State Funeral

I had the unexpected opportunity to attend a state funeral tonight.

I have a standing appointment with my friend Chi on Saturdays at 5; when we got to her house she asked me if I knew who Vo Van Kiet was. I do—he was a former prime minister who died in Singapore a few days ago after a long illness. He was born in HCM City, and is credited with launching Viet Nam’s doi moi economic reforms in the 1990s. his body has been brought to the Reunification Palace, on the other end of the park next to our hotel, to lie in state for two days. She said she wanted to go and asked me if I wanted to join her. Sure, I said. Let’s go.

But I can’t go like this, can I? I asked, looking down at my shorts. Chi’s mother and great aunt laughed. No, no, no, he was the prime minister—long sleeves and pants. They try to get Chi to put on an ao dai without success; she agrees to a jacket and pants. We drop by the hotel and I find a skirt and shirt with ¾ sleeves that passes muster.

The reunification palace is draped with banners and tents are set up outside where visitors can sign in. The first policeman Chi rolls up to says foreigners can’t go in. We go around the block and ask another one right at the gate. Yes, I can come in, but I have to stick with Chi. No wandering off.

Getting there took longer than the event itself. We signed in, brought our slip of paper up the long circular drive past The Tank (#843) [in his book Shadows and Wind, Robert Templer, a former reporter for the Agence France-Presse points out that tank #843 is also on display in Ha Noi] and delivered it to a desk at the entrance to the main hall on the first floor. The traffic wasn’t heavy, maybe a hundred members of the public on the grounds at that moment. They queued us into groups of six, and we stepped across the carpeted hall to the first line of tape, got the go ahead and slowly advanced to the second line, close enough to see the altar with Kiet’s picture on it, and the insense sticks burning. Another go-ahead signal and we went single file next to the coffin, took a step up, and got a glimpse of his face under glass. We filed out past members of the family and into an adjoining hall with guest books to sign. Lots of TV cameras, but all Vietnamese media as far as I could tell from the trucks outside.

In abysmal Vietnamese—I was nervous, and I couldn’t remember in that moment some key tone and accent marks—I wrote that I was a tourist in Viet Nam and my friend had brought me today, and I knew Kiet was known for creating doi moi in Viet Nam. I asked Chi what she had written, and she said she was upset enough that she didn’t know what to write, so she didn’t write anything. I kidded her about this a little bit—so you let me write something in terrible Vietnamese instead?

It rained earlier today, replacing the super-hot humid air with a cool breeze, but I couldn’t fully enjoy it because I hate riding side saddle on motorbikes (necessary in a skirt).

-Ilene