In his 2024 memoir, “Vietnam: entre le meilleur et le pire – 50 ans de fidélité aux combats de ma jeunesse” (Vietnam, Between the Best and the Worst – 50 Years of Loyalty to the Struggles of My Youth), André Menras captures lived realities and a long quest to reclaim justice. He documents the struggles of the fishermen of Hoàng Sa and other regions, persisting despite the heavy-handed and often irrational censorship apparatus in Việt Nam.
While presented simply as an autobiography, the book serves as a powerful archive of the landscape of justice and censorship in Việt Nam. It highlights the fight to defend the rights of Hoàng Sa fishermen and the broader communities living precariously across the South China Sea.
The text follows a chronological structure across three major parts. The first recounts the author’s youth, his journey to Việt Nam, and his years teaching under the Republic of Vietnam in Sài Gòn. The second traces his life after reunification as he became an amateur filmmaker advocating for justice in Hoàng Sa. Finally, the third part focuses on his post-retirement efforts to advance human rights for the most vulnerable groups in the country he regards as his second home.
A Frenchman More “Vietnamese” Than Many Vietnamese
Born in southern France in 1945, André Menras graduated from a teacher-training college in 1967 and arrived in Việt Nam a year later. He taught in Đà Nẵng and Sài Gòn, but after only two years, he joined anti-war movements supporting the National Liberation Front. This activism led to his arrest by the Sài Gòn government. After two and a half years in prison, he was released early in the lead-up to the Paris Peace Accords and immediately began campaigning for political prisoners.
This journey transformed André into a Vietnamese in spirit—perhaps more so than many locals—as he dared to challenge power for the sake of the land and its people, regardless of his different lineage or mother tongue. To affirm this identity, he adopted the name Hồ Cương Quyết.
Although he returned to France to teach after the war, he moved back to Việt Nam permanently in 2002 to continue his educational work through the French–Vietnamese Association for Educational Exchange and Development (ADEP). In 2009, following seven years as an “honorary citizen,” he officially became a naturalized Vietnamese citizen.
Today, Hồ Cương Quyết uses his unique status and privilege to advocate for fishing families living in fear of both foreign attacks and local pressure. He leverages two specific advantages: his French passport, which provides diplomatic protection against detention by China, and his Vietnamese citizenship, which allows him the linguistic and legal freedom to engage deeply with local communities.
The Path of Activism: From Surveillance to Censorship
Despite his status, André recounts that his actions and interactions were closely monitored. Even without explicit prohibitions, people who once spoke openly would suddenly fall silent, pressured by security concerns. When he questioned high-ranking officials about the agents trailing him, he was given the familiar excuse: they were there to “protect” him.
Frustrated by such responses, he rejects this explanation in his book:
“Protect me from the brave people who dare to tell me their stories? Whom do the fishermen’s accounts endanger? I see this ‘protection’ as a disguised form of confinement, and I can never accept it. That is why I will never be able to live permanently in the country I consider my second homeland.”
Across nearly 400 pages, the author details his refusal to bow to this pressure. He chronicles his journey to gather materials for his documentaries, from passionate exchanges with overseas Vietnamese in Europe to conversations with Việt Nam’s leading intellectuals. Most notably, he recounts his field trips to Lý Sơn Island to speak with marginalized fishermen from Quảng Ngãi.
Throughout these chapters, a recurring theme emerges: the pervasive, subtle machinery of censorship—across different levels of government—and the constant fear that grips ordinary people when discussing injustice. He describes tireless negotiations with authorities just to film, screen, or publish the stories of voiceless lives.
The most compelling narrative remains his quest for justice for the fishermen of Lý Sơn. For decades, they have endured the aggression of Chinese vessels while facing the unsettling silence of Vietnamese authorities—the very state responsible for their protection.
Early Glimmers of Hope
Over time, André’s persistent efforts began to resonate with those in power, granting him occasional audiences with senior officials during trips to the Hoàng Sa area. He approached these meetings with preparation and patience, bringing written notes to explain the tragedies endured by the fishing families of Lý Sơn.
However, the results were often disheartening. Authorities frequently appeared more concerned with the state’s image and protecting sovereignty claims over the Hoàng Sa archipelago than with addressing the actual suffering of the people.
In contrast to the state’s hesitation, the book highlights the strong, consistent support from overseas Vietnamese communities regarding China’s escalating actions in the South China Sea. These communities have been quick to support fishermen facing injustice and to defend Việt Nam’s maritime sovereignty.
As André points out, this does not imply that overseas Vietnamese are inherently more patriotic or empathetic than those at home. Rather, they are unencumbered by censorship and face no barriers to accessing information. They are simply better positioned to donate, fundraise, and offer aid than the majority of people within Việt Nam.
Refusals Born from Nameless Fears
His field trips provided essential material for the documentary, “Hoàng Sa – Việt Nam: nỗi đau mất mát” (Hoàng Sa – Vietnam: The Pain of Loss), completed in 2011. However, distribution proved even more difficult than production. While it received limited screenings initially, the film was eventually banned from domestic distribution in Việt Nam.
To André’s dismay, he faced similar barriers in France, his homeland. There, both French audiences and Vietnamese expatriates shared an unspoken anxiety: a fear of “offending” China. It is a source of grief for readers that painful truths are hidden simply to protect the political interests of the powerful.
Despite these sorrowful vignettes, the book concludes with glimmers of hope. André highlights the compassionate Vietnamese around the world who still care for their homeland. He stands alongside courageous individuals—scattered across Việt Nam and abroad—who accept political risks to speak out.
The story of André Menras is both a repository of insight into Vietnamese society and a heartfelt plea for his suffering compatriots. He has shared in their pain and insists he will keep fighting for them. His commitment endures despite his age and his profound disappointment with the censorship—and self-censorship—that exists both within and beyond Việt Nam’s borders, obstructing Vietnamese people from understanding their own homeland and each other.
Ái Thư wrote this article in Vietnamese and published it in Luật Khoa Magazine on July 8, 2025, as part of the “Reading with Đoan Trang” column, published every Tuesday. The Vietnamese Magazine has the copyrights of its English translation.
