by Brett Dakin
By the time the forty-fifth anniversary of the Party’s founding rolled around, the revolution was in a rut. During the week of the celebration, Party members spent most of their time stuck in conference halls, listening to endless speeches by cadres about the past, and longing for the next coffee break. According to the Vientiane Times, they were busy discussing “the tradition of struggle and deeds of the Party for the cause of national independence in the past, and of national defense and development at present.”
The Vientiane Times was the English-language mouthpiece of the government, founded in 1994 to serve the growing expat community in Vientiane. It was produced by the government’s official news agency, and, although this fact was not well publicized, it employed one or two native English speakers in addition to its staff of local journalists. The one foreigner I knew who worked at the Times was an Englishman in his fifties named David, who had played Scrooge brilliantly in the Vientiane Players’ annual Christmas production. David wrote under Lao pseudonyms, but you could always tell which articles were his; they were the ones that were actually in English. It was frustrating for a man like David—who not only was well-read but also could write well—to work at the Times, where he couldn’t write about anything of substance. The paper printed all the news that fit, but none that really mattered. There was no real news, but David did amuse himself by slipping the occasional literary flourish into the dull articles he was forced to compose. When you read a headline like “Lao Cotton Branches Out to Sew its Seeds,” you knew that David or another of his non-Lao colleagues had been at work.
While I did read the Vientiane Times for news about Laos—after all, there was nothing else out there—I mostly leafed through its pages for comic relief. The headlines drew your attention to important events like “Meeting with Lao Born People in the USA” and “Lao Ambassador to Slovakia Presents Credentials.” Or scintillating international topics like “Lao-Polish Relations.” Many articles spoke of the generous international aid Laos received from its foreign friends: “Australia Grants Computer to Luang Prabang Museum.” Or “Vietnam Presents Kidney Machine to Laos.” A whole kidney machine? Oh, Vietnam, you shouldn’t have. Many articles spoke of the country’s goals for the future, some that weren’t so ambitious: “Taps for Nearly Everyone by 2020,” and “A Time for Road Regulations.” I wondered when that time would come. Some headlines were hardly enlightening: “Effort Must Continue.”
One of my favorite articles, “First Frog Farm in Vientiane,” demonstrated the paucity of relevant news in the pages of the Times:
While not all societies have formed an appreciation for consuming frogs, here in Vientiane municipality the little croaking creatures have been a staple of the Lao diet for as long as most can remember. Mrs. Deng hopes to continue to obtain funds through loans from the Agriculture Promotion Bank to further expand her frog farming business, and she also plans to produce information booklets and continue giving advice on frog farming techniques to all those who may be interested in becoming frog farmers themselves.
During the anniversary week, the Party cadres were busy participating in meetings about the country’s glorious past and bright future, but according to the Vientiane Times, they didn’t have much to talk about. One article, entitled “Party Jubilee,” read: “Party policy is fine. Under the Party leadership, the country enjoys political stability and social order. The people live in unity, with their living conditions improving gradually.”
Oh, really?
In fact, outside the Party’s meeting rooms, things weren’t nearly as rosy as the Times would have had us believe. A few weeks before, I had received a rare message from the US Embassy. It was a Public Announcement that read: “US citizens traveling in Laos are advised to avoid travel to the Muang Khoune and Paxai districts in Xieng Khouang province. The Lao government has restricted travel by foreign tourists to Muang Khoune District in Xieng Khouang province because of poor road conditions.”
But poor roads weren’t the problem—we had plenty of those right there in Vientiane. “The US government also has received credible reports of violent incidents in that district. Travelers to certain areas of Xieng Khouang province, now including Muang Khoune and Paxai districts, run the risk of ambush by insurgents or bandits.”
While the embassy had diplomatically failed to mention it, these incidents of violence in Xieng Khouang, the province about 110 miles north of the capital that had been so heavily bombed by the Americans during the war, were not random. In fact, reports in the international press indicated that Hmong insurgents were staging organized attacks in the province, and that the government had begun to respond in kind. The insurgent group was a remnant of the CIA-backed Hmong forces that had fought the communists during the war. Already, there were reports of military convoys and helicopters taking troops north from Vientiane to Xieng Khouang, and one Hmong village had reportedly already been razed by government forces. But you wouldn’t hear about any of this in the Vientiane Times, or from any official source during the anniversary celebration.
The Party treated the insurgency in the northeast in the same way it treated most problems—by ignoring it. As a result, the Party had lost most of its credibility. To commemorate the anniversary, the Times interviewed a few people on the streets about how they felt about the Party. Perhaps the most honest account of all was that of one Daovaone, a primary school teacher in Vientiane, who began with the usual positive comments: “I admire our Party for being very active for many years. It has further improved living conditions in Laos step by step. For the future I hope that the Party will do more for the workers, support the poor, and take measures against unemployment.” But then she added, “I hope that I will become a Party member one day because members have advantages for work or study.”
The Vientiane Times surely didn’t intend it, but this was the closest the paper came to printing an open criticism of the Party. Daovaone’s desire to join the Party turned out not to be much of a ringing endorsement of the revolution—she just wanted the perks and privileges that only membership in the elite club could provide.
Later that week, I learned first-hand about one such perk. I had heard rumors around town that as part of the anniversary celebration, the government’s official drama troupe would be performing at the new Lao National Culture Hall downtown, the grand edifice constructed by the Chinese contractor for which Ying worked. It had been open for a few weeks now, but I had yet to meet anyone other than Ying who’d seen the interior of the building—and I was determined to get inside. None of my colleagues at work knew anything about a performance, but I’d learned not to trust very much they told me. After work that Friday, I stopped by the Culture Hall to see what I could find. At the entrance, beneath the grandiose columns, I encountered a stern policeman standing guard.
“Excuse me, will there be a performance here tonight?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, surprised that I could speak some Lao.
“What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Is it possible for me to come and watch?”
“No.”
“So it’s just for the officials, then. Only for the pu nyai?”
“Yes, only for the pu nyai.”
So much about life in Laos was reserved for the pu nyai, or “big people,” the government officials and Party cadres that ran the show. Daovaone’s words in the Vientiane Times rang true as I considered what it would take for an average Lao citizen to ever get his foot in the door of this hall, a gift to the “people of Laos.” In any case, I’d been here long enough to know that, despite his pressed uniform and epaulets, this guard’s opinion wasn’t the final word. So I went home for a shower and some dinner, resolved to come back and attend the performance.
When I returned at eight o’clock that evening, the entire building was lit up by halogen lamps, which I imagined consumed more electricity in a single night than most neighborhoods in Vientiane did in a week. A crowd of families had gathered in th
e park out front. The fountain had been switched on, and children were splashing about in the bubbling water. As I watched these kids enjoying the fruits of Laos’ improved diplomatic relations with China, my misgivings about the development project disappeared, if only for a moment; this was the only public space of its kind in Vientiane, after all, and the children seemed to be having fun. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, for how long the government would be able to keep the place up and running. That much electricity wasn’t cheap.
At the entrance, I joined the crowd of ticket-holders pushing to get in the doors, and easily slid past the guard I’d encountered that afternoon. Inside, I was ushered toward the auditorium along with a group of guests by a polite young woman who, if she was surprised to see me, didn’t show it. Just as I was swept into the performance hall, I heard the guard’s voice and a slight commotion in the lobby. But before he could catch up with me, I was inside.
By Lao standards, the auditorium was gigantic, certainly the largest indoor facility in the country. It contained 1,500 seats, on two levels, and a vast stage draped with a red curtain. The design was simple, clear white walls and simple red seats, and included no ornamentation at all. As I looked around for a free seat, I realized that I was entirely out of place. It wasn’t that I was the only non-Lao in the crowd; this was nothing new. But I was also the only person not in uniform. All around me were men and women dressed in neatly pressed standard-issue military uniforms. I quickly took a seat behind a group of surprised young recruits, who seemed eager to speak to me, but unsure if they’d be permitted. Luckily, I didn’t have to try to look inconspicuous for long—the house lights went out soon after I sat down.
“Welcome, soldiers and police officers!” said the announcer.
It turned out that I had snuck into a special commemorative performance by the national drama troupe in honor of the nation’s enlisted men and women. I was clearly not supposed to be there.
The curtain went up, and the performance, a piece of Lao revolutionary theater, began. The play told the story of Sithong, a hero who had sacrificed his life for the cause of independence during the struggle against the French in the 1940s. Sithong had been a member of the Lao Issara, or Free Lao, movement, which had formed the first post-World War II government in Laos in 1945. The movement’s hopes for independence were dashed when the French re-occupied Laos in 1946 and established the country as a constitutional monarchy within the French Union. The first Royal Lao Government was marked by elite clanism, regionalism, and only nominal central control. The Lao Issara government-in-exile fled to Thailand, and soon after, the First Indochina War broke out.
The play was set during the years when the French were still very much in control, and one of the central characters was a French military officer. The uncommonly tall actor who played the role of the sinister Frenchman did not take a subtle approach: he swaggered about the stage and barked at the other actors in a deep nasal voice. He spoke with the standard-issue foreigners’ accent, mangling basic Lao phrases and condescending to those around him; the performance reminded me of the old comedy recording I’d heard during the trip up north I’d taken with Khit and the gang at the NTA a few months before. He spent most of his time making insulting remarks about Lao people—they were “lazy,” “stupid,” and “impossible” to lead—striking innocent peasant women, and torturing young would-be revolutionaries. After committing each of these dastardly deeds, the “Frenchman” would let out a tremendous evil laugh and stalk off the stage.
Most of the audience found this shtick hilarious, but I did notice a number of people sitting near me who seemed vaguely uncomfortable with the performance. Each time the Frenchman arrived onstage, these folks would turn their heads, ever so slightly, and glance in my direction. What did the falang think of this? Should we really be laughing so hard with him around? On the one hand, they clearly wanted to laugh at the stupidity and arrogance of the Frenchman onstage, but they also seemed embarrassed by the racist tone of the performance. As for me, I found it all hilarious, and tired to make my reaction clear by laughing loudly each time the Frenchman tripped up or mispronounced a Lao word. This helped to put those around me at ease, although the similarity between my heavy, plodding laugh and the guffaws of the stereotype onstage did make me feel self-conscious.
The audience, on the other hand, didn’t seem to take the play seriously at all. The performance was far from polished, and each time an actor made even the slightest mistake, everyone would erupt into raucous laughter. In one critical scene, in which Sithong is threatened at gunpoint by a French soldier, the actor’s weapon suddenly split into two pieces and fell to the floor. The audience found this hilarious, and the rest of the scene was drowned out by a chorus of giggles. But the soldiers and police officers did not laugh only when gaffes were made. In fact, whenever a character was beaten, shot, dragged across the stage, or pushed to his death, everyone would laugh. The cartoonish performance style didn’t help; each blow was accompanied by a drum beat and a clash of the cymbals offstage. The performance often seemed like a comic book come to life.
During the climactic battle between the revolutionaries and the French, Sithong tragically dies. But the French ultimately lose, and the play ended with an upbeat victory march. As the proud freedom fighters—including the requisite woman and ethnic minority—marched across the stage, they waved the flag of a newly independent Laos and sang the national anthem:
For all time the Lao people have glorified their Fatherland,
United in heart, spirit, and vigor as one.
Resolutely moving forwards,
Respecting and increasing the dignity of the Lao people
And proclaiming the right to be their own masters.
In order to give the impression of an endless stream of marching soldiers returning home from the front to the welcoming arms of their adoring fellow citizens, the actors would make their way across the stage, dash around the back of the set, and enter the stage once again from the opposite side. Unfortunately, there weren’t many actors portraying the revolutionary soldiers, and the stage was enormous, so the well-wishing townsfolk were often left alone on the stage, waving to one another. When the same soldiers who’d exited stage right appeared again at stage left, gasping for breath, many in the audience couldn’t help but snicker.
As the soldiers continued to march across the stage, black-and-white footage of the revolution was projected onto a large screen above them. Images of a much younger and more virile President Khamtay and his late boss Kaysone presided over the chaos below. The actors continued to sing the anthem, encouraging the audience to clap and sing along:
The Lao people of all origins are equal
And will no longer allow imperialists and traitors to harm them.
The entire people will safeguard the independence
And the freedom of the Lao nation.
They are resolved to struggle for victory
In order to lead the nation to prosperity.
As soon as the national anthem was sung through once, some in the audience began to head for the doors. Before long, the forlorn revolutionary heroes on stage, now clapping and marching in place, were all alone. By the time the minister of culture climbed up on stage to offer his sincere congratulations to the actors, half the audience was already outside.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough of this revolutionary fervor. I had come to Laos in part because it was a communist country. But I’d arrived only to find that the government was doing its best to hide its communist credentials from the outside world. This was the first real celebration of Laos’ revolutionary history I’d been exposed to—and it was no coincidence that I was the only foreigner in the auditorium. I stayed until the very end, clapping along to the national anthem and waving enthusiastically to the actors onstage. When the curtain closed, quickly and without ceremony, and the house lights went up, I found myself alone in the massive hall. Even the minister of culture had gone home.
/> Unlike me, the rest of the audience had probably heard the story of Sithong—who was in all likelihood a fabrication, or at least a composite—one too many times. The play had clearly not been updated for decades, and it likely struck many in the Culture Hall that night as entirely irrelevant to the concerns of contemporary Laos. With an economy in free-fall, an incipient civil war in the provinces, and the continuing scourge of land-mines left over from the revolution, it seemed right to question why the Party was spending so much time and money on this anniversary celebration. What did they have to celebrate? To be sure, the cavemen who remained in power could rightfully point to the glorious history in which they had participated. But if people were going to celebrate the Party’s past, they needed to know that their country had a future.
Outside the hall, trucks waited to take the young soldiers and police officers away. The men and women were packed tightly in and driven off, perhaps to fight the insurgents in Xieng Khouang. They had been drafted into fighting for a regime that couldn’t even provide them with seats, and that had nothing more than tired old propaganda to inspire them. The revolutionary struggle was surely glorious at one time, but the sheen had long since worn off. The pu nyai were having their fun, but that’s about it.
