose chairman was Nguyễn Tân Sứ, also an SEMC member and a regular contributor to the Tribune (not surprisingly, the association often met at SEMC headquarters) (La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 29, 1917); the association of naturalized French citizens and métis, La France indochinoise, chaired by Bùi Quang Chiêu (among its members were Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu, Nguyễn Phú Khai, Nguyễn Văn Của, Diệp Văn Cương, and Nguyễn Tân Sứ) (La Tribune Indigène, Jan. 28, 1918); the Alumni Association of the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat (AACCL), whose president was again Bùi Quang Chiêu; the Franco-Annamese Circle, whose most important members included Bùi Quang Chiêu, Nguyễn Phú Khai, Lữu Văn Lang, and Nguyễn Phan Long; the Society for Mutual Support of Natives of Bến Tre, with Bùi Quang Chiêu as its president; and the sports club La Goconnaise sportive. This networking process among members of the Cochinchinese economic bourgeoisie en vue was in constant expansion throughout the decade. 60. A trained barrister, Maître Garros, the father of a World War I pilot hero, Roland, was the founder of The Saigon Mail (Le Courrier Saïgonnais) in 1899 and, in 1905, of the quốc ngữ Daily News (Nhựt Báo Tinh), a Vietnamese version of Moniteur des provinces. A Freemason, the lawyer enjoyed close associations with Governors General Beau and Sarraut. He developed a long-standing friendship with Bùi Quang Chiêu. See file of Garros’s admission to the Freemason lodge: Le Réveil de l’Orient, file 1739 bis, GOF. 61. La jeune Asie ran from Sept. 18, 1919, until April 1921. This paper targeted French liberals and members of the French-speaking Vietnamese elite. With its motto, “To serve French accomplishments (œuvre) in Indochina,” its editorial line was that of proSarraut reformism. Slogans on the back page invited the French public to take a new attitude toward the “natives”: “The Annamite soul is today the wall behind which something is happening”; “To be fair toward Annamites of humble condition, and show respect to Annamites of higher social rank, is today the best way to serve France in Indochina” (La Jeune Asie, Apr. 22, 1920). The close relationship between Garros and the La Tribune Indigène editorial staff was exemplified in the collaboration among journalists and the regular exchange of articles. Garros probably received Vietnamese financial support. In March 1921 Nguyễn Phú Khai was the de facto director of La Jeune Asie (EA, Mar. 19, 1921). 62. Articles from these campaign papers were reproduced by La Tribune Indigène. Both La Grenade and La Vérité are missing from the French National Library dépôt légal.

3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923) 247

63. This political attitude had not fundamentally changed since the newspaper’s first issue: “Our Program” in La Tribune Indigène, Aug. 20, 1917. 64. EA, Feb. 14, 1920. 65. Even the conservative journalist Rose Quaintenne expressed her dismay at Sarraut’s reluctance to stand by his wartime promises. Article from Le Courrier Saïgonnais, republished in EA, June 21, 1921. 66. La Tribune Indigène, Dec. 26, 1920. 67. EA, Jan. 20, 1920. This could also be related to the tension that prevailed in the 1880s between French republican colonial civil servants and members of the catholic Foreign Mission. See Daughton, Empire Divided, 59–118. 68. Nguyễn Phan Long married Trần Thị Nguyễn, the daughter of Đốc Phủ Sư (Honorable Prefect) Trần Văn Trương. 69. Nguyễn Phan Long’s first recorded political article was in La Tribune Indigène, Mar. 17, 1918. 70. The novel was serialized in 1919. 71. The stylistic and editorial quality of the paper led even members of the colonial press to allege that it was written by French journalists under assumed Vietnamese names. La Tribune Indigène, March 1921. 72. Sûreté note dated June 1, 1923, SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 73. EA, Jan. 8, 1920. 74. La Tribune Indigène, Sept. 28, 1920. 75. EA, Oct. 9, 1920. 76. Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923, GGI, 7F, 65474(2), CAOM. 77. This hypothesis is substantiated by Long’s subsequent attempts to purchase L’Écho from its original owners. The possibility that some pressures were exerted by the Tribunists to prevent Long from purchasing the paper cannot be ruled out. He finally succeeded in buying the newspaper in 1922 (Sûreté note dated June 1, 1923, SPCE, carton 350, CAOM). 78. Bạch Văn Thâm was married to the daughter of the đốc phủ sứ (prefect), Nguyễn Thành Hồn. 79. EA, Mar. 13, 1920. 80. Under Bạch Văn Thâm’s initiative, an editorial collaboration was established between EA and Thâm’s former newspaper, La Cochinchine Libérale, La Tribune Indigène’s main adversary since the polemic over mass naturalization of Vietnamese servicemen. EA, May 6, 1920. 81. On Bạch Văn Thâm’s life see his obituary, written by Nguyễn Phan Long, in EA, Mar. 29, 1921. 82. Beside Lê Thành Tương, two other columnists joined the newspaper’s editorial team: Ngô Minh Quang and Ngô Trức Luận. 83. Sûreté note dated June 1, 1923, SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 84. EA, Sept. 28, 1922. 85. The weekly quốc ngữ newspaper was formally approved on Mar. 14, 1922, a privilege that the authorities had denied to Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phú Khai since the closure of the Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn. See Goucoch, IIA, 45/175(9), NA2.

248 3. In Search of a Political Role (1916–1923)

86. EA, Apr. 6, 1922. 87. EA, Apr. 8, 1922. As a result, this first editorial phase of the Nhựt Tân Báo’s long existence was characterized by a chronic lack of readers (Sûreté Annual Report 1923– 1924; GGI, 7F, 65474[3], CAOM). 88. EA, June 13, 1922. For an analysis of the reform see also Tai, “Politics of Compromise,” 388–89. 89. EA, June 29, 1922. 90. EA, Oct. 17, 1922. 91. Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923; GGI, 7F, 65474(2), CAOM. 92. A notable feature of Nguyễn Phan Long’s early political activity had been his success in establishing contacts within Saigon’s fast-transforming journalistic world. In contrast with Bùi Quang Chiêu, Long showed a special interest in developing ties with young and more radical activists. Among his early associates was the métis Dejean de la Bâtie, future director of La Cloche fêlée. The two men were to collaborate closely in the following years. A number of papers openly supported Long’s candidacy in the 1922 elections. See, for instance, Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Nov. 29–Oct. 6, 1922). This unique personal strategy on Long’s part proved effective enough to make him the most popular figure among the Vietnamese youth until he was himself challenged by younger activists. 93. See EA, Sept. 30, 1922. 94. A Sûreté note dated March 1922 mentioned that only six papers in quốc ngữ were to operate in Cochinchina, “as previously decided”—Goucoch, IIA.45/175(9), NA2. Despite these attempts by the colonial authorities to restrict the number of quốc ngữ papers, their number nonetheless increased. Among those allowed were the Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo (Southern Economist), launched in October 1920 by Rose Quaintenne; the Nhữt Tân Báo (New Era), launched under Dejean de la Bâtie’s name for Lê Thành Tương (April 1922); and the Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times) (March 1923) for Nguyễn Kim Đính. This trend remained uninterrupted, with the Khoa Học Tập Chí (Scientific Review), a periodical specializing in science (October 1923); the Trung Lập Báo (Impartial), a quốc ngữ version of De La Chevrotière’s conservative L’Impartial ( January 1924); and the moderate Tân Dân Báo (New People’s Journal), owned by Trần Văn Minh (October 1924). 95. In Saigon, Corsicans amounted to nearly 15 percent of the total French population. See Jean-Louis Pretini, “Saigon-Cyrnos: Les Corses à Saigon,” in Brocheux and Hémery, Saigon 1925–1945, 92–103. 96. The newspaper shared its editing team with the Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn), also led by Gilbert Trần Chánh Chiêu. The Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn was founded in 1907 by François-Henri Schneider and Pierre Jeantet but inspired by Gilbert Chiêu. 97. GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM. After Chiêu’s downfall, Lục Tỉnh was bought by Nguyễn Văn Của, who turned it into an apolitical, if not pro-government, publication. Thanks to subscriptions bought by the colonial authorities for each village, the paper survived until 1945. 98. In 1917 Lê Hoằng Mưu became director of the pro-government Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn), a position he was to hold until his death in 1941. As a rare spark of solidarity with his colleagues of Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Mưu was to play an active role in the anti-Chinese boycott of 1919. On Mưu, see Tầm Vu, Nguyễn Văn Trung, Nguyễn

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Văn Y, “Văn học quốc ngữ ở Sài gòn-Gia định cuối thế kỷ XIX, đầu thế kỷ XX,” in Địa Chí Văn Hóa TPHCM, vol. 2, 199–219. 99. Nguyễn Chánh Sắt often wrote under the pen name of “Bà Nghiệm.” 100. On Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, see La Tribune Indigène, Jan. 24, 1920. See also Tầm Vu, Nguyễn Văn Trung, Nguyễn Văn Y, “Văn học quốc ngữ ở Sài gòn-Gia định cuối thế kỷ XIX, đầu thế kỷ XX,” 199–219. Durand and Nguyễn Trân Huan, Introduction à la littérature vietnamienne. 101. Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Sept. 11, 1919. 102. In January 1922 Nguyễn Chánh Sắt asked the colonial authorities to grant Matters of Agriculture (Nông Cổ Mín Đàm) the privilege of a compulsory subscription for every commune, an advantage enjoyed only by the pro-government Six Provinces News (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn). The application was unsuccessful, certainly owing to the suspicion with which Sắt had been viewed by government and Sûreté circles since the antiChinese boycott. See GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM. 103. Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Apr. 28, 1922. 104. Originating from Bà Rịa, Lê Thành Tương had graduated two years earlier from the Indochinese University in Law. In Saigon, Tương engaged in the press activity by becoming simultaneously administrative director of both the Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era) with Nguyễn Phan Long and of Matters of Agriculture. In 1924 he left the world of journalism to join the colonial civil service, a rather unique choice perhaps linked to his personal acquaintance with Governor Cognacq, which dated back to the time he had spent in Hanoi (see Le Flambeau, Dec. 11, 1924; also Sûreté Annual Reports 1922– 1923, 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (2), 65474 (3), CAOM). 105. Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Apr. 14, 1922. 106. Nông Cổ Mín Đàm, Oct. 6, 1922. 107. In May 1923 the newspaper’s assets were four thousand piastres and its circulation eight hundred copies, very far from financial health. Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923; GGI, 7F, 65474(2), CAOM. 108. Arnoux also mentioned one particular article by Lâm Hiệp Châu that appeared on July 1, 1924, titled “Ai là bạn đồng chí thành niên?” (“Who Is a Friend of Youth?”), from which he extracted the following sentences: The aim of this newspaper is to work for the development of trade and industry in order to free our people from the oppressive circles of dishonest functionaries. . . . Let the young people, who share this view, support the paper. It will help us resist the most powerful. Oh young brothers, remember that Matters of Agriculture is a journal of the people; its fate lies in your hands. (GGI, 7F, 65412, CAOM)

109. Lê Hoằng Mưu was also recruited, but he soon left to work for Lục Tỉnh Tân Vân (Six Provinces Gazette). 110. He also used the pen names Tô Văn and Văn Tô. 111. Sûreté chief Arnoux described him as “the most skillful man in avoiding censorship” (Sûreté Annual Report 1922–1923; GGI, 7F, 65474(2), CAOM). On Hồ Văn Trung see Tầm Vu, Nguyễn Văn Trung, and Nguyễn Văn Y, “Văn học quốc ngữ ở Sài gòn-Gia

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định cuối thế kỷ XIX, đầu thế kỷ XX.” Also see Durand and Nguyễn Trân Huan, Introduction à la littérature vietnamienne, and GGI, Souverains et notabilités d’Indochine. 112. Hùynh Văn Chính simultaneously worked as editor of La Voix Annamite, a short-lived newspaper that Lê Thành Tương and Dejean de La Bâtie had launched in January. Chính later contributed to Nguyễn Phú Khai’s Saigon Républicain and Nguyễn An Ninh’s La Cloche Fêlée. See Sûreté Annual Reports 1922–1923, 1923–1924, 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (2), 65474 (3), and 65475 (4), CAOM. 113. On the Saigon port monopoly scandal see chapter 4. 114. From April 1922 on, Shakespeare’s Hamlet was serialized. Its translation into Vietnamese was the work of Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, then editor in chief of Public Opinion. 115. Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo, Jan. 13, 1923. 116. Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo, July 17, 1923. 117. For ten years Nguyễn Đinh Khành or Khành Ký from Hà Đông in the north lived and worked as a photographer in France, where he was in contact with Paris-based Vietnamese activists like Phan Văn Trường, Phan Châu Trinh, and Nguyễn ái Quốc (the future Hồ Chí Minh). In Saigon, where he settled in 1922, Khành Ký established a prosperous business specializing in photographic portraits for Europeans. His shop on Boulevard Bonnard was located next to that of Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh. Extremely discreet in his political activities, Khành Ký secretly kept in touch with the Vietnamese networks in China and Japan (Sûreté file Khành Ký, photographe; Goucoch, IIA, 45/274 (3), NA2). Trường Văn Bền was a Minh hương from Chợ Lớn. Born into poverty in 1883, he built a diversified commercial business, which included a rice-processing mill, a coconut oil factory, and a rubber plantation. Elected colonial councilor in 1918, he was also a member of Saigon’s chamber of commerce. Politically close to the Constitutionalist leaders, Bền nonetheless financially supported more radical activists like Cao Văn Chánh and Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh (SPCE, carton 350, CAOM; Sûreté’s Annual Reports 1922– 1923, 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (2), 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5), CAOM; Annuaire du syndicat des planteurs de Caoutchouc de l’Indochine 1926; GGI, Souverains et notabilités d’Indochine. 118. Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo, June13, 1923. 119. In the Sûreté Annual Report covering the July 1923–December 1924 period, Sûreté chief Arnoux noted that Nguyễn Kim Đính’s success was the result of personal intercession on his behalf to the government by the ultraconservative colonist de la Chevrotìère. If true, this would indicate that Đính had perhaps offered guarantees of loyalty to the Colonial Party beforehand. See Dossier 65474 (3), GGI, 7F, CAOM. 120. On Nguyễn Kim Đính, see Sûreté’s Annual Reports 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926– 1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5), CAOM. 121. The first issue of Đông Pháp Thời Báo (DPTB) recorded at the French National Library is dated May 4, 1923. 122. In order to maintain credibility among his compatriots, Nguyễn Kim Đính allowed his journalists to write freely on the subject, with articles critical of the administration’s policy. However, to avoid government reprisals, Đính also secretly reported to the censorship board, indicating which articles should be suppressed. Despite his cooperation, Đính still faced pressure from the authorities to tone down criticism of

4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 251

the administration in his newspaper (Sûreté’s Annual Report 1923–1924, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM). 123. The Sûreté also mentioned an article published on May 14, 1924, referring to “virtue as nothing without force.” Another highlighted article by Nguyễn Chánh Sắt stated, “Educated people are free, the ignorant fall easily into slavery.” Part of an article on the unity of the three regions (kỳ) of Vietnam was cut (DPTB, Aug. 27, 1924). 124. Like Nguyễn Chánh Sắt, Hùynh Văn Chính also introduced talents such as Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh and Nguyễn Đức Nhuận to political journalism. 125. This deprecative position is pervasive in Hùynh Văn Tòng’s History of the Vietnamese Press. In my view Tòng underestimates the capacity for quốc ngữ newspapers to influence the political worldview of their readers beyond their inability to address directly some sensitive issues. The fact, for instance, that they sought to bring together under their reach Vietnamese from the three kỳ, or regions, shows how political their position was, even when not addressing issues of sovereignty or French treatments of Vietnamese. See Hùynh Văn Tòng, Lịch sử Báo chí Việt nam (History of the Vietnamese Press). 126. On the strong moralistic style of the southern Vietnamese literature of the time, especially that of Hồ Văn Trung-Hồ Biêu Chánh, see Schafer and Thế Yuên, “Novel Emerges in Cochinchina.” 127. GGI, F07, 65412, CAOM. 128. This article appeared first in Le Courrier Saïgonnais and was reproduced by EA on June 21, 1921. I found no archival information on Rose Quaintenne. 129. The same year Blaquière asked another journalist with strong political views, Nguyễn Thành Út, to launch another newspaper, Time (Thời Báo). I found very little information on this latter paper. 130. See Blaquière’s admission fi le in the Saigon-based Freemason lodge: Le Réveil de l’Orient, file 1736, GOF. 131. Héloury was also affiliated with the local Freemason lodge: Le Réveil de l’Orient, file 1736, GOF. 132. See Charle, Le siècle de la presse, 143–49.

4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 1. For the Sûreté report of 1925–1926, where the opening epigraph for this chapter can be found, see GGI, 7F, 65475(4), CAOM. 2. DPTB, Dec. 29, 1924. 3. In December 1920, Vietnamese students at the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat protested against the treatment of some of their number at the hands of a French surveillant général (superintendent responsible for discipline). The response came from Cognacq himself: four youths were expelled, while more than fi fty had their financial support withdrawn. At the same time, Cognacq promoted the surveillant général, disregarding the students’ complaint. Nguyễn Phan Long declared Cognacq’s stand “a provocation to native public opinion” (L’Écho annamite, Jan. 11, 1921).

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4. For profiles of Cognacq, Darles, de la Chevrotière and Outrey, see Monet, Français et Annamites, 312–20. See also Tai, Radicalism, 117–18; Werth’s description of Darles in Cochinchine, 44. On de la Chevrotière, see Langlois André Malraux. 5. Three years earlier, a similar phenomenon of personalization of the humiliations endured as a result of colonial rule took place in Burma in the controversial figure of Lieutenant Governor Reginald Craddock (Craddock’s insensitive behavior toward Burmese religious traditions and the corrupt practices around him ultimately led to the Rangoon University boycott crisis). In some ways Cognacq was the Craddock of Vietnam. See Kyaw, Voice of Young Burma. 6. The article was titled “In the Shade and Silence” (Dans l’ombre et le silence). Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. I was unable to locate copies of La Voix annamite. 7. Quoted from a pamphlet published by La Tribune Indigène, “Considérations générales sur la Convention du Monopole du Port de Saigon-Cholon,” 29. 8. La Tribune Indigène admitted that it preferred a de facto monopoly by the Chinese to a “legal” one” by the Candelier consortium. “Considérations générales,” 8. Sûreté reports reveal that Vietnamese and French newspapers that opposed the project received funds from Chinese businesses (Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924; GGI, 7F, 65474[3], CAOM). 9. “Considérations générales,”35. The introductory text reads as follows: “The consequences of the monopoly of Saigon-Cholon port are so important that we refuse to believe that one single educated Vietnamese could give his support in exchange for a personal and immediate purpose” (1). 10. They were joined by councilors Lê Quang Trình, Tạ Quang Vinh, Ngõ Khắc Mạn, and Võ Văn Thơm. Councilor Võ Văn Thơm published a pamphlet titled Pourquoi j ’ai voté en faveur de la concession du Port de Saigon (Why I Have Voted in Favor of the Port Concession), in which he explained his vote as loyalty to France. 11. On Nov. 13, 1924, Le Progrès Annamite received three thousand piastres, designated as “advertising fees,” from the government of Cochinchina (GGI, F71, 64940, CAOM). 12. La Tribune Indigène also sponsored a pamphlet written by the French journalist Henri Daguerches: L’affaire du port de commerce. 13. As a mark of defiance, Governor Cognacq appointed Lê Quang Trình director of the government-run Saigon dispensary. 14. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924; GGI, 7F, 65474(3), CAOM. 15. The expression retour de France, which literally means “returned from France,” was used to describe the young educated Vietnamese who returned home after having earned a degree at French universities. The phenomenon became characteristic of southern Vietnamese urban public life. 16. At a meeting held at the French café Petit Tabarin on Dec. 11, 1923, the Sûreté noted the presence of high school students and members of sport organizations. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924; GGI, 7F, 65474(3), CAOM. 17. Công Luận Báo, Dec. 5, 1923. 18. A Sûreté report noted that “most quốc ngữ newspapers did not dare publish a single article in favor of the Candelier project since it would ruin the journal’s reputation.” Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924; GGI, 7F, 65474(3), CAOM.

4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 253

19. At the end of 1924 The Opinion had a circulation of eleven hundred. 20. Before its purchase, the newspaper must have undergone some financial difficulties as, between July 25 and Aug. 8, 1923, it appeared only irregularly. The move was made in the mutual interest of both Vĩnh and Cao Văn Chánh, the newspaper’s departing director. La Cloche Fêlée reproduced an article from L’Écho Annamite that mentioned that Vĩnh had bought the newspaper outright. La Cloche Fêlée (CF), Mar. 17, 1924. 21. Presumably, Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh’s arrest in Hong Kong had been a condition imposed by the British authorities that permitted him to avoid the death penalty. Sûreté’s Annual Reports 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5); SLOTFOM, series 3, carton 29; SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 22. Vĩnh translated English literary masterpieces like Shakespeare’s plays into quốc ngữ. His passion for linguistics led him to take part in contentious debates over the question of modernization of the Vietnamese language. One such dispute—and its political overtones—with Phạm Quỳnh, the conservative director of the Hanoi-based Southern Wind (Nam Phong Tạp Chí ), is discussed by Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, 158–59. See also Nam Phong, October and November 1918. 23. See GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. 24. CF, Mar. 17, 1923, reproduced an article from L’Écho Annamite describing how Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, who refused to play down his antimonopoly stance, had been under continuous pressure from the Sûreté. 25. Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh’s newspaper was not the only quốc ngữ paper to suffer from the arbitrary practices of the administration as a result of the Saigon port affair. Matters of Agriculture was closed down by the authorities on October 31, 1924. According to Le Flambeau (The Flame), “It was when Matters of Agriculture had gained a sufficient number of readers, and so attracted enough advertising to be economically viable, that an arrêté (decree) shut it down without any form of trial.” Le Flambeau, Dec. 4, 1924. 26. Special report issued by Consul General Gorton over the developing situation in Indochina (March–April 1926): (FO371, vol. 11831, file 85, doc. W2846, PRO). 27. A La Tribune Indigène, Mar. 21, 1924, and CF, Mar. 24, 1924. 28. Five years later, in March 1929 the question over the possible sale of the Saigon port concession to another French business interest—this time the capitalist Octave Homberg—was again raised by Vietnamese newspapers. The campaign, led by the newspapers Thần Chung (Morning Bell) and Đuốc Nhà Nam (Vietnamese Flame), lasted only a couple of months (Sûreté Annual Report, June–May 29, 1928, GGI, 7F23[2], 65476, CAOM). 29. Ninh alludes to this “new political voice” in the epigraph to this section, where “propaganda paper” refers to the French characterization of a journal d ’opinion as opposed to a journal d ’ information. This distinction appeared around the end of the nineteenth century in France. In contrast to the British press environment, where papers like The Times decided in the late eighteenth century to adopt a utilitarian—and commercial—function of providing news, such a practice was not so ingrained in France, where at times of deep national division, as during the Dreyfus affair, even neutral papers like Le Petit Parisien were caught on one side of the confrontation. By 1920, however, it had become important for Ninh to mark this “French” distinction. See Charle, Le siècle de la presse.

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30. Except for the exiled reformist intellectual Phan Châu Trinh, all these men were already part of Marxist-inspired groups. Phan Văn Trường was the future director of the Saigon-based, Marxist La Cloche Fêlée, later renamed L’Annam (1925–1928). Nguyễn Aí Quốc, the future Hồ Chí Minh, was then an active militant of the Marxistinspired Intercolonial Union and one of the founding members of the French Communist Party in 1920. Nguyễn Thế Truyền, the future founder of the Paris-based Vietnamese Independence Party (1926), was also involved in the Intercolonial Union and was an early militant in the communist movement in France. 31. The dialogue appeared in CF, Dec. 17, 1923, and Jan. 7, 1924. The account differs from that written by Nguyễn An Ninh two years later: The SEMC invited me to give a conference, which I agreed to do. Civil servants who attended it were punished (blâmés). I then received an official order to meet the governor of Cochinchina, Mr. Cognacq. In our discussion, in his office, he abruptly said to me: “This country does not need intellectuals! (Nguyễn An Ninh, “La France et l’Indochine,” in L’Europe, monthly review 31, Paris, July 15, 1925)

32. For an analysis of the political content of La Cloche Fêlée and of Ninh’s philosophy of action, see Tai, Radicalism. See also Nguyễn An Tinh, Nguyễn An Ninh, and Bùi Thế Mỹ, Nhà cách mạnh Nguyễn An Ninh. 33. Bùi Quang Chiêu wrote in La Tribune Indigène: “Since Monday evening the streets of Saigon have heard Parisian accents advertising La Cloche fêlée, organ of French and Annamite interests!” (La Petite Tribune Indigène, Dec. 15, 1923; quoted in Tai, Radicalism, 128). 34. “In order to attract attention, Nguyễn An Ninh took to selling La Cloche Fêlée’s first issue by walking around the streets of Saigon” (Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 [3], CAOM). 35. A hybrid official and commercial entity, ARIP news agency was coadministered by the Press Services of the Agence économique de L’Indochine (Indochina’s Economic Agency) and the Government General. 36. As the Sûreté later reported, “In Hanoi, Nguyễn An Ninh paid particular attention to his appearance. Dressing with studied style, he enjoyed the reputation of being a man of fashion” (Nguyễn An Ninh’s personal file, SPCE, 381, CAOM; GGI, 51–418; CAOM). 37. From March through August 1922, the twenty-two-year-old traveled on his own throughout Europe, including Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and the Netherlands. In October of the same year he returned to Saigon. 38. In the pages of La Cloche Fêlée, Ninh wrote under his own name or used Nguyễn Tinh as a pen name. His articles dealt with political and philosophical issues. He allowed himself a more ironic style in the section titled Propos Oiseux (Idle Talks). His biographical information was compiled from the different Sûreté annual reports (1922–1923, 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, and 1927–1928); the personal file “Nguyễn An Ninh,” SPCE, carton 381, CAOM; GGI, 51–418, CAOM; Ministère des Colonies, NF, 2638, CAOM; and numerous interviews with Ninh’s son, Nguyễn An Tinh.

4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 255

39. By the end of 1923 a number of papers were nominally in Dejean’s charge. Among them were La Cloche Fêlée, La Voix Annamite (Vietnamese Voice), L’Écho Annamite, and Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era). 40. Looking for grounds on which to withdraw his right to manage newspapers, the Sûreté investigated Dejean’s citizenship. His father confirmed his paternity, however, and the attempt failed. CF, Dec. 12 and 24, 1923. 41. Other contributors to the newspaper included Trung Kỳ, who sent articles from Annam (Trung Kỳ was the Vietnamese term for the central part of the country). Trung Kỳ was in regular correspondence with Ninh, as indicated in a series of letters intercepted by the Sûreté (Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 [3], CAOM). 42. CF, Dec. 17, 1923. 43. CF, Apr. 21, 1924. As Hue-Tâm Ho Tai wrote, “Ninh wanted to shame his readers into action by pointing out what he saw as their cowardice. Hence, he played down the role of the authorities in harassing them and him” (Tai, Radicalism, 130). 44. In announcing a visit to Indochina by the Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore, Nguyễn An Ninh, imitating his master, openly revealed his lack of confidence in the correctness of his own action (CF, June 16, 1924). 45. Some of the letters that readers sent to Nguyễn An Ninh were intercepted and reproduced in the Sûreté annual report for 1923–1924. Two of these were orders for the whole “collection” of La Cloche Fêlée. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. 46. Founded in 1904, L’Œuvre became popular during World War I, when it opposed the propaganda machine of the mainstream press and was, for that reason, heavily censored. In the years that followed the conflict, at the time when Nguyễn An Ninh was a student in France, L’Œuvre succeeded in strongly establishing itself as a highquality, left-leaning daily, thanks to the editorial independence of its contributors. Le Canard Enchaîné was founded in 1915 as an independent satirical paper resolutely opposed to the war. Keeping its nonconformist tone, the paper continued to gain popularity throughout the 1920s and afterward. See Charle, Le siècle de la presse, 226, 252. 47. CF, Dec. 17, 1923. 48. CF, Dec. 10, 1923. Hue-Tâm Ho Tai identified it as an excerpt from Projet de loi de mise en valeur des colonies françaises, présenté par M. Albert Sarraut, Ministre des Colonies (Paris: Bibliothèque de la Revue indigène, 1921). See Tai, Radicalism, 21. 49. CF, May 19, 1924. 50. The newspaper’s second title was the following slogan: “Organ of propagation of French ideas.” 51. Hue-Tam Ho Tai explains this tendency as developing from Ninh’s extensive reading of Western writers, including André Gide and Henri Bergson (Tai, Radicalism, 79). 52. Tai, Radicalism, 81–82. 53. In 1922 Paul Arnoux was promoted to chief of the Cochinchina Sûreté headquarters. Under Arnoux, the services created by Albert Sarraut in 1917 became a very effective mechanism of control of both legal and illegal political activities of “natives.” The team of governor of Cochinchina and Sûreté chief [to which should be added the procureur général (attorney general) of the Saigon Court], especially during

256 4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926)

the concomitant tenures of Cognacq and Arnoux (1923–1926), became a redoubtable system of control and manipulation of Vietnamese intellectuals. 54. Until Jan. 21, 1924, La Cloche Fêlée was printed by Louis Trần Văn Minh’s Imprimerie du Centre. The three subsequent issues were published by Louis Ardin’s Imprimerie Moderne (Jan. 28–Feb. 11, 1924). Both Minh and Ardin had been warned off by the Sûreté and, as a result, refused to print Ninh’s paper. After a suspension of more than a month, the paper resumed publication on Mar. 17, 1924. Ninh succeeded in convincing the entrepreneur Testelin to sell him his printing machines despite the Frenchman’s being threatened at night by a certain “black mask,” no doubt a Sûreté agent. Ninh’s father, Nguyễn An Khương, sold a piece of land in Rạch Gia to pay nine hundred piastres to Testelin. Ninh and Dejean renamed the factory La Cloche Fêlée Printing House. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. See also CF, Mar. 17, 1924. 55. CF, Mar. 21, 1924. Many copies failed to reach their subscribers. Readers also reported that their mail was intercepted and letters addressed to them were found torn open (see CF, Jan. 28, 1924). 56. CF, Mar. 17, 1924. 57. CF, Mar. 31, 1924. 58. CF, July 14, 1924. 59. La Cloche Fêlée’s last issue states it had slightly fewer than six hundred subscribers. CF, July 14, 1924. 60. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. 61. During the same period, the provinces of Cần Thơ and Vĩnh Long in the Mekong Delta also increased their number of subscribers from six to thirty-one in each province. This may have been the result of Ninh’s campaign in these regions in April and May 1924. 62. Among those individuals listed were Thân Trọng Huề, minister of war at the court in Huế; Đào Duy Anh, a teacher in Đông Hội (Annam) who would later become a renowned scholar; and Nguyễn Ngọc Ấn, former editor in chief of the Nhựt Tân Báo. 63. La Cloche Fêlée’s influence is indicated by the number of often short-lived newspapers run by self-trained young journalists trying to emulate it. Among these papers were Cao Văn Chánh’s L’Essor Indochinois (Indochinese Progress), July 1924–September 1927, at least during its first phase of existence, until October 1925; L’Écolier Annamite (Nov. 8–24, 1924), and Le Flambeau (The Flame), Dec. 4, 1924–Jan. 1, 1925. L’Écolier Annamite (Vietnamese Pupil), whose slogan was “Organ defending Annam’s interests and preparing for her future,” was the result of collaboration between students from ChasseloupLaubat college and the Teachers’ School in Gia Định, with Lâm Hiệp Châu as its founder. Le Flambeau was founded by the Cholon hair stylist Hùynh Văn Giác, a friend of Cao Văn Chánh. On these newspapers, see Philippe Peycam, Intellectuals and Political Commitment in Vietnam. 64. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. 65. Sûreté Annual Report 1923–1924, GGI, 7F, 65474 (3), CAOM. 66. Sûreté note in SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 67. SPCE, carton 350, CAOM.

4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 257

68. Langlois, André Malraux, 159–60. 69. When in Paris, Nguyễn An Ninh, Phan Châu Trinh, and Phan Văn Trường worked alongside two other prominent, exiled activists: Nguyễn Aí Quốc, the future Hồ Chí Minh, and Nguyễn Thế Truyền. Until his departure to Moscow in 1923, Nguyễn Aí Quốc was editor of the anticolonial newspaper Le Paria (The Pariah) and head of the Intercolonial Union (a front organization for the French Communist Party). Nguyễn Thế Truyền, a trained engineer, worked as coeditor of The Pariah and was Nguyễn Aí Quốc’s successor at the Intercolonial Union. In Paris in 1926 he founded the newspaper Việt Nam Hồn (Soul of Vietnam). See Quinn-Judge, Ho Chi Minh. 70. This strike is all the more significant when considered within the international context in which people in China also were mobilizing against Western concessionary powers. Suspicions were first raised by L’Impartial that the strikers’ solidarity with the Chinese protesters had enabled them to immobilize the battleship Jules Michelet and to prevent it from reaching the port of Canton on time. For a complete study of the Ba Son strike, see Christoph Giebel, Imagined Ancestries of Vietnamese Communism: Tôn Đức Thắng and the Politics of History and Memory (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2004), 87–113. 71. For the integral content of these two major speeches, see Nguyễn Văn Đường, Tuyên tập Phan Châu Trinh (Compilation of Speeches and Texts of Phan Châu Trinh), respectively, 927–58 and 962–88. 72. For both incidents see the annual Sûreté report for 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, 65475 (4), CAOM. See also L’Écho Annamite of Mar. 19, 1926: “The Case of Trương Cao Đông.” 73. For a detailed account of the Bardez affair, see Chandler, “Assassination of Résident Bardez,” 138–58. On the trial, see Langlois, André Malraux, 188–99. Other opposition papers that followed the trial include L’Écho Annamite and La Cloche Fêlée. 74. A few months earlier another journalist from L’Indochine, Nguyễn Phó, was also threatened with deportation to force him to appear in the imperial courts for possessing antimonarchical tracts. To their disappointment, the Cochinchinese authorities could not remove Nguyễn Phó because he was born in the French concession of Hanoi and therefore was not an imperial subject. 75. Monin was referring to the Vietnamese tradition of resistance to the Chinese. See Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, 65475 (4), CAOM. 76. Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, 65475 (4), CAOM. 77. André Malraux left Saigon at the end of December 1925. In his last article in L’Indochine Enchaînée he vowed to continue fighting for the cause of “freedom” in Indochina by appealing to the French people “by speeches, meetings, newspapers, pamphlets.” By calling on “those of the French writers who still have some generosity,” Malraux hoped to bring “the leaders” to account. Quoted in Langlois, André Malraux, 198–99. L’Indochine Enchaînée ran six more issues before ceasing to appear at the end of February 1926. 78. Sûreté agent report, Indochine, NF-371/2979, CAOM. On the night of Mar. 20, 1926, seventy youths, including the journalists Trần Huy Liệu, Bùi Công Trung, and Lâm Hiệp Châu, gathered at the house of the young activist Lê Thế Vinh to discuss the formation of the Đảng Thanh Niên An Nam (Annam Youth Party). Nguyễn An Ninh

258 4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926)

offered to serve as advisor to the initiative and advised the group to avoid provoking the authorities by creating a society (hội) rather than a party (đảng). Financial supporters of the group included the southern bourgeois Trường Văn Bền, Lê Quang Liêm, and Nguyễn Hùynh Diệu (SPCE, carton 350, CAOM, Aix; Sûreté note, Mar. 24, 1926). 79. See the article by Lê Thế Vinh in L’Écho Annamite on Mar. 23, 1926. I was not able to find any document corroborating this alleged association of Lâm Hiệp Châu with the Sûreté at this early stage. It was likely after his arrest that he was eventually “returned” by the security forces. Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM. 80. The integral texts of the two leaflets were reproduced in the Mar. 23, 1926, issue of La Cloche Fêlée. 81. Sûreté agent’s report on the “rue Lanzarotte meeting”: Indochine, NF-371/2979, CAOM. 82. Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, 65475 (4), CAOM. 83. Jeune Annam, Mar. 21, 1926; DPTB, Mar. 29, 1926. 84. The figure of 140,000 given by Trần Huy Liệu is exaggerated. Trần Huy Liệu, Lịch sứ tam mười nam chống Pháp (History of Eighty Years of Struggle against the French), 250. 85. Tai, Radicalism, 156. 86. “Open Letter to Bùi Quang Chiêu,” in CF, Apr. 8, 1926. The tone of Dejean’s article remained courteous but was tinged with deep concerns about the future. 87. EA, Apr. 10, 1926. 88. Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, 65475 (4), CAOM. 89. See Ninh’s article published in CF on Nov. 30, 1925. This distrust of “constitutional” collaboration with the French authority was apparent in Ninh’s refusal to take part in the 1924 député elections. 90. See Cao Văn Chánh’s tribute to Phan Châu Trinh in L’Essor Indochinois of Mar. 30, 1926, and Trần Huy Liệu’s accounts of Phan’s life in DPTB, Mar. 29, 1926. 91. See L’Essor Indochinois, Feb. 5, 1926, and DPTB, Mar. 31, 1926. 92. Another influential contributor to the newspaper, for whom biographical information is lacking, was Viên Tiến Thơ, who began writing in January 1925, specializing in social issues with special attention to the changing role of the Vietnamese family. Unfortunately, as was common with women journalists of the period, information on Viên Tiến Thơ’s life is lacking. In general, the Sûreté did not regard female activists as sufficiently dangerous to warrant investigation. 93. Liệu most likely knew Guénon’s essay “Orient and Occident,” published in 1924. 94. DPTB, Jan. 9, 1925; Mar. 6, 1925. 95. DPTB, May 31, 1925. 96. DPTB, May 4, 1925. 97. DPTB, Jan. 5, 1925. 98. DPTB, Jan. 9, 1925. 99. DPTB, Feb. 2, 1925. 100. DPTB, Feb. 27, 1925.

4. Scandals and Mobilization (1923–1926) 259

101. DPTB, Feb. 16, 1925. 102. DPTB, Feb. 20, 1925. 103. DPTB, Feb. 13, 1925. 104. DPTB, Mar. 9, 1925. 105. An article reproduced in L’Essor Indochinois, Aug. 15, 1925. 106. DPTB, Jan. 14, 1925; May 22, 1925. 107. DPTB, Feb. 23, 1925; Apr. 27, 1925. 108. DPTB, Mar. 4, 1925. 109. DPTB, Feb. 13, 1925. 110. DPTB, Mar. 20, 1925. 111. DPTB, May 27, 1925. 112. DPTB, May 29, 1925. Jean Jaurès was a charismatic socialist leader in France who was assassinated on the eve of the Great War (July 1914). Jaurès’s political legacy was claimed by both the Section Française de L’Internationale Ouvrière (SFIO) (French Section of Workers’ International), a party that supported the Second International, and the breakaway Communist Party, founded in 1920, partisan of the Third International and the Komintern alliance. Liệu’s mention of Jaurès’s socialism appeared in the July 22 issue. 113. DPTB, Mar. 23, 1925. 114. DPTB, Oct. 17, 1925. 115. DPTB, Mar. 29, 1926. 116. It was during Trần Huy Liệu’s seven-year incarceration in the Poulo Condore Prison that he embraced Marxism and joined the ranks of the Indochinese Communist Party. Trần Huy Liệu, Lịch Sử tam mười nam chống Pháp. For insight into Liệu’s prison experience and subsequent political conversion, see Zinoman, Colonial Bastille, 199, 230, 248. 117. DPTB, Aug. 3, 1925. 118. Trần Huy Liệu, Đảng Thanh niên, tài liệu và hồi ký (Annam Youth Party, Documents and Memoirs). 119. This rolling back of systematic censorship may not have been a liberal policy introduced by Varenne but rather a strategy of certain members of the colonial civil service, Governor Cognacq and Sûreté chief Arnoux among them, to politically embarrass the newly appointed socialist governor general. 120. On the day of Chiêu’s arrival, Mar. 24, 1926, 8,000 Vietnamese were waiting at the gates to the pier. Some 300–400 hostile French were also present following calls from the newspaper L’Impartial. Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI 7F22 65475 (4), CAOM. 121. DPTB, Mar. 21, 1926. Liệu published a similar article on Mar. 1, 1926, titled “What Would Be the Benefits of Creating a Republican Party?” It was entirely censored by the Sûreté. Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI 7F22 65475 (4), CAOM. 122. DPTB, Mar. 29, 1926. 123. DPTB, Mar. 31, 1926. 124. Sûreté Annual Report 1926–1927, Goucoch, IIA.45/204 (1), NA 2. 125. DPTB, Aug. 13, 1926. 126. Sûreté Annual Report 1925–1926, GGI, 7F, 65475 (4), CAOM. 127. Trần Huy Liệu, Lịch Sử tam mười nam chống Pháp.

260 5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930)

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 1. Frederick, “Alexandre Varenne and Politics in Indochina, 1925–26.” 2. In 1920, the Communist International (Comintern) began following a “united front” strategy with the proletariat, agricultural workers, and members of the bourgeoisie of the colonial countries. The tactic was used at least until 1927, when a rupture occurred between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party in China. In 1928 all of the Communist parties were enjoined to follow a highly aggressive line against the “moderate” Left or the “bourgeois” nationalists. 3. The 1928–1929 Sûreté Annual Report mentions groups with esoteric titles that had been founded in numerous parts of Cochinchina during the last few months. See Sûreté Annual Report 1928–1929, GGI, 7F, 65476, CAOM. 4. Tai, Radicalism, 189. 5. Perhaps the most complete description of the Cao Đài religion in English is the classic article by Smith, “Introduction to Caodaism.” 6. Smith “Introduction to Caodaism,” 341. On southern millenarianist practices, see Tai, Millenarianism. On supernaturalism, see Thiên Đô, Vietnamese Supernaturalism: Views from the Southern Region (London: Routledge-Curzon, 2003). 7. Werner, Peasant Politics and Religious Sectarianism. 8. Tai, Millenarianism, 189. 9. In addition to Lê Quang Trình were the landowner Tạ Quang Vinh and the wealthy rice trader Ngô Khắc Mặn. 10. Upon his return, his supporters made sure that the chairmanship of the Mutual Society for the Encouragement of Education in Cochinchina was returned to him from Nguyễn Phan Long, who, for his part, brought the party electoral success by leading the Constitutionalist slate in Saigon’s municipal election in September. 11. For instance, Lâm Hiệp Châu launched a pamphlet campaign against the “moderate” leaders. He was joined by two members of the underground Annam Youth Party, Trần Huy Liệu and Lâm Văn Tư. Sûreté Annual Report 1926–1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/204 (1), NA2. The pamphlet was launched on Nov. 15, 1926. 12. L’Ère Nouvelle (New Era) was founded in August; Tân Thế Kỷ (New Century) in November; Rạng Động Tập Chí (Dawn Magazine) in December 1926; Pháp Việt Nhựt Gia (FrancoVietnamese United Family) in February; and Kịch Trường Tập Chí (Theatre Review) in March 1927. 13. Following an investigation by the Sûreté over the circulation of an illegal newspaper, Le Nhà Quê, the authorities were able to unravel the organization’s network. They charged twenty-four people with illegal organization. A hotel in Cholon (Chinatown) served as a cover for their political activity. The trials lasted until December 1927. Trần Huy Liệu, Đảng Thanh Niên. 14. The first ceremony took place on Mar. 13 and 14 in the presence of Trần Huy Liệu and Nguyễn An Ninh. On Mar. 24, the Constitutionalist leaders held their own ceremony, which was interrupted by Lâm Hiệp Châu and Trần Huy Liệu. Sûreté Annual Report 1926–1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/204 (1), NA2.

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 261

15. Radical and moderate leaders signed a pamphlet titled Quang Cảo Đồng Báo (Announcement to the Compatriots) on May 15, appealing to the governor general. The Constitutionalist leaders were willing to add their names to that of Cao Văn Chánh, indicating a conciliatory attitude toward the radical elements. Again in May 1927, La Tribune Indochinoise reproduced an “open demand for the French to evacuate Indochina.” Written by former members of Annam Youth Party and first published in L’Annam, the text included the names of the “evacuation committee” members (Bùi Quang Chiêu, Lữu Văn Lang, and Nguyễn Văn Thinh—all Constitutionalists), alongside historical figures of the Vietnamese resistance, such as Phan Bội Châu. Although Bùi Quang Chiêu disclaimed any involvement, his decision to publish the demand in his newspaper placed him at the heart of the anticolonial opposition. Neither this gesture nor the show of solidarity during the Tân Thế Kỷ affair succeeded in restoring unity among the Vietnamese opposition. La Tribune Indochinoise, May 27, 1927. 16. In June, following the death of the founder of the Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục free school, which was banned by the authorities in 1908, a number of northern journalistactivists living in Saigon, such as Trần Huy Liệu and Nguyễn Khánh Tòan, were arrested for having expressed their intention to organize commemorative ceremonies. The initiative was supported by the journalists Diệp Văn Kỳ and Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu and by Nguyễn Ái Quốc’s father, Nguyễn Sánh Huy, in the Mekong Delta. Five of them, including Trần Huy Liệu, were expelled to their “country of origin,” Annam and Tonkin. The authorities banned all demonstrations throughout Indochina connected with Lương Văn Cần’s death. 17. Goucoch, IIA 45/274 (13), NA2. 18. Many applications were rejected by the Hanoi-based Commission Permanente du Conseil du Gouvernment; GGI, F71–64940, CAOM. 19. On Jan. 17, 1928, the journalists Trần Hữu Đô and Lê Thánh Lư, who were charged with illegal publication, saw their suspended sentences changed to imprisonment by the court of appeals. On Mar. 27 Nguyễn Khánh Tòan and Trần Huy Liệu were condemned to eighteen and six months in prison, respectively, for the Lương Văn Cần affair; meanwhile, Phan Văn Trường’s two-year sentence was affirmed. Members of the Vietnamese opposition, including the Constitutionalists, unanimously condemned these judicial actions targeting radical journalists. 20. This group would include the members of Annam Youth Party: Trương Cao Đông, Bữu Đình, Bùi Thế Mỹ, Nguyễn Phó, Hồ Đắc Hiền, and Nguyễn Hòang Tạ. 21. Individuals involved included Lê Thế Vĩnh, Hồ Đắc Hiền, and Nguyễn Phó, all former contributors to Monin’s L’Indochine. 22. For all of these initiatives, see Sûreté Annual Report 1926–1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/204 (1), NA2. Other such secret plans continued to be uncovered by the Sûreté (for the 1928– 1929 period see the Sûreté Annual Report June 1928–1929, GGI, 7F23[2], 65476, CAOM). 23. This former teacher had been involved in Trần Chánh Chiêu’s movement twenty years earlier. In October 1927 he faced charges for having translated into quốc ngữ a lecture given at the Chinese military academy of Whampoa in Canton by the Komintern agent Borodin. Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM.

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24. Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM. 25. See GGI, Direction des Affaires Politiques et de la Sûreté Générale, 122. 26. La Tribune Indochinoise, Feb. 16, 1928; EA, Feb. 21, 1928. Opposition newspapers like Indochina Times, L’Annam, La Tribune Indochinoise, and L’Écho Annamite condemned the sentences as racially motivated. 27. Nguyễn Thế Truyền was one of the leading anticolonial Vietnamese figures in Paris, along with Phan Châu Trinh, Phan Văn Trường, Nguyễn Ái Quốc, and Nguyễn An Ninh. On this period in France see Gaspard Thư Trăng, Những hoặt động của Phan Châu Trinh tại Pháp; the same author’s Hồ Chí Minh à Paris); and Ngô Văn, Viêtnam, 1920–1945. 28. Nguyễn An Ninh’s organization is to be distinguished from the Thanh Niên Cách Mạnh Đồng Chí Hội, set up in Canton by Nguyễn Ái Quốc in 1925. See Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a); Sûreté Annual Report 1928–1929 (preparatory draft), GGI, 7F, 65476; SPCE, carton 350; CAOM. See also Tai, Millenarianism, 80–84. 29. These included Trương Văn Bên, Lê Quang Liêm, Nguyễn Hùynh Diệu, and Trần Quang Nghiệm. In Saigon, Ninh enjoyed the cooperation of influential intellectuals such as Phan Văn Trường and Trần Hữu Đô. 30. Without details, a note of the Paris Sûreté, dated June 1925, indicated that Ninh had become a member of the French Communist Party and of the Union Intercoloniale. The document added the following: “[Nguyễn An Ninh] regularly visits the Commission Centrale Coloniale, located in the Communist Party building, Rue Lafayette” (there is, however, no evidence to suggest that his organization was in contact with Nguyễn Ái Quốc’s group based in Canton). Indochine, NF, 2638, CAOM. 31. The first mention I found of the “rue Barbier crime” was in L’Écho Annamite, Dec. 10, with a more elaborate article in the next day’s issue. 32. The Vietnam Nationalist Party, or Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng, was founded in December 1927 in Hanoi by Nguyễn Thái Học, a teacher, on the model of the Chinese Kuomintang. 33. Among those arrested were the future president of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam (1969–1980), Tôn Đức Thắng, member of Thanh Niên and a leading labor organizer; the future prime minister of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (1955– 1986), Phạm Văn Đông, the representative of the league’s central committee in Canton, who had come to investigate the affair, and Trần Huy Liệu, who became an active militant in the Nationalist Party. On the “rue Barbier affair” and its consequences, see Smith, “Foundation of the Indochinese Communist Party”; see also Tai, Radicalism, 213–17. 34. These rumors were regularly reported by the Vietnamese papers. See, for instance, La Tribune Indochinoise, Aug. 21, 1929, titled “Regime of Terror,” or L’Écho Annamite, Dec. 2, 1929, reporting forced expulsions of individuals originating from central Vietnam accused of participation in a complot annamite, or in the next day’s issue, the newspaper’s denunciation of the government’s massive anticommunist repression. These newspapers generally denied the existence of Vietnamese underground activities— even when, in the case of moderate sheets, they denounced communist activities. 35. Smith, “Development of Opposition,” 119. Even in 1929, cases of spontaneous actions were recorded by the Sûreté and by newspapers. For instance, on the night of Nov.

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 263

6 and 7, banners were hung on the entrance of the Dakao Bridge (Câu Bong), at the outskirts of Saigon, bearing a sickle and hammer sign and the peasant-sounding slogan “Rice paddies belong to those who plow them” (La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 15, 1929). 36. On Phạm Quỳnh, see Womak, “Colonialism and the Collaborationist Agenda.” 37. The interview was conducted in Paris in November 1925 by French journalist Grandjean and Bùi Quang Chiêu for the Paris-based La Tribune Indigène “on behalf of L’Écho Annamite in Indochina.” La Tribune Indigène, Nov. 16, 1925. 38. This list, named after the historical precedent of the Cahiers de doléances sent by the French people to the 1789 General Estates as a prelude to the French Revolution, was handed over by Nguyễn Phan Long to Varenne on his arrival in Saigon on Nov. 27. 39. On Apr. 30 Chiêu wrote an editorial condemning the harsh treatment the authorities inflicted on Ninh. 40. EA, July 26, 1926. 41. EA, Feb., 4, 1926. 42. A civil servant member of the prestigious École Française d’Extrême-Orient in Hanoi, Nguyễn Văn Tố probably chose to hide his real identity under the pen name Ứng Hỏe so as to avoid reprisal from his French employers. I am grateful to Hue-Tam Ho Tai for this information. 43. See, respectively, EA, Feb. 23, 1926; Feb. 25, 1926; Feb. 27, 1926; and Jan. 2, 1926. 44. Monet, Français et Annamites, 159–258. The brochure in quốc ngữ was titled “Annam Tinh đây!” (Vietnamese, Let’s work!). 45. See EA, from July 3 to Aug. 7, 1926. A Freemason and a former army officer, Monet was the founder of the Centre for Vietnamese Students in Hanoi in 1921. In 1925 he published a book titled Français et Annamites, which earned him many enemies in the French community and made his reputation as and indigènophile among Vietnamese. Attached to the Missions Laïques, an organization subsidized by the French government to counter the overseas influence of the Catholic Foreign Mission, Monet was appointed by Albert Sarraut, minister of colonies, to undertake a study mission on the issue of indigenous education. It was during this assignment that he met Dường Văn Lời, a trained school teacher who resigned his position in 1925. In his second book Monet described Lời as someone who abandoned his profession to devote himself to journalism and rice growing and who learned French in his forties. In mid-1926 Monet claimed to have assumed L’Écho’s directorship for a month, replacing Dejean and Nguyễn Phan Long in their absence. See Monet, Français et Annamites, 21. 46. Monet, Français et Annamites, 249. 47. Beside L’Écho Annamite and L’Annam, the other newspapers were La Tribune Indochinoise and Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times). La Tribune Indochinoise of Nov. 10, 1926, carried the following slogan on its front page: “Compatriots, our salvation lies in the economic field.” In December 1926 Lê Văn Gông wrote another series of economic analyses. His contributions to the newspaper became infrequent afterward. The advertisements for the Crédit Annamite continued to be placed in newspapers until 1930. 48. There seems to be no record of practices of torture in the colonial archives, suggesting that the Sûreté was acting outside French legality.

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49. EA, Aug. 28, 1926. 50. The incident was reported in La Tribune Indochinoise under the title “The Fascist Regime in Cochinchina: Against the Sûreté Agents Who Ambushed Ngươn, Correspondent of L’Écho Annamite, Author of the Article on Torture.” See La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 5, 1926. 51. EA, Nov. 22, 1928. Vương Quan Ngươn is unfortunately one of the individuals about whom I was unable to find specific information in the Sûreté archives. 52. Long’s solution to resist this abusive use of force against his compatriots sounded, however, weak: he urged them to work for economic liberation as a prerequisite to political freedom. EA, Mar. 9, 1927. 53. The first ceremony was held on Mar. 13 by the Annam Youth Party in the presence of Nguyễn An Ninh and Trần Huy Liệu. In his speech Nguyễn An Ninh exhorted the crowd to operate underground (secrètement). 54. EA, Nov. 9, 10, and 14, 1927. 55. Frederick, “Alexandre Varenne and Politics in Indochina, 1925–26.” 56. EA, June 22, 1928. L’Avenir de l’Annam (Organ of the Annamite Youth) was a monthly review that appeared in Toulouse from March to May 1928. Its editors were Võ Thanh Cư, Nguyễn Hưu Ninh, and Nguyễn Trung Trưc, all members of the radical Annamite Independence Party, led by Nguyễn Thế Truyền. 57. The next month Dejean signed a series of articles under the heading “The Vietnamese Do Not Wish to Be Treated as Pariahs in Their Own Country.” EA, July 5, 1928, and following. 58. This prominent position held by L’Écho Annamite was recognized by the Sûreté; see Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM. 59. L’Écho Annamite’s last issue was dated Apr. 17, 1931. With fewer subscribers and advertisers—possibly affected by the economic depression—the paper was no longer financially viable. In 1930 it returned to the triweekly format. Dejean remained the director. In the last months of its existence the paper had turned into an open antiConstitutionalist publication. 60. In May 1927 Nguyễn Kim Đính abandoned his position as publisher of La Tribune Indochinoise. He cited health reasons but remained financially committed to the paper. See La Tribune Indochinoise, May 13, 1927. 61. Bùi Thế Mỹ’s contribution to La Tribune Indochinoise is mentioned in an article in Indochina Times dated Sept. 10, 1926. In October 1927, when Diệp Văn Kỳ purchased Đông Pháp Thời Báo, Mỹ became official editor of La Tribune. Aside from contributions by Mỹ and the journalist-cartoonist Lê Trung Nghĩa in both papers, Indochina Times’ content remained distinct from Bùi Quang Chiêu’s journal. 62. See, for example, Đồng Hồ’s series of articles on the need to make quốc ngữ the main instrument of cultural “modernization” in DPTB, September 1927. 63. DPTB, September 1926. 64. DPTB, Aug. 6, 1926. 65. DPTB, Aug. 19, 1927. 66. See, for example, the lectures given by the indigènophiles Paul Monet and Colonel Sée, respectively, in DPTB, June 16, 1926, and Sept. 7, 1927.

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67. DPTB, respectively Sept. 10, 1926, and July 11, 1927. Hùynh Thúc Khánh (1876– 1947), future vice president of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam in 1945 is another great figure of Vietnam’s modern nationalism. Born in Quảng Nam, he graduated at the highest level in the traditional education system. He was implicated in the peasant resistance of 1908 and imprisoned for thirteen years in the Poulo Condore penitentiary. In 1926 he was allowed to found Tiếng Dân (People’s Voice), which ran as the only independent newspaper in the central region. Khánh professed a loyal opposition to the government of the French protectorate. He survived intimidation and harassment campaigns from the Huế Court authorities. On Hùynh Thúc Khánh see Marr, Vietnamese Anticolonialism, 1885 –1925, 90–91, 190–91, 243–44. See also Phan Thị Minh Lê, “A Vietnamese Scholar with a Different Path: Huỳnh Thúc Khánh, Publisher of the First Vietnamese Newspaper in quốc ngữ in Central Vietnam, Tiếng Dân (People’s Voice),” in Gisèle Bousquet and Pierre Brocheux, eds., Vietnam Exposé: French Scholarship on Twentieth-Century Vietnamese Society (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 216–58. 68. DPTB, Aug. 6, 1926. The interviewer, Phạn Minh Kiên, described the writing as “realist” (chơn tâ) in its depiction of the harsh existence of the poor in the Cochinchina countryside. 69. DPTB, Feb. 28, 1927. 70. This coverage intensified when the “Nationalists” of the Kuomintang Party attacked the “Communists.” See in particular DPTB, Aug. 8, 1927. 71. On Diệp Văn Kỳ’s birth year see Sûreté personal note, May 14, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (1) NA2. Sûreté agents suspected that his doctorate was based on a thesis written by someone else. See Sûreté, Confidential Note no. 6403-S, Aug. 9, 1928, RSA/HC 4009, NA2. This allegation was spread by rival journalists like Trần Văn Trí in Jan. 21, 1929 (“Encore une fois il bluffe, M. Diệp Văn Kỳ”). 72. Goucoch, IIA 45/202, NA2. 73. The question of whether Vietnamese newspapers were aiming at a regional or a national audience, which included Vietnamese readers in Cambodia, Thailand, and Laos, as well as “overseas” Vietnamese, must take into account the geographical definition of Vietnamese modern nationalism. See Goscha, Vietnam or Indochina. 74. DPTB, Oct. 14 and 18, 1927. 75. DPTB, Oct. 29, 1927. 76. DPTB, Oct. 10, 1927. 77. DPTB, Oct. 25, 1927. 78. DPTB, Jan. 17, 1928. 79. DPTB, Nov. 10, 1927. 80. DPTB, Jan. 17, 1928. 81. DPTB, Jan. 31, 1928. 82. DPTB, Oct. 25, 1927. 83. DPTB, Nov. 10, 1927, and Jan., 17, 1928. 84. DPTB, Feb. 11, 1928. 85. DPTB, July 21, 1928 86. DPTB, Dec. 11, 1928. Nguyễn Văn Bá’s investigation on Nguyễn An Ninh was reproduced by L’Écho Annamite (see issues dated Oct. 4, 11, and 12, 1928). During these last

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months of Indochina Times’ existence, Bùi Thế Mỹ regained some editorial prominence while Bá focused on investigative journalism. See DPTB, Oct. 16, 1928. 87. Diệp Văn Kỳ, a Freemason, bylined a major editorial on the subject in the Nov. 17, 1928, issue. 88. DPTB, Oct. 20 and 27 and Nov. 5, 1927. 89. This evolution is partially covered by Shawn McHale, who compares articles that appeared in Nữ Giới Chung (Women’s Bell) in 1918 and in Phụ Nữ Tân Văn (Women’s News) between 1929 and 1934. See McHale, “Printing and Power: Vietnamese Debates over Women’s Place in Society, 1918-1934,” 173-194.” 90. See David Marr’s classic analysis of Vietnamese publications of the 1920s and 1930s and the “question of women” in Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, 190–251. 91. Sûreté Monthly Report, June 1928, Goucoch, IIA 45/204 (1), NA2. 92. The governor of Cochinchina, Blanchard de la Brosse, recommended the application to the governor general: “for some months, Diệp Văn Kỳ appears to have played down his criticism [of the government]; it is possible that a benevolent measure on our part could have positive consequences.” Blanchard de la Brosse’s remark alluded to an admission of the regime’s limited legal means to restrict independent political journalism. Note dated June, 18, 1928, Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (4), NA2. 93. Nguyễn Văn Bá became Thần Chung’s editor in chief. 94. The Yên Báy mutiny was an uprising of Vietnamese soldiers in the French colonial army on Feb. 10, 1930, in collaboration with civilian members of the revolutionary Vietnamese Nationalist Party (Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng). From Feb. 13 until the closure of the paper on Mar. 22, nearly every issue featured a story on the uprising, the Nationalist Party, and its leader, Nguyễn Thái Học. 95. The paper included numerous examples of French resistance against foreign invaders: on Joan of Arc (May, 14, 1929), on French patriotism (Oct., 7, 1929), on the German occupation of Alsace-Lorraine (Feb. 8, 1930), on the Paris Commune (Mar. 13, 1930), and so on. The role of Japanese patriotism in modernizing society (Oct. 30, 1929) or recurrent references to Chinese and Vietnamese historical heroes completed this list. 96. Partisans of more leniency defended the practice of antonomase as a normal figure de style generally used by journalists (Sûreté, Section des traductions, note no. 2167-S; June 14, 1929; Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (4), NA). 97. On Confucianism see Thần Chung, Oct. 5, 1929, and Jan. 6, 1930. On Buddhism, see Thần Chung, Feb. 10, 1930. On history, see Thần Chun, June 28, 1929. 98. Starting on Dec. 28, 1929, almost every issue had a piece on the subject. 99. Kỳ estimated the cost of closing Morning Bell at thirty thousand piastres, with fifty workers losing their job as a result. Letter by Diệp Văn Kỳ to the governor of Cochinchina, dated Apr. 10, 1930; Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (4), NA. 100. The circumstances of Morning Bell ’s forced closure are well documented in the Sûreté archives. The pretext was the publication of a small piece allegedly written by the exiled prince Cường Để (Sûreté note no. 885-S, Mar., 31, 1930; Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (4), NA). On Mar. 25 an illegal brochure was distributed in the streets of Saigon to in-

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form the public about the paper’s closure (Sûreté note no. 847-S, Mar., 27, 1930; Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (4), NA). 101. Diệp Văn Kỳ sent Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu, better known for his forceful actions in political meetings, to France to study journalism in September 1927 (Sûreté note, Nov. 10, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/202, NA2). Cao Văn Chánh, another young activist with a history of newspaper writing and political activism, also went to Paris in July 1929 to refine his journalistic and academic skills. 102. Nguyễn Kim Đính left in May 1927, wary of the radical views expressed by members of the editorial staff and the lack of profits. 103. Chiêu established La Tribune Indochinoise’s offices at the same premises as the party’s headquarters, 64 rue Lagrandière. He also turned the address into a “meeting place for elected natives” (Permanence des élus indigènes). The Sûreté saw in this move an attempt to establish “the Anti-French opposition headquarters in Saigon.” Fonds SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 104. La Tribune Indochinoise, Oct. 13, 1926. On the evening of Mar. 24, 1926, Bùi Quang Chiêu arrived from France by boat in Saigon, where he was greeted by a crowd of eight thousand people. This punctual demonstration of popularity—linked to the state of collective shock following the arrest of Nguyễn An Ninh and the passing of Phan Châu Trinh the night before—went beyond the usual number of supporters of the Constitutionalist leader. 105. La Tribune Indochinoise, Oct. 13, 1926. In another attempt to support his claim to sole leadership of the Vietnamese opposition, Chiêu published an article on the opening of Phan Châu Trinh’s mausoleum in December 1926, in which he asserted that the old patriot, a few hours before his death, had asked him to assume the leadership of the Vietnamese patriotic movement. No available source corroborates this assertion. La Tribune Indochinoise, Dec. 20, 1926. 106. Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu even challenged de la Chevrotière to a duel. La Tribune Indochinoise, Aug. 8, 1926. See also Sûreté note, undated (March 1927?) in Goucoch, IIA 45/202 (11), NA 2. 107. La Tribune Indochinoise, Oct. 22, 1926. The campaign was led by the Vietnamese bank clerk in China Lê Văng Gông. 108. La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 3, 1926. 109. La Tribune Indochinoise, May 9, 1927. By contrast, in the same issue Chiêu signed a detached article about the first woman to be elected as a representative of the Kuomintang Party in Shanghai. 110. La Tribune Indochinoise, May 23, 1927. 111. Upon his release, Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu wrote a distressing account of his experience in jail, describing his cellmate’s suicide (La Tribune Indochinoise, June 8, 1927). In the same issue Ngẩu’s colleague Trần Văn Trí accused the Sûreté of trying to intimidate him by casting doubt on his identity. 112. Ngẩu was forced to leave partly due to his overly intimate familiarity toward Chiêu. Among other factors, Ngẩu was fond of his boss’s daughter, something Chiêu deeply resented. Chiêu used Ngẩu’s rivalry with Trần Văn Trí to force him out of La

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Tribune Indochinoise (Sûreté confidential note no. 565-S, Aug., 31, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/202 [11], NA2). 113. On the boat trip he met the young leftist intellectual Tạ Thu Tâu, who introduced him to anticolonial activists in the métropole (Sûreté confidential note no. 905CP (interception of—courier postal), Nov. 16, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/202 [11], NA2). Ngẩu returned to Vietnam on Mar. 22, 1929 (GGI, 65475 [4]; CAOM). His name appeared occasionally in La Tribune Indochinoise. According to Ngô Văn, Ngẩu was later involved in right-wing nationalist movements under Cường Để’s leadership (interview in Paris, 1996). 114. Writing in L’Annam, Dejean de la Bâtie sarcastically commented that the twentyfive-year-old “owed much to his uncle [despite] only three weeks of experience in journalism.” L’Annam, Jan. 3, 1927. On Bùi Quang Chiều’s use of Trần Văn Trí to limit Ngẩu’s influence in the paper see Sûreté note from “agent B.12,” Aug. 31, 1927, in Goucoch, IIA 45/202 (11), NA2. 115. Indochine, NF, 2638, CAOM. 116. “La pensée Annamite sous la république coloniale,” La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 3, 1926. 117. “Pour avoir trop aimé sa patrie,” La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 6, 1926. 118. La Tribune Indochinoise, Jan. 14, 1927. 119. La Tribune Indochinoise, May 27, 1927. 120. Some of Bùi Quang Chiêu’s supporters were not attuned to the changes in the political scene in Saigon. One of them was Georges Garros, mentioned in previous chapters. Garros was an aging French lawyer who, upon retirement, had returned to France. He regularly sent articles to appear in La Tribune Indochinoise. In November 1926 he published a political pamphlet, Les Forceries humaines (Human Forcing Houses), which was mainly devoted to Chiêu and his potential role for the future of Indochina. The paper reprinted extensive excerpts of his pamphlet. A year later, in a series of contributions, the French lawyer showed the limits of his liberalism by warning Chiêu and his supporters “not to be carried away by the extremists.” La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 5, 1926. See also Garros, Les Forceries Humaines. Quoted in La Tribune Indochinoise, Nov. 7, 1927. 121. Of all the activists involved in the Saigon press, Dương Văn Giáo (together with Paul Monin) was one of the few World War I veterans. 122. Although accepted at the metropolitan level, this linkage was neither acknowledged nor effected by the all-French Indochinese section of the Radical Socialist Party. 123. Supported by the Comintern, the congress set out to create a worldwide “mass anti-imperialist movement.” At the Brussels conference, 175 delegates, = two-thirds of whom came from thirty-seven countries under colonial rule addressed a “manifesto to all colonial peoples, workers, and peasants of the world,” calling on them to organize themselves to oppose “imperialist ideology.” 124. La Tribune Indochinoise, Jan. 1, 1928. 125. La Tribune Indochinoise, Dec. 23, 1927. 126. One of Giáo’s ideas was to set up an educational center in France “to educate the future elites of Vietnam.” La Tribune Indochinoise, July 20, 1928.

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 269

127. La Tribune Indochinoise, Aug. 13, 1928. 128. These pictures were taken by the photographer and former activist Khành Ký. 129. La Tribune Indochinoise, Apr. 20, 1928. 130. La Tribune Indochinoise, July 9, 1928. 131. The article had appeared in the Bulletin de la Ligue contre l’oppression coloniale et l’impérialisme. 132. For instance, Chiêu once used the derogative term énergumènes (fanatics) when qualifying radical activists such as the young Lê Thành Lư. La Tribune Indochinoise, June 26, 1929. 133. One Sûreté report quotes Bùi Quang Chiêu in an interview given to the progovernment L’Impartial: We are forced to engage in political opposition, having failed to obtain the reforms and liberties we asked for . . . I don’t believe that by criticizing any administrative decision, I am acting as “anti-French.” . . . Violent revolutionary actions are not ours: we would be horrified if we were to create a situation that is calling for hard repression. We, in the Vietnamese elite, have all [economic] interests, properties, and you can well imagine that we are not silly (sots) enough to see them compromised by a political upheaval. (Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 [a], CAOM)

On the evolution of Bùi Quang Chiêu’s political group in the 1930s see Cook, “Constitutionalist Party in Cochinchina.” 134. In addition to selling L’Écho Annamite and his private school, Long had to borrow additional sums of money. He was said to resent Chiêu’s withdrawal from an enterprise they had originally planned together. 135. Đuốc Nhà Nam, Oct. 12, 1928. 136. Đuốc Nhà Nam, Oct. 23, 1928. 137. Giáo’s interest in renewing his ties with Oriental religious traditions made him translate an essay on Confucianism by the French novelist Maurice Magre (Đuốc Nhà Nam, Oct. 25, 1928). 138. The first issues were published by the printing house Xưa Nay (Past and Present), owned by Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, former publisher of The Southern Economist (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo) and a friend of Ninh’s. 139. Correspondance du Résident Supérieur, Contrôleur Général des Troupes Indochinoises, Nov. 19, 1919; Fonds SLOTFOM, series 3, carton 29, “Complot Phan Châu Trinh, Phan Văn Trường et consorts”; CAOM, Aix. 140. On Phan Văn Trường’s experience in France, see his pamphlet Une histoire de conspirateurs annamites à Paris, also published in La Cloche Fêlée from Nov. 30, 1925 to Mar. 15, 1926. French intelligence on his activities in the métropole is in the Fonds SLOTFOM, series 3, especially cartons 29 and 87, “Visite de Nguyễn Văn Vinh à Phan Văn Trường,” CAOM. On his links with Phan Châu Trinh in Paris, see Gaspard Thư Trăng, Những họat động cửa Phan Châu Trinh tại Pháp. 141. EA, Feb. 20, 1926.

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142. CF, Nov. 26, 1925. 143. CF, Nov. 26, 1925. 144. CF, Nov. 26, 1925. 145. Ninh explained this position in peculiar terms: the people who eat pork (the Chinese) were endowed with a “fighting spirit” that the nonpork eaters (the Indians) lacked. CF, Nov. 26, 1925. 146. CF, Dec. 10, 1925. 147. The essay appeared in a serialized format in CF, November 1925. 148. CF, Dec. 14, 1925. 149. L’Annam, Nov. 22, 1926. Dejean discussed his position as a métis in an “open letter” to Bùi Quang Chiêu in CF, Apr. 8, 1926. 150. After Dejean’s return from prison in April, his influence over the newspaper’s editorial policy declined. 151. Ký and Trừờng, both natives of Hà Đông, near Hanoi, had a long history of political collaboration in France and Germany. In Saigon, the photographer was an influential figure, especially within the community of northern Vietnamese, for which he served as chairman of the influential Mutual Association of Tonkinese in Cochinchina (Hội Tương Tế Bắc Kỳ tại Nam Kỳ). Goucoch, IIA 45/274 (3), NA2. 152. Sûreté Annual Report 1926–1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/204 (1), NA2. When he later faced difficulties with the colonial judiciary, Phan Văn Trường found support from Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phan Long. 153. CF, Nov. 26, 1925. 154. L’Annam, Oct. 28, 1926. 155. The Second Congress of the Communist International, held in 1920, accepted Lenin’s thesis that “anti-imperialist struggle” was deemed an essential part of all communist revolutionary activities. This obligation advocated a “class against class” strategy aimed at denouncing noncommunist, “bourgeois” national movements as fundamentally collaborating with the capitalist and imperialist order. This radical strategy was confirmed by the Sixth International Congress, held in 1928. See Raoul Gigardet, L’Idée coloniale en France, 1871–1962 (Paris: Hachette, 2007), 202–11. 156. The expression “colonial comedy” was the title of an article published in La Cloche Fêlée on Dec. 21, 1925. On June 28, 1926, Phan Văn Trường published another editorial: “The Colonial Charlatanism.” 157. L’Annam, Nov. 29, 1926. 158. In May to June 1926 the paper supported a school strike that had spread across Vietnam. On Aug. 19 L’Annam joined with several other papers in displaying on its front page photographs showing evidence of torture carried out by the Sûreté in Mỹ Tho. Another report on Sûreté practices appeared on Nov. 4, 1926. 159. L’Annam, July 12, 1926. 160. L’Annam, Aug. 28, 1926. 161. L’Annam, Dec. 16, 1926. 162. Tai, Radicalism, 165. 163. L’Annam, Apr. 7, 1927. 164. L’Annam, July 1, 1926.

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 271

165. L’Annam, Nov. 29, 1926. 166. CF, Nov. 30, 1925–Mar. 15, 1926. 167. L’Annam, Oct., 14, 1926. 168. L’Annam, May 19, 1927. The same issue contained articles from L’Annam scolaire, a political magazine published by Vietnamese students living in Aix-en-Provence. The director was Trần Văn An. 169. The whole affair was triggered by an incident involving Nguyễn Phó, Dejean’s friend, who physically abducted Trường. In the early 1930s, Dejean contributed to French liberal newspapers like the socialist Le Populaire. 170. Lương Văn Cần was the founder of the Hanoi-based reformist school Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục (Tonkin Free School), which was banned by the authorities in 1908. Upon the news of his death on June 12, 1927, a number of northern activists living in Saigon decided to organize a ceremony to honor him. The authorities arrested them. Five men, including Trần Huy Liệu, were expelled from Cochinchina. 171. L’Annam, July 25, 1927. 172. On Mar. 27, 1928, Phan Văn Trường and Nguyễn Khánh Tòan lost a final appeal in the Lương Văn Cần affair and were sentenced to two years and eighteen months in jail, respectively. Sûreté Annual Report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM. 173. Monet, Français et Annamites, 38. Phan Văn Trường died in 1933. 174. In a private discussion between Dương Văn Giáo and other journalists, including Võ Khắc Thiệu, who revealed the story, Giáo described Chiêu as a weak person, easily taken advantage of by others. He added: “Bùi Quang Chiêu is over sixty years old; he works alone from morning to evening on his paper.” In EA, May 3, 1929. 175. In the Feb. 19, 1930 issue, a short communiqué stated the following: “Sharing the same opinion on the major problems concerning the country’s political situation and the evolution of the Vietnamese people, belonging to the same party, fighting for the same cause, MM. Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phan Long have resolved to combine their efforts in order to maximize their effects.” 176. Tai, Radicalism, 224. 177. Jeune Annam, Mar. 21, 1926. 178. Sûreté report by an infiltrated agent dated Mar. 24, 1926, SPCE, carton 350, CAOM, Aix. 179. Infuriated by the news that the newspaper had appeared the next day, Annam Youth party members made public their disapproval in an article written by Lê Thế Vinh in EA, Mar. 23, 1926. 180. SPCE, carton 350, CAOM. 181. Phúc Việt was originally created by veterans of the reform movement with Phan Chau Trinh at Poulo Condore. The movement was resurrected in 1924 by young activists from Annam (Tai, Radicalism, 85). 182. For his illegal action Châu was sentenced to one year in prison; he was released early in November. Probably following his arrest, Châu was “returned” by the Sûreté as agent provocateur to stir up disagreement among opposition leaders. Sûreté Annual Report, 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM.

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183. L’Essor Indochinois appeared on July 5, 1924. Although it sold only a few hundred copies, it survived until September 1927. It was run by Cao Văn Chánh, who received financial support from Trần Quang Nghiêm. Until October 1925 the paper was under the influence of a young Frenchman, Rébufat (pen name Lập Nam). During that period, L’Essor was perhaps the most internationalist Vietnamese paper appearing in Saigon. Chánh’s own stand consisted in denouncing “traitors” and false patriots. His targets included Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn An Ninh. He even once condemned emblematic patriots such as Phan Châu Trinh and Phan Bội Châu (Aug., 8, 1925). Suspended by the Sûreté in late 1925, the paper reopened on Mar. 31, 1926. 184. Printing facilities alone cost fifteen thousand piastres. Chánh received fi nancial backing from Nguyễn An Cư, Nguyễn An Ninh’s uncle; Trương Vĩnh Quí, a retired civil servant; and “Cao Đài leaders,” according to the Sûreté. The journal was among the first to have Caodaist investment. Sûreté notes dated Oct. 21, 1926, and May 9, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 185. Lê Chơn Tâm was also related to Trần Đức Nghĩa, one of the richest entrepreneurs in the Mekong Delta. Sûreté annual report 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, 65476 (a), CAOM; see also Sûreté note dated Oct., 21, 1926, on the Tân Thế Kỷ, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 186. Bữu Đình previously wrote for Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), Southern Economist, and Indochina Times. He also participated in the venture of the illegal pamphlet Xưa Nay (Past and Present), run by Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh (1924). On Bữu Đình, see Đinh and Chương Thâu, Danh Nhân lịch sứ Việt Nam (Famous Historical Figures in Vietnam), vol. 2. See also Sûreté annual reports 1922–1923, 1923–1924, and 1926–1927: GGI, 7F, 65474 (2), (3), (5), CAOM. 187. On Đông Sỹ Bình see his son’s account, published in France: Đông, De la Mélanésie au Viêtnam. 188. In the protectorate of Annam, the royal court’s strict control of the press had deterred intellectuals from running an opposition journal. Since the beginning of the decade, Saigon newspapers compensated for this absence by including a section aimed at their Annam readers or by providing space for their correspondents in Annam. The first truly independent political newspaper in Annam, Hùynh Thúc Khánh’s Tiếng Dân (People’s Voice), appeared as late as August 1927, almost one year after New Century. 189. Tân Thế Kỷ, Nov. 1, 1926. 190. Tân Thế Kỷ, Nov. 2, 1926. 191. Sûreté note 101 CP, Nov. 22, 1926, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 192. Arnoux’s long-standing conservative position led to his appointment as head of Indochina’s Sûreté Générale by the pro-Vichy governor general admiral Decoux (1940–1945). 193. Sûreté note 81 CP, Nov. 16, 1926, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 194. Sûreté note 105 CP, Nov. 23 1926, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 195. L’Essor Indochinois, Mar. 14, 1927. 196. Sûreté note 815 S, Nov. 9, 1926, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 197. Note by Le Fol, Sûreté note 105 CP, Nov. 23, 1926, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 198. For the text, see Sûreté note 134 CP, Dec. 3, 1926, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2.

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 273

199. Report sent to Varenne by Blanchard de la Brosse, dated Mar. 24, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 200. Correspondence between Blanchard de la Brosse and the Procureur Général de la Cour d’Appel de Saigon, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 201. Tân Thế Kỷ, Nov. 4, 1926. 202. The Huế court had been concerned with a well-publicized interview of Phan Bội Châu by Bữu Đình for the newspaper. Tân Thế Kỷ, Nov. 30, 1926. 203. L’Essor Indochinois, Apr. 4, 1927. 204. Sûreté note 273 CP Apr. 12, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. Chánh secretly approached the publisher, Louis Trần Văn Minh, about hiring Tân Dân Báo (New People), a short-lived newspaper he was authorized to run in 1924. The plan was to publish a final issue of New Century, inviting the readers to move to New People. Louis Minh declined the offer. See Sûreté notes 220-S; 224-S; 225-S; and 226-S, from “different agents” (May 14, 1927), Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. 205. Note from the Sûreté’s translation bureau, dated May 18, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/242(1), NA2. 206. Franco-Vietnamese United Family was a large-format, triweekly newspaper. Its chief editor was Cao Hãi Để, former director of Matters of Agriculture and current director of the two Labor Party publications, L’Ère Nouvelle and Nhựt Tân Báo. Lê Thành Lư was the publisher. The real mind behind the paper was its owner, Trần Quang Nghiêm, who came from a rich land-owning family in the south. Born in 1888 in the province of Mỹ Tho, Nghiêm owned an imported goods store, a hotel, and rubber plantations. Socially close to Constitutionalist circles, he also cultivated contacts with radical intellectuals such as Nguyễn An Ninh and Cao Văn Chánh. He used his wealth to support newspapers such as L’Indochine, L’Écho Annamite, and La Cloche Fêlée and activists such as Paul Monin and Phan Châu Trinh . After the 1926 events, he sided with the Annam Youth Party and criticized Bùi Quang Chiêu for his lack of political courage. It was during this period that Nghiêm obtained authorization for his newspaper (decree dated July 30, 1926). On Trần Quang Nghiêm see the Sûreté’s annual reports 1922–1923, 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively 65474 (2), 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5), CAOM. See also Annuaire du Syndicat des Planteurs de Caoutchouc de l’Indochine 1926. My information also comes from my interview with Trần Quang Nghiêm’s son, Trần Quang Nghĩa, in November 1997, in HCM City. 207. Franco-Vietnamese United Family was a radical opposition paper from the start. In the wake of the New Century affair, Nghiêm gave his name and money to create a public forum accessible to intellectuals who would not have been permitted to start their own journal. He solicited contributions from Trần Huy Liệu, who composed a tribute commemorating Phan Châu Trinh (Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia, Mar. 29, 1927). Members of the Indochinese Labor Party, including Cao Hãi Để and Lê Thành Lư, placed advertisements in the paper. In the May 7, 1927, issue, the newspaper used the trial of members of the Annam Youth Party to describe in detail the organization’s activities and objectives. Other political events, such as the Annam school strikes that followed Bữu Đình’s arrest, were reported at length by anonymous correspondents from Annam.

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The originality of Franco-Vietnamese United Family’s political agenda lay in its support of the various opposition groups that needed a newspaper to carry out their strategy. 208. Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, 71, footnote 49. 209. The appeals court sentenced Lê Thành Lư in January 1928 to twelve months in jail. Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia, May 17, 1927. 210. L’Essor Indochinois, July 19, 1927. Dejean, who had just left L’Annam, signed his articles as “L’Essor Indochinois.” Sûreté note 211-S, May 9, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. Chánh also turned his attention to the issue of women’s emancipation. As he explained in L’Essor Indochinois, had New Century not been shut down by the authorities and had he not lost most of his financial capital as a result, his next project would have been the creation of a newspaper entirely devoted to women. L’Essor Indochinois, July 19 and July 23, 1927. 211. On Phu Nữ Tân Văn see Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, 220–28. 212. On Cao Văn Chánh see Sûreté’s Notice portant renseignements sur Cao Văn Chánh (Saigon, November 1935), Goucoch, IIA 45/242 (1), NA2. I also benefited from discussions with Cao Văn Chánh’s daughter, Cao Thị Liêu (Aix-en-Provence, August–September 1996). 213. As the government made increasing use of the courts against journalists, another form of “guerilla” consisted in the pooling of resources and coordination of actions among opposition newspapers when one of their members was arrested on charges related to their journalistic activity. This new form of resistance aimed at testing the limits of each prosecution process to attract maximum publicity and embarrass the colonial authorities. The practice began when Vũ Đình Dy, the young political editor of La jeune Indochine, was sentenced to prison on June 25, 1928. The public rallied behind him by raising funds for his appeal. A majority of the journalist-activists—except for Bùi Quang Chiêu and Nguyễn Phan Long—threw their weight behind Dy by signing a publicly distributed leaflet of support. As the document explained, the initiative could be repeated whenever necessary “to give confidence to all of those who may stand up for the compatriots’ cause.” Dy’s appeal failed, but the intellectuals had declared their intention to resist in courts. Sûreté note, July 19, 1928, Goucoch, IIA 45/201 (1), NA2). 214. At the meeting, an important contingent of automobile drivers represented the community of “workers.” Among them were the chauffeurs of the U.S. consul and of Paul Monin, the liberal lawyer. Lê Thành Lư, journalist-activist and former driver, was also present. “Note sur le Parti Travailliste Indochinois” included in a telegram to Governor General Varenne, dated Dec. 8, 1926, SLOTFOM, III, 39, CAOM. 215. Cao Triều Phát was also known under the pen name of Thiến Sơn. His involvement in the Cao Đài Church later made him one of its most important dignitaries. Although Phát was ruined by the economic depression, his fate was to be connected with the church, which he served until his death in 1956. See Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), “Le Parti travailliste indochinois,” NA2; SPCE, carton 350, CAOM; SLOTFOM, series 3, carton 39, CAOM; Sûreté’s annual reports 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5), CAOM. See also Annuaire du Syndicat des Planteurs de Caoutchouc de l’Indochine 1926; Văn Đằng and Trần Văn Rạng, Đại Đao Danh Nhân (Illustrious Figures of the Caodaist Church).

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 275

216. Because the titles of the two newspapers have the same meaning in English, I have used their original title in Vietnamese and French. 217. Letter included in Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), NA2. 218. Hùynh Văn Chính, a former writer for La Tribune Indigène, Public Opinion, and La Cloche Fêlée, was subsequently removed from his position by Cao Hãi Để because of “political disagreement with the shareholders.” Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), NA2. 219. According to Sûreté chief Arnoux, Cao Hãi Để “is not really interested in politics; he lets his colleagues praise communism or violently attack the government.” Undated Sûreté note (early 1927?) on Cao Hãi Để by Paul Arnoux, in Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), NA2. On Để, see Sûreté’s annual reports 1923–1924, 1925–1926, 1926–1927, GGI, 7F, respectively, 65474 (3), 65475 (4), and 65475 (5), CAOM. 220. Other contributors included Đặng Quang Bảy (pen name Hòang Sơn); Lê Cong Phung, a professional cook from Annam; Nguyễn Văn Cầu (alias Huyền Am, Tử Cầu), who also originated from Annam. Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), NA2. 221. L’Ère Nouvelle, Aug. 31, 1926. The editors were almost all former school teachers or students expelled from the Chasseloup-Laubat College and the Gia Định School of Teachers. Cao Hãi Để himself was a former educator (Goucoch, IIA 45/175 [9], Le Parti travailliste indochinois, NA2). 222. L’Ère Nouvelle was launched on Aug. 17, 1926, that is, three months before the official inauguration of the party. 223. L’Ère Nouvelle, Aug. 30, 1926. 224. L’Ère Nouvelle, Mar. 11, 1927. 225. See, for example, the virulent article titled “Cái thảm trạng người lao động ngày nay” (Today’s Workers’ Tragedy), in Nhựt Tân Báo, Dec. 15, 1927. 226. See articles by Cao Triều Phát, Đặng Trân Phát, and Nguyễn Phước Quan (Quang Đai) in L’Ère Nouvelle. See in particular editorials in the issues dated Apr. 29, 1927, and June 16, 1927. 227. I have not found references to any European socialist thinkers or movements in Cao Triều Phát’s writings. However, some of his thoughts show the influence of Fabian’s gradual socialism, Louis Blanc’s predilection for workers’ control of industrial cooperatives, and Georges Sorel’s populism. 228. Article by Nguyễn Đình Thiêu, L’Ère Nouvelle, May 20, 1927. 229. Better known as the Section française de l’internationale ouvrière (SFIO), the party split into two separate entities at the Congress of Tours in 1920. The Social Democrat section kept the original name (SFIO) while the Marxist section, adhering to the Third International, became the French Communist Party. 230. L’Ère Nouvelle, Nov. 12, 1926. 231. L’Ère Nouvelle, July 1, 1927. 232. L’Ère Nouvelle, Apr. 1, 1927. 233. L’Ère Nouvelle, July 8, 1927. Of these three last demands, only the first was satisfied. This emphasis on the regulatory social role of the state was also defended by some French tenets of colonial welfarism. See Wilder, French Imperial Nation-State (especially chapter 3, “Toward a New Colonial Rationality: Welfare, Science, Administration,” 43–75. 234. L’Ère Nouvelle, July 1, 1927.

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235. L’Ère Nouvelle, Oct. 23, 1926. 236. L’Ère Nouvelle, Nov. 23, 1926. 237. L’Ère Nouvelle, Apr., 4 1927. 238. L’Ère Nouvelle, Aug. 1, 1927. 239. L’Ère Nouvelle, February 1927. The International Labor Organization (ILO) was created in 1919 in the aftermath of World War I as an international organization promoting the rights of international workers. Located in Geneva, the ILO’s first director general was the French Socialist Albert Thomas, who visited Saigon in January 1929. He was not received by the then disbanded members of the Labor Party but by the Constitutionalists (Sûreté Annual Report, June 1928–May 29, 1929, GGI, 7F23[2], 65476, CAOM). 240. L’Ère Nouvelle, Apr. 11, 1927. 241. L’Ère Nouvelle, June 13, 1927. 242. L’Ère Nouvelle, May 9, 1927. 243. In L’Ère Nouvelle, May 6, 1927, and June 20, 1926, respectively. 244. Cao Triều Phát entered the Saigon-based lodge Le Réveil de l’Orient et les Fervents du Progrès Réunis under the obedience of the Grand Orient de France in January 1928, GOF. 245. L’Ère Nouvelle, Sept. 9, 1926. Starting with the Mar. 28, 1927, issue, L’Ère Nouvelle displayed on its front page the Cao Đài slogan: “For Humanity, with Wisdom.” Phát also announced: “Our party is not a party, as its members are all the people” (L’Ère Nouvelle, Oct. 26, 1926). 246. L’Ère Nouvelle, Nov. 13, 1926. 247. L’Ère Nouvelle, Nov. 30, 1926. 248. On Lê Thành Lư, see Sûreté’s annual reports 1926–1927, 1927–1928, GGI, 7F, respectively 65475 (5) and 65476 (a) CAOM. See also “Dossiers individuels sur certains intellectuels/journalistes, Goucoch, IIA 45/192 (11), NA2. 249. Nhựt Tân Báo, Nov. 25, 1926. 250. L’Ère Nouvelle, Dec. 10, 1927. 251. L’Ère Nouvelle, Dec. 8, 1927. 252. Nhựt Tân Báo, Apr. 16, 1928. Lê Thành Lư became more militant at Kỳ Lân Báo (Unicorn) and Thanh Niên Tân Tấn (Progressive Youth). 253. Sûreté note dated Mar. 10, 1927, Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), NA2. 254. On a practical level, the party’s request for new members to subscribe to both newspapers for one full year made for a very expensive commitment (the membership fee was about five piastres). A year after its public announcement, the party had only thirty registered members. 255. At the Nov. 12, 1926, meeting, all of the delegates from the party’s provincial sections were either landowners or automobile drivers. Sûreté note dated Nov. 13, 1926, in Goucoch, IIA 45/175 (9), NA2. 256. A special report by the police unit noted that a tour of the country made by Lê Thành Lư to find subscribers for Nhựt Tân Báo in practice served to establish “automobile driver societies.” Sûreté note dated July 1926–July 1927; additional report of the Brigades mobiles; Goucoch, IIA 45/204 (1), NA2. 257. Nhựt Tân Báo, Nov. 18, 1927.

5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930) 277

258. For instance, see Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh, no. 44, article titled “Our Nationalism.” 259. Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh, Sept. 20, 1927. 260. Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh, Sept. 22, 1927. 261. According to the Sûreté, the “soul” of the league was Bietry. Sûreté’s monthly report, January 1928, Goucoch, IIA 45/204(1), NA2. 262. Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh, Jan. 6, 1928. 263. Sûreté’s monthly report, April 1928, GGI, 7F, 65477, CAOM. 264. DPTB, Mar. 26, 1928. In another article dated Apr. 3, Kỳ suspected Yên and his supporters of receiving funds from rubber plantation companies that were lacking workers. 265. La Tribune Indochinoise, Mar. 28, 1928. 266. Sûreté’s monthly report, April 1928, GGI, 7F, 65477, CAOM. 267. Indochina police report, first quarter 1928, Indochine, NF 1568, CAOM. When the apostolic delegate for Indochina, Archbishop Aiuti, died on July 29, 1928, in Saigon, Vietnamese newspapers paid tribute to his independence vis-à-vis the French authorities. See, for example, EA, July 31, 1928. 268. The Catholic Voice also recommended the establishment of a “polytechnic firm,” where workers of all conditions and specialties could improve their skills. Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh, Mar. 28, 1928. 269. Công Giáo Đồng Thịnh, Apr. 21, 1928. 270. Sûreté’s monthly report, May 1928, Goucoch, IIA 45/204(1), NA2. The newspaper later reappeared as an “apolitical” Catholic publication. 271. One article made reference to Louis Blanc’s 1848 prescriptions of ateliers nationaux (workers’ cooperative units). Thanh Niên Tân Tiến, Apr. 19, 1929. 272. Jean-François Kesler, “La jeune République, de sa naissance au tripartisme (1912– 1947),” Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaraine 25(1) (January–March 1978), 61–85, 70. 273. Too modernist for the church, le sillon was condemned by the pope in 1905. At that time, it had more than half a million subscribers. Le sillon was at the origin of “personalist socialism,” initiated by Emmanuel Mounier in the 1930s, a movement that was popularized in Vietnam after World War II. See Jean-Marie Mayeur, Catholicisme social et démocratie chrétienne: Principes romains, expériences françaises (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1986). 274. Yên’s envisioned movement included a Youth Beauty Association (Hội Mỹ Dục), a youth arts and sports association (Hội hát Thanh niên Mỹ nghệ Thể thảo), a tourism association, and even a French-language newspaper, Jeunesse progressiste (for which I have found no records). 275. On the elections of the Saigon municipal councilors in April 1929, Yên supported three Constitutionalist candidates whom, he judged, were “close to the youth.” See Thanh Niên Tân Tiến, Apr. 19, 1929. 276. The paper’s title was changed to Thanh Niên Tân Tân (New Youth), with the new slogan “Organ of the Youth and Workers.” In the Thanh Niên Tân Tân transition issue, dated June 19, 1929, Yên listed the 169 subscribers of his former paper. Although it is a limited sample, the list provides a glimpse of those attracted to Yên’s program: among the subscribers were a number of Catholic priests, French and Vietnamese in Cochinchina, Annam, and Cambodia. Of the personalities worth noting was Father Ngô Đinh

278 5. The Limits to Oppositional Journalism (1926–1930)

Khôi from Quảng Ngải province, probably related to the future president Ngô Đình Diệm. Cao Triêu Phát, former leader of the Labor Party, also subscribed, as did a Caodaist pagoda. 277. The first issue was dated April 1933, but the authorities soon shut it down. 278. For a complete study of the politico-journalistic movement of La Lutte see Hémery, Révolutionnaires vietnamiens.

Conclusion 1. Ninh’s early intuition that the countryside was critical for any strategic breakthrough, as well as his rural initiatives after 1926, are parallel to the actions started three years earlier by his Chinese contemporary Peng Pai. See Galbiati, Peng Pai and the Hai-Lu Feng Soviet. 2. See, for instance, Philippe Deviller, Histoire du Viet-Nam de 1940 à 1952: Only a confluence of extraordinary circumstances made [the Viet Minh ’s success] possible. In effect, the Japanese putsch against the French changed the equation radically. Until then, [the Viet Minh] had no more chance to succeed against the strong French power structure than before it the Nationalist movement in 1930 or the Indochinese Communist Party in 1931. (132)

See also Marr, Vietnam, 1945. 3. Historians like Marr, McHale, and Nguyễn Văn Ký have described aspects of this intellectual effervescence, including debates taking place in Phụ Nữ Tân Văn or Đàn Bà Mới (Modern Woman) magazines in Saigon or in Phong Hóa (Mores), Ngày Nay (Today), and Phụ Nữ Thời Đàm (Women’s Chronicle) in Hanoi, as well as with the politico-literary group Tự Lực Văn Đòan (Self-Reliant Literary Group) (see, respectively, Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial; McHale, Print and Power ; and Nguyễn Văn Ký, La société vietnamienne face à la modernité). Open political action in the city continued with the Constitutionalist Party and the La Lutte group. A number of the 1920s’ journalist-activists continued their involvement (on the Saigon political scene see Hémery, Révolutionnaires vietnamiens, and Cook, The Constitutionalist Party in Cochinchina; see also Henchy’s thesis on intellectual debates among members of the Left: “Performing Modernity in the Writings of Nguyễn An Ninh and Phan Văn Hùm.” 4. Bùi Quang Chiêu was assassinated in September 1945, reportedly by the Việt Minh on the outskirts of Saigon (see Note de renseignement sur Bùi Quang Chiêu, Sûreté, July 1946 (SPCE, carton 350, CAOM); Diệp Văn Kỳ, who appeared to have turned to the right of the political spectrum but refused to work for the Japanese, was also allegedly killed by the Việt Minh in Biên Hòa in 1945 (interview with relatives in June 1997). So would have Dương Văn Giáo, although no evidence or clear record has been established; according to his daughter, Cao Văn Chánh was drowned in a river in central Vietnam by the Việt Minh (interview, Aix-en-Provence, 1996). Better known is the fate of the Trotskyites Phan Văn Hùm and Tạ Thu Tâu, who were eliminated by the Việt

Conclusion 279

Minh in 1945 [see, for instance, Nguyễn Huyền Anh, Việt Nam Danh Nhân Từ Điển (Dictionary of Vietnamese Personalities), respectively, 397 and 411–412]. Such was probably also the fate of Vũ Đinh Dỳ, who collaborated with the Japanese; see Smith, “Japanese Period in Indochina,” 272, 274. 5. Nghĩa and his wife were assassinated by French soldiers in 1947 in central Vietnam. See Nguyễn Ba Thế and Nguyễn Quang Thang, Từ điển Nhân vật Lịch sử Việt Nam (Dictionary of Vietnamese Historical Personalities), 384. 6. The confused period that followed the outbreak of the fi rst Indochinese war in Saigon—with our few 1920s’ “survivors,” Nguyễn Văn Tinh, Nguyễn Phan Long, and Hồ Văn Trung—as powerless figureheads of the ephemeral regimes of the Autonomous Republic of Cochinchina (1946–1948) and Bẚo Đại’s State of Vietnam (1949–1955) remains to this day completely unresearched. In 1937 Dr. Nguyễn Văn Tinh, a faithful supporter of Bùi Quang Chiêu and the Constitutionalist Party in the 1920s, created his own party [Đảng Dân Chủ (Democratic Party)]; in June 1946 he became president of the “Autonomous Republic of Cochinchina,” but he committed suicide five months later, “discouraged at his failure to achieve credibility for the new republic” (Duiker, Historical Dictionary of Vietnam, 189). According to Nguyễn Quang Thắng and Nguyễn Bá Thế, Hồ Văn Trung initially supported Nguyễn Văn Thinh but withdrew from overt political action; he continued to write novels until his death in 1958 (Nguyễn Ba Thế and Nguyễn Quang Thang, Từ điển Nhân vật Lịch sử Việt Nam, 291). As for Nguyễn Phan Long, he served as minister of foreign affairs (1949) and, the following year, as an ephemeral prime minister in the Bao Đài government: he was removed by the French for his independence; Long returned to work as an independent newspaper editor; until his death in 1960, he remained a fierce opponent of Ngô Đình Diệm’s regime. Rumors had it that Ngô Đình Nhu, Diệm’s brother and interior minister, had him poisoned (Nguyễn Quang Thắng and Nguyễn Bá Thế (Từ điển Nhân vật Lịch sử Việt Nam, 585–86). Among the other surviving figures from the 1920s’ Saigon newspaper village who had significant careers after independence—and for whom information is available—are Trần Huy Liệu, who first joined the radical Nationalist Party (Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng) in the early 1930s before becoming a prominent intellectual of the Indochinese Communist Party. He later served as minister of propaganda in Hồ Chí Minh’s provisional government before becoming one of the north’s most influential historians; on Liệu’s intellectual action in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam see Pelley, Postcolonial Vietnam, and Ninh, World Transformed. Also worth noting is the career of Cao Triều Phát, former Labor Party president. Phát rose to the highest rank in the Cao Đài Church, at one time in direct opposition with the French army, before his death in 1956. See Văn Đằng and Trần Văn Rạng, Đại Đạo Danh Nhân. 7. The result of willful cover-ups by official historians or simply the passing of time, their shocking disappearance from historical narratives remains unexplained. When I lived in Saigon between 1994 and 1998, I was, on a few occasions, contacted by relatives of 1920s’ activists and asked to seek information—which they could not access otherwise—about their ancestors. 8. Historical research is slowly shedding light on the uninvestigated chapter of modern Vietnamese history of pre-1975 Saigon and the feverish intellectual creativity that flourished in its midst. See especially Quinn-Judge, “Saigon’s Anti-War Movement.” See

280 Conclusion

also Tuấn Hòang’s contribution: “Early South Vietnamese Critique of Communism”; see especially his brief description of the political press (19–20); Nữ-Anh Trần, “South Vietnamese Identity, American Intervention, and the Newspaper Chính Luận”; and Claire Trần Thị Liện, “Nguyễn Mạnh Hà: A Voice for a Neutral Solution in South Vietnam.” 9. See, for example, the recent Iranian experience of free expression: Yaghmaian’s Social Change in Iran. When reading the book, I was struck by the similarity of names and slogans used by newspapers in 1990s’ Iran and those in 1920s’ Saigon.

bibliography

Periodicals Newspapers represent the main primary source material used for this research. I have consulted newspapers in the following locations: Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris and Versailles; Thư Viện Quốc Gia (National Library), Hanoi; and Thư Viện Khoa Học Tổng Hợp (ex-Quốc Gia) (General Scientific Library), HCM City. I have also consulted the microfilm series held by the libraries of the School of Oriental and African Studies, London, and the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore.

Saigon Periodicals Consulted L’Annam (Annam), 1926–1928 La Cloche Fêlée (Broken Bell), 1923–1924; 1925–1926 La Cochinchine Libérale (Liberal Cochinchina), 1915–1922 Công Giáo Đồng Tịnh (Catholic Voice), 1927–1930 Công Luận Báo (Public Opinion), 1916–1924 Đền Nhà Nam (The Light of Vietnam), 1918–1919 Đông Pháp Thời Báo (Indochina Times), 1923–1928 Đuốc Nhà Nam (Vietnamese Flame), 1928–1932 L’Écho Annamite (Vietnamese Echo), 1920–1923; 1924–1930 L’Écolier Annamite (Vietnamese Pupil), 1924 L’Ère Nouvelle (New Era), 1926–1929

282 Bibliography

L’Essor Indochinois (Indochinese Progress), 1924–1927 Le Flambeau (The Torch), 1924–1925 L’Indochine / L’Indochine Enchaînée (Indochina / Enchained Indochina), 1925–1926 Jeune Annam (Young Vietnam), 1926 Jeune Asie (Young Asia), 1919–1921 La Jeune Indochine (Young Indochina), 1927–1928 Kịch Trường Tạp Chí (Theater Magazine), 1927–1929 Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn (Six Provinces Gazette), 1907–1943 Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo (Southern Economist), 1920–1924 Nhựt Tân Báo (New Era), 1922–1929 Nông Cổ Mín Đàm (Matters of Agriculture), 1900–1924 Nữ Giới Chung (Women’s Bell), 1918 Nữ Giới Tỏng Thợ (Women’s Series), 1928 Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia (Franco-Vietnamese United Family), 1927 Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn (National Forum), 1918–1919 Rạng Đông Tạp Chí (Dawn Magazine), 1926–1929 Tân Dân Báo (New People’s Journal), 1924–1925 Tân Thế Kỷ (New Century), 1926–1927 Thần Chung (Morning Bell), 1929–1930 Thanh Niên Tân Tân (New Youth), 1929 Thanh Niên Tân Tiến (Progressive Youth), 1929 La Tribune indigène (Native’s Tribune), 1917–1925 La Tribune indochinoise (Indochinese Tribune), 1926–1942

Archival Sources The book relies on the following archival collections and record groups: 1. Centre des archives d’outre-mer (CAOM), Aix-en-Provence, France Gouvernement général de l’Indochine (GGI) The GGI archival collection includes documents generated by the office of the Government General in Hanoi. Central to this study are the materials from the French security services (Service de la Sûreté) corresponding to section F (“Political Affairs”) of the GGI archives. Ministry for Colonies (I-NF) The Ministry for Colonies’ archival collection, under the subheading “Indochine nouveau fonds” (I-NF), contains the correspondence between the colonial administration in Indochina and the Paris-based Ministry for Colonies. Service de protection du corps expéditionnaire (SPCE) Documents under this heading contain information on leading Vietnamese political activists such as Bùi Quang Chiêu, Nguyễn An Ninh, and Nguyễn Phan Long.

Bibliography 283

2.

3. 4. 5.

Service de liaison des originaires des territoires français d’outre-mer (SLOTFOM) Documents under this heading contain information on the political activity of the Vietnamese on French metropolitan territory, as well as documents from Indochina. Trung Tâm Lưu Trữ Quốc Gia 2 (Vietnamese National Archives Center no. 2 (NA2), HCM City, Vietnam This archival collection includes documents generated by the office of the Government of Cochinchina (Goucoch), including official correspondence and firsthand Sûreté materials on the political situation in southern Vietnam. The Goucoch archives have undergone two unfinished classifications. For this study I have accessed documents from two classifications: Services locaux (SL) and IIA. Résidence supérieure du Cambodge, National Archives of Cambodia (NAC), Phnom Penh, Cambodia British consular district in Saigon, diplomatic correspondence, Public Record Office (PRO), Kew, London Fonds outre-mer du Grand Orient de France (GOF); archives from the two Saigonbased GOF Freemason lodges: Le Réveil de l’Orient and Les Fervents du Progrès Réunis, rue Cadet, Paris

Interviews Ngõ Văn, Paris, 1995–1999 Trần Văn Giầu, HCM City, 1994–1997 Sơn Nam, HCM City, 1996–1999 Nguyễn Đình Đầu, HCM City, 1994–1997 Phan Văn Hòang, HCM City, 1996 Dương Trung Quốc, Hanoi, 1996, 1997 In HCM City and Paris, interviews with relatives of Nguyễn An Ninh, Trần Hữu Đô, Cao Triều Phát, Cao Văn Chánh, Trần Quang Nghiêm, Diệp Văn Kỳ, and Bùi Quang Chiêu

Books and Articles Ageron, Charles-Robert. L’anticolonialisme en France de 1871 à 1914. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1973. ——. France coloniale ou Parti Colonial? Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1978. Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflection on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 2nd ed. London: Verso, 1991. Annuaire du Syndicat des Planteurs de Caoutchouc de l’Indochine, 1926. Mulhouse: Éditions Braun, 1927.

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index

L’Action Indochinoise, 201–202 Anderson, Benedict, 4, 71, 226n7 L’Annam, 152, 174, 175, 186–193, 187–188, 270n158 Annam Youth. See Jeune Annam (Annam Youth) Annam Youth Party (Đảng Thanh Niên): emergence of, 136–139, 244n30, 257– 258n78; Jeune Annam and, 195, 271n179; in political spectrum, 152–153, 260n13; underground actions and, 154, 261n20 architecture: French, 25–26; indigenous, 27 Arnoux, Paul, 104, 128, 197–198, 249n108, 255–256n53, 272n192 assimilation policy (French), 38, 62 Association for the Modernization of Vietnam (Việt Nam Duy Tân Hội), 39, 56 association policy (French), 38–40, 62, 82, 235n26 Bá, Nguyễn Văn. See Nguyễn Văn Bá Babut, Ernest, 99–100

Bạch Văn Thâm, 95–96, 243n19, 247n80 Bảo Đại government, 279n6 Bardez incident, 134–135 Ba Son shipyards, 24–25, 133–134, 139, 220nn44–45 Bietry (Madame), 208 Blanchard de la Brosse, Paul, 199 Blaquière, Henry, 65, 112, 242n8, 251n129 Bourgeoisie: economics and, 4, 22–23, 25, 26; intellectuals and, 32; newspapers and, 74–76, 79–80, 176, 192; as political elite, 53–59, 61, 239n80; rural activists and, 59; Sarraut and, 43, 62–64 Boycotts: anti-Chinese, 84–87 Broken Bell, The. See Cloche Fêlée, La (The Broken Bell) Bùi Công Trung, 141 Bùi Ngọc Ái, 189 Bùi Quang Chiêu: background of, 63–64; compared to Nguyễn Phan Long, 95, 96, 176, 191–192, 271n175; conflict with Cognacq, 132; death of, 219, 278n4; député

296 Index

Bùi Quang Chiêu (continued) election and, 88; La Tribune Indigène and, 75–76, 80–82, 84, 91–92, 243n17; La Tribune Indochinoise and, 175–183, 267nn103–105; L’Écho Annamite and, 160; in political spectrum, 152, 182, 191–192, 194, 260n10, 269n133; return to Vietnam of, 136–138, 259n120, 267n104; rickshaw boycott and, 210; social network of, 91, 246n59; united front and, 261n15 Bùi Thế Mỹ: Indochina Times and, 141–142, 165, 264n61, 266n86; Morning Bell and, 171 Bữu Đình, 121, 154, 196–197, 199–200 Canard Enchaîné, Le, 125, 255n46 Canavaggio, François, 102–103, 111–112 “Candelier project,” Saigon port monopoly affair, 116–121 Caodaism, 49, 149–151, 213–214 Cao Hãi Để, 103–104, 110–111, 119, 204, 275n219 Cao Triều Phát: Indochinese Labor Party and, 203–207, 213, 274n215, 275n227; New Era and, 76, 276n244; post independence, 279n6 Cao Văn Chánh: death of, 219, 278n4; L’Action Indochinoise and, 201–202; L’Essor Indochinois and, 196, 200, 201, 272n183; New Century and, 196–201, 213, 272n204; in Paris, 267n101; political stance of, 110–111; political upheavals and, 138, 140; Public Opinion and, 105–106; quote from, 78–79; repression against, 153, 261n15; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 119; skills of, 110; Southern Economic Journal and, 107–108, 253n20; underground actions and, 154; women and, 170 capitalism, impact of, 21–22, 229n33, 229n35 cartoons (by Lê Trung Nghĩa), 165, 179 catholicism: mobilization of workers and, 208–211; political culture and, 50–53, 57; social, 211–212

Catholic Voice (Công Giáo Đồng Thinh), 208–211 censorship: easing of, 140, 145, 259n119; quốc ngữ press and, 77–78, 86, 101, 111, 121, 148, 164, 172; resistance to, 87, 197–200 Chambre des Députés, 44 Chánh, Cao Văn. See Cao Văn Chánh Chasseloup-Laubat College, 20, 115, 251n3 Chatterjee, Partha, 2, 233n2, 237n51 Châu, Lâm Hiệp. See Lâm Hiệp Châu Châu, Phan Bội. See Phan Bội Châu Chiêu, Bùi Quang. See Bùi Quang Chiêu Chiêu, Gilbert Trần Chánh, 55–58, 102, 239nn78–79, 248n96 Chinese: boycott against, 84–87; community of, 15, 27–28, 230n60, 231n62; secret societies and, 49 Chính, Hùynh Văn. See Hùynh Văn Chính Choay, Françoise, 26 Cholon, 14–15, 25, 230n49 cities: political-cultural roles of, 226n10; urban consciousness in, 30–33, 232n76; under Western imperialism, 15–16, 228n13 civilizing mission (French), 36, 234n10 civil servants, 18–19 “class against class” strategy, 187, 270n155 Cloche Fêlée, La (The Broken Bell): newspapers influenced by, 256n63; “Nguyễn An Ninh Phenomenon” and, 121–131, 256n54; as opinion press, 183–186; political upheavals and, 134, 138; pressure against, 127–129, 256nn54–55; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 116, 118; subscribers to, 129–131, 256nn61–62 Cochinchina, 3–4; economic aristocracy, 23; economy in, 22; education in, 19–21; social categories in, 17; state administration in, 16–19 Cochinchine libérale, La, 45, 54, 82 code civil (Napoleon’s), 16, 18 Cognacq, Maurice: conversation with Nguyễn An Ninh, 122–123, 254n31; opposition to, 106–107; political

Index 297

upheavals and, 132, 139, 145; in Saigon port monopoly affair, 115–119, 252n13 collaborators, Vietnamese, 50–55 Colonial Council: Constitutionalists and, 152; elections for, 98–99, 176; political elite and, 53–54, 239n68; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 117–118; structure of, 16, 23, 44, 229n40 colonialism: cities under Western, 15–16, 19, 228n13; critical appraisal of, 47–48, 236–237n44; national consciousness and, 240n87. See also French colonial history colonialism, in Vietnam: colon politics and, 43–48; education and, 19–21; hierarchical categorization in, 17; policy in Vietnam and, 37–43; state control in, 16–19 Colonial Party (Parti colonial), 46 Colonial School (École coloniale), 63–64, 241n101 colons: député election and, 87; French republicanism and, 34–35, 37; natives and, 29, 46; politics and, 5–6, 43–48; press of, 44–46, 236nn41–42 communist movement: La Lutte (Struggle) and, 214; rise of, 5, 149–150, 175, 225n1, 260n2; uprisings and, 154, 156–157, 218 Communist Party of Indochina, 49 Công Luận Báo. See Public Opinion (Công Luận Báo) Conklin, Alice, 242n112 Constitutionalist Party: Bủi Quang Chiêu and, 176; Colonial Council elections and, 98–99; Dương Văn Giáo and, 180; La Tribune Indigène and, 75, 83, 90; as main political force, 92; in political spectrum, 152, 174; political upheavals and, 136, 138–139; repression and, 261n15; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 118 Cooper, Frederick, 9, 234n12, 242n112 “correspondents” ( phóng viên), 72, 74 Coulet, Georges, 49 countryside, movements and. See political-religious movements

Courrier Saïgonnais, Le, 117 Craddock, Reginald, 252n5 Crédit Annamite, 86 criminal court, 17–58, 58–59, 154 Của, Nguyễn Văn. See Nguyễn Văn Của cultural heritage, 4–5; reassertion of, 219, 278n3 Cương, Diệp Văn. See Diệp Văn Cương Cưởng Để (Prince), 59, 239n81 Đa Kao district, 26 Danlor, Jacques. See Garros, Georges Để,Cao Hãi. See Cao Hãi Để Dejean de la Bâtie, Eugène: La Cloche Fêlée and, 124, 126, 128, 255nn39–40; La Cloche Fêlée/L’Annam and, 183, 186, 189, 270n150, 271n169; L’Écho Annamite and, 160, 163–164, 264n57, 264n59; L’Essor Indochinois and, 201, 274n210; Long and, 248n92; as métis, 29–30, 186, 270n149; political upheavals and, 136, 137, 139; quốc ngữ press and, 248n94; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 118 De la Chevrotière, Henri: L’Impartial and, 46, 115, 178; in political spectrum, 151; political tensions and, 135, 137, 231n70 De Saussure, Léopold, 38 Diệp Văn Cương, 54–55, 64, 88, 118 Diệp Văn Kỳ: consensus building and, 194; death of, 219, 278n4; fi nancing and, 75–76, 242n7; Indochina Times and, 164, 166–174, 265n71, 266n87; Morning Bell and, 171–172, 266–267nn99–100, 266n92; in Paris, 30; rickshaw boycott and, 210, 277n264; women and, 170 Đính, Nguyễn Kim. See Nguyễn Kim Đính discrimination: economic, 23; French republicanism and, 37; racial, 17, 20–21 diversity. See heterogeneity in Saigon Đỗ Hữu Phương, 55 Đồng Hồ. See Lâm Tấn Phác Đông Pháp Thời Báo. See Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo) Đông Sỹ Bình, 196–197, 200

298 Index

Đuốc Nhà Nam. See Vietnamese Flame (Đuốc Nhà Nam) Dương Văn Giáo, 30, 232n73; death of, 219, 278n4; La Tribune Indochinoise and, 177, 180–181, 268n121, 268n126, 271n174; national party and, 181; rickshaw boycott and, 210; Vietnamese Flame and, 182–183 Dương Văn Lơi, 78, 161, 173, 177 Duy Tân (King), 61 L'Écho Annamite: as alternative francophone voice, 92–100, 247n71; La Tribune Indigène entente and, 98; in political spectrum, 153; political upheavals and, 134; as professional daily, 159–164, 172–174, 175–176, 191, 264n59; reappearance of, 132–133 École Gia Long, 55 economic nationalism, 84–85 economy, 21–25, 229n36 education: colonial, 19–21, 99, 118; retours de France and, 118–119, 252nn15 elitism: La Tribune Indigène and, 82–83; La Tribune Indochinoise and, 176–177, 180; of Phan Văn Trường and, 188. See also bourgeoisie L’Ère Nouvelle (New Era), 152–153, 204–207, 275n222, 276n245 L’Essor Indochinois (Indochinese Progress), 196, 198, 200, 201, 272n183 État civil statute, 18 Eurasians, 29–30, 231n70 Europeanization of political thought, 48, 237n47 Ferry, Jules, 37, 234nn10–11 foreigner category, 17 Foucault, Michel, 16 Français et Annamites (Monet), 263n45 francophone press: La Tribune Indigène as, 80–92; L’Écho Annamite as, 92–100; pioneers in, 64–67, 78–80 Franco-Vietnamese United Family (Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia), 201, 273–274nn206–207

freedom of the press, 45, 236n41 French colonial history, 35–37, 233n6, 234nn10–11 French community, 28–29, 231n65, 231n67 French Indochina: colonial policy in, 37–40; history of, 3; ideology and, 3; resistance in, 1–4, 58–61; state control in, 16–19, 228n16 French press, 44–48, 63, 117 French republicanism, 34–67; colonial history and, 35–37, 234nn10–11; colonial policy and, 37–40; colon politics and, 43–48; newspapers and, 62–67; political elite and, 53–59, 61–63, 239n80; Sarraut and, 40–43, 58–59, 61–67; Vietnamizing politics and, 48–52; World War I and, 59–61 French Socialist Party (SFIO), 205, 275n229 “French-Vietnamese collaboration” program, 40–43, 62, 81, 152, 176–177 Gallet (lawyer), 75, 188 Ganofsky, Edgar, 46, 100 Garros, Georges, 46, 47, 91, 112, 187, 246nn60–61, 268n120 Gellner, Ernest, 233n4 Gia Định News (Gia Định Báo), 51 Gia Định Tam Gia, 227n9 Giáo, Dương Văn. See Dương Văn Giáo Gilbert Chiêu affair, 55–58 global economy, integration into, 21–25 Gông, Paul Lê Văn. See Lê Văn Gông, Paul Gramsci, Antonio, 232–233n79 Group of Vietnamese French Citizens, 88 “guerilla journalism,” 195–203, 274n213 Habermas, Jürgen, 3, 71–72, 225n5, 226n7 Hà Huy Tập, 188–189 Ham Huy. See Nguyễn Ngọc Ấn Hanoi, 14, 220–221 Hà Trì. See Bữu Đình Heaven and Earth Society (Thiên Địa Hội), 28, 49 Hébrard, Ernest, 27, 230n55

Index 299

Héloury, Lucien: Matters of Agriculture and, 102; Public Opinion and, 46, 59, 104–106, 119; quốc ngữ newspapers and, 112–113, 251n131 Hérisson, Jean-Gabriel, 106, 108 Hersant (lawyer), 205–206 heterogeneity in Saigon, 15, 27–30 Hồ Biểu Chánh. See Hồ Văn Trung Hồ Chí Minh, 217, 219, 225n1. See also Nguyễn Aí Quốc Hồ Tất Liệt. See Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh Hồ Văn Trung: background of, 18, 31, 52, 63–64, 230n71; Indochina Times and, 109, 141; post independence, 279n6; Public Opinion and, 105–106; skills of, 110, 111 Hue-Tam Ho Tai, 138, 193 Hùynh Phúc Yên: Catholic Voice and, 160, 208–211; Progressive Youth and, 208, 211–213, 277n275, 277–278n276 Hùynh Thúc Khắnh, 166, 265n67 Hùynh Tịnh Của, 50–51 Hùynh Văn Chính: importance of, 251n124; Indochina Times and, 144; New Era and, 204, 275n218; Public Opinion and, 106, 243n19, 250n112; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 119 Hùynh Văn Tòng, 251n125 “imagined community” (Anderson), 13, 72 L'Impartial, 31, 45–46, 89 Indian community, 28, 230n61, 230n64 indigènes/ “natives,” 17–19, 28, 37, 46, 228n21, 236n43 individualism: bureaucratic practices and, 18; capitalism and, 21–22, 229n33, 229n35 Indochina. See French Indochina Indochina Times (Đông Pháp Thời Báo): Nguyễn Kim Đính and, 106, 108–109; increased circulation of, 147; international coverage by, 168–169, 173; interviews by, 166; Trần Huy Liệu and, 132–133; political upheavals and, 134, 138, 140; as professional information

source, 164–174, 191; scandals exposed by, 116; silent revolution and, 141–148 L'Indochine, 46, 47, 127, 128, 133 L’Indochine Enchaînée, 133–134 Indochinese Labor Party (Phái Lao Động Đông Dương), 203–208, 213, 275n233, 276n254 industrial strikes. See labor conflicts inequality, 17, 23 insurrection attempts: (1913), 58–59, 239–240nn81–82; (1916–1917), 60–61, 240n88 intellectuals: Caodaism and, 150–151; critical appraisal of colonialism and, 47–48, 236–237n44; emergence of, 32–33, 232–233n79; in exile in Paris, 122, 254n30; Trần Huy Liệu and, 143; mobilization press and, 206–207, 212–213; modernization and, 39–40, 48–49; press and, 77, 191–193 intergenerational relations, 31–32, 232n76 internalized urbanization, 13–14, 227n4 International Labor Organization (ILO), 205–206, 276n239 International League against Imperialism and Colonial Oppression, 181, 268n123 Jaurès, Jean, 40, 145, 259n112 Jeune Annam (Annam Youth), 137–138, 140, 195–196, 271n179 Jeune Asie, La, 46, 91, 246n61 journalism: intellectuals and, 32, 191–192, 232–233n79; investigative, 126, 158–159, 162, 169–170, 173–174, 188, 202; as political force, 5, 34–35; (see also “newspaper village”); Saigon’s public sphere and, 4–7; (see also Saigon’s public sphere); as urban phenomenon, 2. See also newspapers in Vietnam; oppositional journalism; press Kelly, Gail, 21 Khai, Nguyễn Phú. See Nguyễn Phú Khai Khải Dịnh (Emperor), 134

300 Index

Khành Ký, 108, 186, 250n117, 269n128, 270n151 Klobukowsky, Anthony, 40, 46 Korff, Gottfried, 13 Kỳ, Diệp Văn. See Diệp Văn Kỳ Ký, Khành. See Khành Ký Ký, Trương Vĩnh. See Trương Vĩnh Ký labor conflicts, 24–25, 133–134, 139, 154–155, 229–230nn44–47, 257n70. See also workers, mobilization of Labor Party. See Indochinese Labor Party (Phái Lao Động Đông Dương) Lâm Hiệp Châu: Jeune Annam and, 195–196, 271n182; Matters of Agriculture and, 104, 249n108; in political spectrum, 260n11; political stance of, 110–111; political upheavals and, 137, 139; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 119 Lâm Tấn Phác, 165 land ownership, 22–23 language, romanization of Vietnamese, 6 Lazaro Phiền (Nguyễn Trọng Quan), 52 Lê Chơn Tâm, 196–197, 272n185 Le Fol, Aristide, 139, 198–199 Leftist Youth (Thanh niên Tả Tiêu Hội), 209 legal system, metropolitan, 16–17 Lê Hòang Mưu, 52, 102, 151, 248–249n98 Lê Phát Anh, 55 Le Plateau, 26, 230n52 Lê Quang Liêm, 63, 136 Lê Quang Trình, 118, 151–152 Leroy-Beaulieu, Paul, 38 Le sillon (the furrow) movement, 211–212, 277n273 Lê Sum, 109 Lê Thành Lư, 201, 204, 206–208, 211–212, 229n46, 274n209 Lê Thành Tương, 97–98, 103, 201, 248n94, 249n104 Lê Trung Nghĩa, 165, 177, 179, 219, 279n5 Lê Văn Gong, Paul, 161, 263n47 Lê Văn Trung, 54, 94, 151 Liêm, Lê Quang. See Lê Quang Liêm

Liệu, Trần Huy. See Trần Huy Liệu Light of the South (Đèn Nhà Nam), 65 literature: development of, 52, 238n62; reassertion of, 278n3 Lơi, Dương Văn. See Dương Văn Lơi Long, Maurice, 93, 98, 115 Long, Nguyễn Phan. See Nguyễn Phan Long Long, Phan Xích. See Phan Xích Long Loye (lawyer), 204 Lư, Lê Thành. See Lê Thành Lư Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn. See Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn) Lương Khắc Ninh, 31, 55, 102, 108, 151 Lương Văn Cần, 190, 271n170 Lương Văn Cần affair, 153, 261n16 Lutte, La (Struggle), 214, 218–219 Lyautey, Hubert, 27, 230n57 Lycée Pétrus Ky (1927), 27 Malraux, André, 46, 47, 127, 133–134, 257n77 “Manifesto for Independence,” 189 Marty, Louis, 241n95 Marx, Jules-Adrien, 45, 47, 54, 82, 231n63, 238n67 Marxism: impact of on reportage, 174, 175; La Lutte (Struggle) and, 214, 218–219; Trần Huy Liệu and, 145, 259n116; Lê Thanh Lư and, 206–207; Phan Văn Trường and, 184–188, 190–191, 192 Maspéro, Georges, 64, 81, 86, 88, 90, 245n37 Matters of Agriculture (Nông Cổ Mín Đàm), 85, 102–104, 117, 248n96, 249n107 Mekong Delta, 22, 28 Métis, 29–30, 231n71 Métissage, 34, 49, 124 middle class, 4, 23, 32, 229n36, 229n40 Minh Hươngs, 15, 17, 28, 228n22 Minh Tân (New Light) movement, 55, 57 mobilization, press of, 193–214; confrontation and, 195–203; intellectuals and, 206–207, 212–213; La Lutte (Struggle) and, 214; scandals and, 114–148; of workers, 203–212

Index 301

modernization: colons and, 47; indigenizing, 50–52; Vietnamese nationalists and, 39–40, 48–49 Monet, Paul, 130, 161, 187, 191, 263n45 monetization, 22, 229n35 Mông Trân. See Lê Chơn Tâm Monin, Paul: in député election, 87–89; L’Annam and, 187; legal support of, 75, 135; newspapers of, 46, 47, 92, 133–134; in political spectrum, 152–153; political upheavals and, 140; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 121; underground actions and, 154 Montguillot, Maurice, 90 Morning Bell (Thần Chung), 171–174, 266–267nn99–100, 266n95 Mrázek, Rudolf, 230n58 Municipal Council (Saigon), 53 Mus, Paul, 27 Mutual Association of Indochinese, 180 mutualism (thuyết hỗ sinh), 205, 209, 211 Mutual Society for the Encouragement of Education in Cochinchina (SEMC), 55, 122, 239n71, 260n10 Mưu, Lê Hòang. See Lê Hòang Mưu Mỹ, Bùi Thế. See Bùi Thế Mỹ Nam Kiều. See Tran Huy Liệu Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo. See Southern Economic Journal (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo) National Forum (Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn), 64–65, 75, 82–83, 85, 90–91 national knowledge, 51–52 national press, 158–174; Indochina Times— Morning Bell as, 164–174; L’Écho Annamite as, 159–164 nation-state, European ideas of, 35, 233nn4–5 natives. See indigènes / “natives” naturalization, 46, 82–83, 236n43, 244n25 New Century (Tân Thế Kỷ), 196–202 New Era. See L’Ère Nouvelle (New Era) New Era (Nhựt Tân Báo), 97–98, 152–153, 204–207, 247n85

newspapers in Vietnam: Catholics and, 51–52; circulation of, 76–77; multiplication of, 79; quốc ngữ (see Quốc ngữ press); radicalization and, 153, 260n12; Vietnamese-run, 62, 240–241n95. See also by newspaper name; press “newspaper village,” 71–215, 218–221; anti-Chinese boycott and, 84–87, 89; audience and, 75–76, 81, 114–115, 157, 243n11, 244n21; contradictory evolution in, 157–158; député election and, 87–89; description of, 71–73; economics of, 73–76, 242nn5–6; francophone pioneers in, 78–80; Indochina Times in, 108–109, 141–148, 164–174; Jeune Annam in, 195–196; La Cloche Fêlée in, 121–131; L’Annam in, 175, 186–193; La Tribune Indigène in, 80–92; La Tribune Indochinoise in, 175–183; L’Écho Annamite in, 92–100, 159–164, 247n71; legal conditions and, 77–78, 100, 243nn11–12; Matters of Agriculture in, 102–104; national press in, 158–193; New Century in, 196–202; New Era in, 97–98, 152–153, 204–207, 247n85; political upheavals in, 131–141, 151–157; in postwar period, 100–102; press of mobilization and, 193–214; Public Opinion in, 104–106; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 115–121; silent revolution in, 141–148; solidification of, 214–215; Southern Economic Journal in, 106–108 Ngẩu, Trịnh Hưng. See Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu Nghĩa, Lê Trung. See Lê Trung Nghĩa Nghiêm, Trần Quang. See Trần Quang Nghiêm Ngô Minh Chiêu, 150 Ngô Tất Tố, 167 Ngươn, Vương Quan. See Vương Quan Ngươn Nguyễn Aí Quốc, 91, 257n69. See also Hồ Chí Minh Nguyễn An Khương, 123 Nguyễn An Ninh: compared to Trần Huy Liệu, 142; death of, 219; impact of,

302 Index

Nguyễn An Ninh (continued) 147–148, 217, 278n1; La Cloche Fêlée and, 29, 121–131, 254n31, 254n34, 254nn36–38, 255nn43–44, 255nn51; La Cloche Fêlée/ L’Annam and, 183–184, 185–186, 190, 270n145; La Lutte (Struggle) and, 214; in Paris, 30, 257n69; in political spectrum, 153, 174, 194; political upheavals and, 136–137, 139–140; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 118; Secret Society, 155–156, 170; underground actions and, 154–155 Nguyễn Chánh Sắt: background of, 52, 57, 241n107; Catholic Voice and, 208; importance of, 110; Indochina Times and, 109; Matters of Agriculture and, 85, 102–103, 249n102; rickshaw boycott and, 210 Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh, 106–108, 110–111, 118–121, 253nn20–22, 253nn24–25 Nguyễn Hùynh Diệu, 76, 189, 190 Nguyễn Khắc Hiếu, 167 Nguyễn Khánh Tòan, 189, 190, 261n16, 261n19, 271n172 Nguyễn Kim Đính: Indochina Times and, 108–109, 141–142, 144–147, 164–165, 250n119, 250–251n122; La Tribune Indochinoise and, 165, 175, 264n60, 267n102; Matters of Agriculture and, 102, 248n94; Public Opinion and, 105–106; skills of, 110 Nguyễn Ngọc Ấn, 98 Nguyễn Phan Long: background of, 31, 76, 93–94, 247nn68–69; Colonial Council election and, 98–99, 104, 248n92; compared to Bùi Quang Chiêu, 94, 96, 176, 191–192; L’Écho Annamite and, 75, 93–100, 132, 159–164, 172–174, 175, 247n77, 264n52; in political spectrum, 152, 194; political upheavals and, 134–136, 166; post independence, 279n6; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 117; Vietnamese Flame and, 269n134 Nguyễn Phú Khai: background of, 63–65; La Tribune Indigène and, 80–81, 84, 86, 88,

90–92, 132; rice trade and, 85, 244–245n31 Nguyễn Thế Truyền, 154–156, 257n69, 262nn27–28 Nguyễn Trọng Quan, 52 Nguyễn Văn Bá, 169–173, 265–266n86 Nguyễn Văn Của: député election and, 88; in political spectrum, 151; political upheavals and, 145; as printer, 82, 94, 242n8, 244n22; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 118 Nguyễn Văn Tạo, 214 Nguyễn Văn Tinh, 279n6 Nguyễn Văn Tố, 161, 263n42 Nhựt Tân Báo. See New Era (Nhựt Tân Báo) Ninh, Nguyễn An. See Nguyễn An Ninh Nôm (language), 51, 237n56 Nông Cổ Mín Đàm. See Matters of Agriculture (Nông Cổ Mín Đàm) L’OEuvre, 125, 255n46 L'Opinion, 45, 46 opinion press, radicalized, 174–193; La Cloche Fêlée as, 183–186; L’Annam as, 175, 186–193, 270n158; La Tribune Indochinoise as, 175–183 oppositional journalism, 149–215; contradictory evolution and, 157–158; divisions and, 151–153; French, 117; national press and, 158–174; press of mobilization and, 193–214; radicalized opinion press and, 174–193; underground actions and, 153–157 Osborne, Milton, 53 Outrey, Ernest, 54, 87–89, 115 Party of the Vietnamese Progressive Youth (Việt Nam Thanh Niên Tân Tiến Đảng), 209–211 Pasquier, Pierre, 149, 154, 200 penal code (French), 16, 18, 38, 78, 154 Phạm Quang Quôi, 118 Phạm Quỳnh, 159, 170 Phạm Thế Ngũ, 52, 238n60

Index 303

Phan Bội Châu: arrest and trial of, 1, 133–134, 145; L’Écho Annamite and, 160; modernization and, 39–40, 55–57, 235n23; New Century and, 200 Phan Châu Trinh: death of, 1, 145; modernization and, 39–40, 43, 48, 55, 235n23, 235n24; in Paris, 257n69; political upheavals and, 132–138 Phan Khôi, 171–172 Phan Trương Mạnh, 136 Phan Văn Hùm, 171, 219, 278–279n4 Phan Văn Trường: arrest and sentence of, 190, 271n172; La Cloche Fêlée and, 138, 183–186; L’Annam and, 174, 186–192; L’Écho Annamite and, 159; legal support of, 75; Marxism and, 184–188, 190–191, 192; in Paris, 122, 183–184, 257n69; in political spectrum, 153, 192, 194; return to Vietnam of, 133 Phan Xích Long, 58, 60, 239n81 Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia. See Franco-Vietnamese United Family (Pháp Việt Nhứt Gia) Phát, Cao Triều. See Cao Triều Phát Phúc Việt, 195, 271n181 Phú Nhuận quarter, 26 Phụ Nữ Tân Văn, 219 Phú Riềng affair, 155, 162 political activism, 1–4; partisan vs. consensus, 191; political upheavals and, 136–141; press of mobilization and, 193–203; radicalization of, 149–150, 153; repression and, 153–154, 172, 261n19, 261nn15–16; spectrum within, 151–153; tensions in, 31, 131–135, 191; underground actions in, 154–157; united front and, 153, 261nn15–16. See also insurrection attempts political culture: Catholicism and, 50–53, 57; of colons, 43–48; evolution of Vietnamese urban, 2–7, 9, 34; French origins of, 35–37; political elite and, 53–58, 239n80; public contestation and, 2, 6, 9, 71, 78; Vietnamizing of, 48–52

political journalism. See “newspaper village”; Saigon’s public sphere political-religious movements, 49, 237n51. See also Caodaism; Communist movement population, Saigon, 15 press, in Vietnam: of colons, 44–46, 236nn41–42; francophone, 64–67, 78–100; French, 44–48, 63, 117; government pressure against, 74–75, 127–129, 256nn54–55; legal conditions of, 77–78, 243nn11–12; of mobilization, 193–214; national, 158–193; opinion (radicalized), 174–193; political elite and, 54; professionalization of, 73–74, 158–159, 163, 168–169, 173, 202, 242n4; quốc ngữ (see Quốc ngữ press); Sarraut’s colonial policy and, 62–67; scandals exposed by, 115–121; youth voice and, 121–131, 253n29. See also by newspaper name; “newspaper village” Professional Syndicate of Cochinchinese Printers, 243n11 Progrès Annamite, Le, 117–118, 252n11 Progressive Youth (Thanh Niên Tân Tiến), 208, 211 Public Opinion (Công Luận Báo), 85, 104–106, 117, 119–120 “public sphere”: in Europe, 3, 225n5; in Vietnam, 3, 5–8, 225–226n5 Quaintenne, Rose, 107, 112, 247n65, 248n94 Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn. See National Forum (Quốc Dân Diễn Đàn) Quốc ngữ press: audience of, 202; Frenchmen and, 111–113; harassment of, 128–129, 153–154, 164, 171; literary segment of, 51–52, 238n62; newspaper segment of, 56, 75, 100–113, 115, 238n61, 248n94; radicalization of, 153, 260n12; romanization and, 6; scandals exposed by, 116–121, 253n28; silent revolution in, 141–148. See also by newspaper name; “newspaper village” Quốc ngữ writing, 16, 20, 235n24, 238n59

304 Index

racial discrimination, 17, 20–21, 46–47 racial tension, 28–30, 231nn63–64 radicalism, 140, 182, 226n14 Radical Party, 44, 45 readership development: Caodaism and, 183; culture and, 110; national base and, 129; political education and, 192–194; political expression and, 115, 125–126, 147, 148, 161; serialized novels and, 75; women and, 112, 115, 147, 157, 171, 202–203; youth and, 110, 125, 147, 159 Régime de l’Indigénat, 17 repression: of newspapers, 149, 153–154, 172, 200, 261n15–16, 261n19; pro-Vichy, 219 republicanism. See French republicanism Retours de France, 118–119, 252nn15–16 revolts. See insurrection attempts rice economy, 22, 84–85 rickshaw boycott, 209–210 Rolland, Romain, 126 “Rue Barbier affair”, 156 Rue Lanzarotte meeting, 136–137 “Rue Vienot affair,” 28 Saigon: former imperial citadel of, 26–27, 230n54; Lower City of, 25–26; name of, 227n7; port monopoly affair of, 115–121; prosperity (1920s) of, 114 Saigon-Cholon, 14–15, 25, 230n49 “Saigon port monopoly affair”, 116-121 Saigon’s public sphere, 4–8, 216–221; newspapers in (see “newspaper village”); third metamorphosis of, 149 Saigon’s public sphere, origins of, 11–67; colonial apparatus and, 15–19; colonial education and, 19–21; colonial policy and, 37–43; colon politics and, 43–48; French Republicanism and, 34–67; global economy and, 21–25; heterogeneity and, 15, 27–30; historical developments and, 14–15; intellectuals and, 32–33; internalized urbanization and, 13–14; newspapers and, 62–67; physical

constraints and, 25–27; political activism in, 31; political elite in, 53–59, 61–63, 239n80; socioeconomic groups in, 22–25, 229n36; urban consciousness in, 30–33; Vietnamizing politics and, 48–55; World War I and, 59–61 Sangnier, Marc, 211 Sarraut, Albert: attacks against, 46; colonial policy of, 4, 40–43, 58–59, 61–67, 235–236nn32–33; misgivings about, 93, 247n65; speeches of, 125–126 Sắt, Nguyễn Chánh. See Nguyễn Chánh Sắt save the king resistance movement, 39, 235n22 secret societies, 49, 154–156, 237n49 Six Provinces Gazette (Lục Tỉnh Tân Văn), 56, 85, 117 social Darwinism, 6, 234n11 Socialist movement (French), 44 socioeconomic groups, 22–25, 229n36 Sông Hương. See Bùi Công Trung Southern Economic Journal (Nam Kỳ Kinh Tế Báo), 102, 106–108, 117, 120–121, 253n25 spectacle, space of, 26 Stoler, Ann Laura, 9, 234n12, 242n112 strikes. See labor conflicts Sun Yat Sen, 145 Sương Nguyệt Ấnh, 65, 112 Sûreté Générale de Police: creation of, 16–17; Indochina Times and, 166–167; L’Annam and, 190; New Century and, 197–200; New Era and, 207; on newspapers, 95–96; oppressive measures of, 128–129, 255–256n53 Tâm, Lê Chơn, Lê Chơn Tâm Tản Đà. See Nguyễn Khắc Hiếu Tân Dịnh district, 26 Tân Thế Kỷ affair, 153, 179, 200–201, 261n15. See also New Century (Tân Thế Kỷ) Tân Việt (New Vietnam), 156 Tạ Quang Vinh, 88 Tạ Thu Thâu, 214, 219, 278–279n4

Index 305

Thâm, Bạch Văn. See Bạch Văn Tham Thanh Niên Đảng. See Young Annam Party (Thanh Niên Đảng) Thanh Niên league, 156 Thanh Thị Mâu, 108 Thiên Địa Hội, 237n53 Thomas, Albert, 205–206, 276n239 Thompson, Virginia, 234n17, 236n35 Time Newspaper (Thời Báo), 85 Tố, Ngô Tất. See Ngô Tất Tố Tòan, Nguyễn Khánh. See Nguyễn Khánh Tòan Tôn Đức Thắng, 229nn44–45, 262n33 Tonkin Free School (Dông Kinh Nghĩa Thục), 40, 235n24 Trần Hữu Dộ, 154, 261n23 Trần Huy Liệu: arrest of, 261n16, 261n19; on freedom, 143; impact of, 147–148; Indochina Times and, 132–133, 141–147, 258n93; Marxism and, 145, 259n116; national party and, 146, 166, 181; in political spectrum, 173, 194; political upheavals and, 140, 154; post independence, 220, 279n6; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 121; style and agenda of, 142–144 Trần Quang Nghiêm, 76, 201, 273–274n207 Trần Trinh Trạch, 23, 94, 214, 248n94 Trần Văn Minh, Louis, 243n19 Trần Văn Trí, 177, 178, 268n114 Trí, Trần Văn. See Trần Văn Trí Tribune Indigène, La: anti-Chinese boycott and, 84–87; closing of, 132, 175; député election and, 84, 87–90; financing of, 75; L’Écho Annamite entente and, 98; moves against, 90, 243n50; as pioneer, 79–92; Saigon port monopoly affair and, 118; Sarraut’s policy and, 63–67; social involvement of, 91, 246n59; worldwide changes and, 92–93 Tribune Indochinoise, La, 75, 152, 174, 175–183, 191–192, 261n15 Tribunists: boycott and, 85; elitism of, 82–83; Franco-Vietnamese collaboration and, 81–82, 244n25; Nguyễn Phan Long’s

entente with, 98; political method of, 87; as political voice, 67, 90–93 Trình, Lê Quang. See Lê Quang Trình Trinh, Phan Châu. See Phan Châu Trinh Trịnh Hưng Ngẩu, 171, 177–178, 267–268nn111–113, 267n101, 267n106 Trung, Bùi Công. See Bùi Công Trung Trung, Hồ Văn. See Hồ Văn Trung Trung Kỳ, 255n41 Trường, Phan Văn. See Phan Văn Trường Trương Cao Đông, 134–135 Trường Văn Bền, 250n117 Trương Vĩnh Ký, 50–52, 237–238n57, 238n63 Ứng Hỏe. See Nguyễn Văn Tố urban consciousness, 30–33, 232n76 urbanization: colonial, 2, 230n58; internalized, 13–14, 227n4 urban-planning policy, 25–27 Varenne, Alexandre: appointment of, 1, 133–135, 159; lack of ability of, 145, 149, 152; relaxed restrictions of, 141, 145, 153; repression by, 153–154, 261nn15–16 Viên Tiến Thơ, 258m92 Việt Minh, 219, 278n4 Vietnamese Commercial Society, 85–86 Vietnamese Credit Society (Société annamite de crédit), 161–162 Vietnamese Flame (Đuốc Nhà Nam), 182 Vietnamese Nationalist Party (Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng), 156, 262n32, 266n94 Vietnamese Restoration Society, 59 Vietnamese Revolutionary Youth League, 155 Vị Ngã, 170–171 Vĩnh, Nguyễn Háo. See Nguyễn Háo Vĩnh voluntary associations, 232n76 Võ Văn Thơm, 31, 118 Vũ Đình Dy, 31, 189, 274n213, 279n4 Vương Quan Ngươn, 162, 173 Werth, Léon, 189, 231n67 Western imperialism, 15–16, 19, 228n13

306 Index

Westernized Saigonese, 30, 48–49, 232n73 women: mobilization of workers and, 211; press and, 65–66, 77, 107, 109, 164, 168, 170–171; readership and, 112, 115, 147, 157, 171, 202–203; rights of, 127; Western values and, 144 Women’s Bell (Nữ Giới Chung), 65–67, 170, 202 Women’s News (Phụ Nữ Tân Văn), 202 Woodside, Alexander, 18, 227n4 workers, mobilization of, 203–214

World War I, 59–61, 240n86 Wright, Gwendolyn, 26 Yên, Hùynh Phúc. See Hùynh Phúc Yên Yên Báy mutiny, 172, 266n94 Young Annam Party (Thanh Niên Đảng), 155, 262n28 youth: counterculture of, 31–32; new political voice and, 121–131, 253n29; retours de France, 118–119, 252nn15–16