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John Pilger on Vietnam's last battle: the fight for wellbeing

Vietnam was punished for its victory when US troops left. Its welfare dream has faded, but the people endure.

As the rain sheeted down, time washed away.

I looked down from the rooftop in Saigon where, more than a generation ago, in the wake of the longest war of modern times, I had watched silent, sullen streets awash. The foreigners were gone, at last. Through the mist, like little phantoms, four children ran into view, their arms outstretched. They circled and weaved and dived; and one of them fell down, feigning death. They were bombers.

This was not unusual, because there is no place like Vietnam. Within my lifetime, Ho Chi Minh's nationalist forces had fought and expelled the French, whose tree-lined boulevards, pink-washed villas and scaled-down replica of the Paris Opéra were façades for plunder and cruelty; then the Japanese, with whom the French colons collaborated; then the British, who sought to reinstal the French; then the Americans, with whom Ho had repeatedly tried to forge an alliance against China; then Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge, who attacked from the west; and finally the Chinese, who, with a vengeful nod from Washington, came down from the north. All of them were seen off at immeasurable cost.

I walked down into the rain and followed the children through a labyrinth to the Young Flower School, an orphanage. A teacher hurriedly assembled a small choir and I was greeted with a burst of singing. "What are the words of the song?" I asked Tran, whose father was a GI. He looked gravely at the floor, as nine-year-olds do, before reciting words that left my interpreter shaking her head. "Planes come no more," she repeated. "Do not weep for those just born . . . The human being is evergreen."

The year was 1978. Vietnam was being punished for seeing off the last US helicopter gunship, the war's creation; the last B-52 with its ladders of bombs silhouetted against the flash of their carnage; the last C-130s that had dumped, the US Senate was told, "a quantity of toxic chemical amounting to six pounds per head of population", causing a "foetal catastrophe"; the last of a psychosis that made village after village a murder scene.

On May Day 1975, when it was all over, Hollywood began its long celebration of the invaders as victims, the standard purgative, while revenge was policy. Vietnam was classified as "Category Z" in Washington, which imposed the draconian Trading With the Enemy Act from the First World War. This ensured that even Oxfam America was barred from sending humanitarian aid. Allies pitched in. One of Margaret Thatcher's first acts on coming to power in 1979 was to persuade the European Economic Community to halt its shipments of food and milk powder to Vietnamese children. According to the World Health Organisation, a third of all infants under five so deteriorated following the milk ban that most of them were stunted or likely to be. Almost none of this was news in the west.

Austerity, grief at the millions dead or missing and an incredulity that the war was no more became the rhythms of life in a forgotten country. The "democracy" the Americans had invented and life-supported in South Vietnam, which once accounted for half of Amnesty's worldwide toll of tortured political prisoners, had collapsed almost overnight. The roads out of Saigon became vistas of abandoned boots and uniforms. "When I heard that it was over," said Thieu Thi Tao Madeleine, "my heart flies."

Still wearing the black of the National Liberation Front (NLF), which the Americans called the Vietcong, she walked with a limp and winced as she smiled. The "Madeleine" was added by her French teachers at the lycée in Saigon that she and her sister Thieu Thi Tan Danielle had attended in the 1960s. Aged 16 and 13, "Mado" and "Dany" were recruited by the NLF to blow up the Saigon regime's national intelligence headquarters, where torture was conducted under tutelage of the CIA.

On the eve of their mission, they were betrayed and seized as they cycled home from school. When Mado refused to hand over NLF names, she was strung upside down and electrocuted, her head held in a bucket of water. They were then "disappeared" to Con Son Island, where they were shackled in "tiger cages" - cells so small they could not stand; quick lime and excreta were thrown on them from above. At the age of 16, Dany etched their defiance on the wall: "Notre bonjour à nos chers et chères camarades." The words are still there.

Last month, I returned to Vietnam, whose agony I reported for almost a decade. A poem was waiting in my room in the Caravelle Hotel in Saigon. Typed in English, it was a "heartfelt prayer" for "the stones [of life] getting soft", and ended with, "I'm still living, struggling . . . please phone." It was Mado, though I prefer her Vietnamese name, Tao. We had lost touch; I knew of her work at the Institute of Ecology, her marriage to another NLF soldier and the birth of a son against all the odds after the damage done to her in the tiger cages.

Through the throng of tourists and businessmen in the Caravelle lobby navigated diminutive Dany, now 57. Tao was waiting in a taxi outside. Five years ago, she suffered a stroke and lost the use of her voice and much of her body, but these have now returned and although she needs to take your arm, she is really no different from when she told me her heart "flies". We drove past the sentinels of the new Vietnam, the hotels and apartment blocks under construction, then turned into a lane where woodsmoke rose and children peered and frogs leapt in the beam of our headlights.

The walls of Tao's home are a proud montage of struggle and painful gain: she and Dany at the Lycée Marie Curie; the collected exhortations of Ho; the letters of comrades long gone. It all seemed, at first, like flowers preserved between the pages of a forgotten book. But no: here were the very icons of and inspirations for resistance that new generations must re-create all over again, for while battlegrounds change, the enemy does not. "Each time we are invaded," Tao said, "we fight them off. At the same time we fight to keep our soul. Isn't that the lesson of Vietnam and of history?"

I was once told a poignant story by a Frenchman who was in Hanoi during the Christmas 1972 bombing. "I took shelter in the Museum of History," he said, "and there, working by candlelight, with the B-52s overhead, were young men and women earnestly trying to copy as many bronzes and sculptures as they could. They told me, 'Even if the originals are destroyed, something will remain and our roots will be protected.'"

History, not ideology, is a living presence in Vietnam. Here, the experience of history forged a communal ingenuity and patience to the extreme human limits. In the South, the NLF leadership was an alliance of Catholics, liberals, Buddhists and communists, and most of those who fought in the northern army were peasant nationalists. With its structures and disciplines, communism was the means by which Vietnam's protracted wars of independence were fought and won. This is appreciated by Vietnamese today who idly refer to "the communist period" as if the party were no longer in power. What matters here is Vietnam. Visit the museums in Hanoi and it is clear that the word Ho Chi Minh never stopped using was "independence": "the right you never surrender". In retirement, President Dwight Eisenhower wrote that, had his administration not delayed (sabotaged) the national elections agreed at the United Nations conference in Geneva in 1954, "possibly 80 per cent of the population would have voted for Ho".

I thought about this on the journey back from Tao's. More than 20 years of war would not have happened. Three million people would have lived. No babies would have been deformed by Agent Orange. No feet would have been blown off by the cluster bombs that were tested here. On the overnight train to Danang, I could tell the bomb craters that joined together, leaving not even Pompeiis of war, except perhaps on a distant rise the gravestones of the anti-aircraft militia. They were often young women like Mado and Dany. In Hanoi, I took a taxi to Kham Thien Street, which I first saw in 1975, laid waste by B-52s that had struck every third house. A block of flats where 283 people died is now a monument of a mother and child. There are fresh flowers; the traffic thunders by.

Sitting in a café with these unnecessary ghosts, I read that Britain's military chief, General Sir David Richards, had called for Nato "to plan for a 30- or 40-year role" in Afghan­istan. Nato is said to spend $50m for every Taliban guerrilla it kills, and cluster bombs are still a favourite. The general expressed his care for the Afghan people. The French and Americans also said they cared for the "gooks" they killed in industrial quantities.
When I was last in Vietnam 15 years ago, making a film, my only brush with officialdom was the ministry of culture's concern that the footage I had shot at My Lai, where hundreds of people, mostly women and children, were slaughtered in 1968, might offend the Americans. In Saigon, the War Crimes Museum has been renamed the War Remnants Museum. Outside, tourists are offered pirated copies of the Lonely Planet guide, with its tendentious devotion to an American sense of "Nam".

Perhaps the Vietnamese can afford to be generous, but the reason, I think, runs deeper. Since Dai Thang, "the great victory", the policy has been to end a seemingly endless state of siege. Colour and energy have arrived like breaking waves; Hanoi, with its mist-covered lakes and boulevards once pocked with air-raid shelters, is now a gracious, confident, youthful city. There is the kind of freedom that ignores, navigates and circumvents the old Stalinist strictures. The papers take officials to task and damn corruption, but then, occasionally, there is the bleakest of headlines: "Alleged agitator to face trial". Cu Huy Ha Vu, 53, has been charged with "illegal actions against the state". Such is an ill-defined line you dare not cross.

Bill Clinton came to lunch at my hotel in Hanoi. He runs an Aids charity that does work in Vietnam. In 1995, he "normalised relations" between Washington and Hanoi. That meant Vietnam was allowed to join the World Trade Organisation and qualify for World Bank loans provided it embraced the "free market", destroyed its free public services and paid off the bad debts of the defunct Saigon regime: money that had helped bankroll the American war. The reparations agreed by President Richard Nixon in the 1973 Paris Peace Accords were ignored. Normalisation also meant that foreign investors were offered tax-free "economic processing zones" with "competitively priced" (cheap) labour.

The Vietnamese were finally being granted membership of the "international community", as long as they created a society based on inequity and exploited labour, and abandoned the health service that was the envy of the developing world, with its pioneering work in paediatrics and primary care, along with a free education system that produced one of the world's highest literacy rates. Today, ordinary people pay for health care and schools; the elite send their children to expensive schools in Hanoi's "international city" and poach scholarships at American universities.

Whereas farmers in difficulty could once depend on rural credit from the state (interest was unknown), they must now go to private lenders, the usurers who once plagued the peasantry. And the government welcomed back Monsanto with its genetically modified seeds. Monsanto was one of the manufacturers of Agent Orange, which gave Vietnam its own, chemical Hiroshima. Last year, the US Supreme Court rejected an appeal by lawyers acting for more than three million Vietnamese deformed by Agent Orange. One of the judges, Clarence Thomas, once worked as a corporate lawyer for Monsanto.

In his seminal study Anatomy of a War, the historian Gabriel Kolko argues that the party of Ho Chi Minh enjoyed "success as a social movement based largely on its response to peasant desires" and that its surrender to the "free market" is a betrayal. His disillusion is understandable, but the need to internationalise a war-ruined country was desperate, as was building a counterweight to China, the ancient foe. Unlike China, and despite the new Gucci emporiums in the centre of Hanoi and Saigon, the Vietnamese have not yet gone all the way with the brutalities of "tiger" or crony capitalism. Since 1985, the rate of malnutrition among children has almost halved. And tens of thousands of those who fled in boats have quietly returned without "a single case of victimisation", according to the EU official who led the assistance programme in 1995. In many parts of the country, forests are rising again and the sound of birds and the rustle of wildlife are heard again, thanks to a regreening programme initiated during the war by Professor Vo Quy of Vietnam National University in Hanoi.

For me, keeping at bay the forces that pour trillions into corrupt banks and wars while destroying the means of civilised life is Vietnam's last great battle. That the party elite respect, or fear, a people who, through the generations, have devoted themselves to throwing off oppressors is evident in the state's often ambivalent responses to unauthorised strikes against ruthless foreign employers. "Are we in a Gorbachev phase?" said a journalist. "Or maybe the party and the people are watching each other for now. Remember always, Vietnam is different."

On my last day in Saigon, I walked along Dong Hoi, no longer a street of hustlers and beggars, bar girls and shambling GIs looking for something in the cause of nothing. Back then, I would stroll past the Hotel Royale and look up at the corner balcony on the first floor and see a stocky Welshman, his camera resting on his arm. A greeting in Welsh might drift down, or his take-off of an insane colonel we both knew. Today, the balcony and the Royale are gone, and Philip Jones Griffiths died two years ago. He was perhaps the most gifted and humane photographer of any war. Single-handed, he tried to stop a "search and destroy" operation that killed a huddled group of women and children, eliciting from an American artillery officer the memorable response: "What civilians?" One of his finest photographs is a Goya-like picture of a captured NLF soldier, terribly wounded and surrounded by the large boots of his captors, yet undefeated in his humanity. Such is Vietnam.

“The War You Don't See", John Pilger's new film, opens in cinemas on 12 December and is broadcast on ITV1 on 14 December

John Pilger, renowned investigative journalist and documentary film-maker, is one of only two to have twice won British journalism's top award; his documentaries have won academy awards in both the UK and the US. In a New Statesman survey of the 50 heroes of our time, Pilger came fourth behind Aung San Suu Kyi and Nelson Mandela. "John Pilger," wrote Harold Pinter, "unearths, with steely attention facts, the filthy truth. I salute him."

This article first appeared in the 06 December 2010 issue of the New Statesman, Vietnam: the last battle

Credit: ADAM MAIDA
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Vladimir Putin’s politics of victimhood

Putin paints Russia as the underdog to keep his citizens, like those of Oceania in Nineteen Eighty-Four, in a permanent sense of crisis.

When George HW Bush stood to deliver his State of the Union speech in January 1992, he could be excused a swagger in his step. “In the past 12 months, the world has known changes of almost biblical proportions,” Bush told Congress. “Communism died this year… The biggest thing that has happened in the world in my life, in our lives, is this. By the grace of God, America won the Cold War.”

A few weeks earlier the Soviet Union had been dissolved and its 15 constituent republics had gone their separate ways, completing the slow motion collapse of the communist world that began with the emergence of Solidarnosc in Poland in the early 1980s and reached a climax in 1989 with the fall of the Berlin Wall and the tumbling of the other Eastern European dominoes. As Francis Fukuyama argued in The End of History and the Last Man – a 1989 essay that was published in book form a few days after Bush spoke in 1992 – the fundamental values of liberal democracy and market capitalism on which America had been built now reigned unchallenged across the world.

A quarter-century later, the world looks a very different place. It is not just Russia that has deviated from the script. Some of Moscow’s former satellites – Hungary, in particular, where the prime minister Viktor Orbán last month won a large majority largely on an appeal to traditional values – are drifting from the European mainstream. The far right are part of a coalition government in Austria and, in the form of Marine Le Pen, received more than 10 million votes in the second round of France’s presidential election last May. Predictions that China’s integration into the world economy would fuel demands from its citizens for democratic freedoms and the rule of law provoke hollow laughter as Xi Jinping sets himself up as president for life. In voting for Trump in November 2016, Americans, too, have taken their country in an unpredictable direction. And, then, of course, there is Brexit.

With societies increasingly riven into opposing camps, there have been attempts to characterise the political battles of the past few years as between the young and old, urbanites and country dwellers, the “winners and losers of globalisation”.

Timothy Snyder, a professor at Yale and historian of Eastern Europe, has come up with a new divide in his book The Road to Unfreedom: on one side are the proponents of the politics of “inevitability”, who, in an echo of Fukuyama, argue “the future is just more of the present, that the laws of progress are known, that there are no alternatives, and therefore nothing really to be done”. Their world view is being challenged by what Snyder calls the politics of “eternity”, in which a country is placed “at the centre of a cyclical story of victimhood” and its inhabitants kept in a permanent sense of crises over largely manufactured foreign threats, like the inhabitants of Oceania in Nineteen Eighty-Four. “Within eternity, no one is responsible because we all know that the enemy is coming no matter what we do,” Snyder writes. “Eternity politicians spread the conviction that government cannot aid society as a whole, but can only guard against threats. Progress gives way to doom.”

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It is Vladimir Putin who is the best exemplar of the new politics of eternity. If his first two terms in office during the 2000s – Russia’s “never had it so good” era – were characterised by rising living standards, and, initially, co-operation with the West, then the period since his return to the presidency in 2012 has been dominated by a conservative, nationalist, Christian ideology, marked by a hostility to gays and Islamic immigrants. Putin’s re-election to a fourth term in March suggests we are in for another six years of the same – coupled with a bullish foreign policy that will see him continue to assert himself in the Middle East, despite the occasional punitive Western air strike against his allies in Damascus.

Putin, sworn in last week in more of a coronation than an inauguration, sees his country’s history as one of encirclement and victimhood, which explains an obsession with the Second World War in contemporary Russia that exceeds even our own. This began in the 1970s under the former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev, who encouraged citizens not to look forward to a bright future but rather back to the heroism they displayed during the defeat of the Nazis.

Putin has taken this obsession to new heights, deploying it to considerable effect in the continuing conflict in Ukraine, which is portrayed by the Russian state media as a rerun of the battles of 1941 to 1945, where the pro-Moscow separatists are heirs to the defenders of the Motherland and the Ukrainians are cast in the role of the fascists.

Michel Eltchaninoff, author of Inside the Mind of Vladimir Putin, argues that the Russian leader “has a plan for Europe and for the world” that consists of two strands, essentially aimed at two different audiences. The first is that of a Russkiy mir or Russian world, analogous to a commonwealth of English-speaking people or la Francophonie.

In his first speech as president in 2000, Putin underlined the importance of protecting Russian citizens “both inside and outside the country”, generally taken to mean the 25 million or so of his compatriots left outside the borders of the Russian Federation when the Soviet Union broke up. The concept has since been extended to include further-flung diasporas – from members of the anti-communist White movement who settled in Paris after the 1917 revolution to the more recent arrivals in London.

Orthodox Christianity is an important plank of this strategy. The Orthodox church, after decades of collaboration with the KGB, is working with the current leadership in the Kremlin to promote unity of the church outside Russia. This translates into an aggressive campaign to bring back into the fold churches in France and elsewhere in Europe that broke with the Moscow Patriarchate decades ago over its submission to the Bolsheviks. Thus in Paris, after having failed to take control of the Orthodox cathedral on rue Daru, the Russian authorities decided to build their “own” cathedral close to the Eiffel Tower.

The other strand, Eltchaninoff argues, is a conservative message addressed not just at Russian speakers, but at European citizens more broadly. Europe, according to the Kremlin, is in a state of economic decline and moral decadence and faces a threat to its Christian roots and traditional values. This threat comes in part from Islamic immigration and in part from the drive for gay rights and same-sex marriage, which is portrayed as an assault on the “traditional family” and, at its most far-fetched, a threat to Europe’s future via “suppression of reproduction”.

This attempt to portray Russia as a pillar of conservatism ignores the fact that a substantial number of Putin’s citizens – especially young city-dwellers, thousands of whom took to the streets to protest against the inauguration – are attracted to the moral decadence the Kremlin claims to find so repugnant. Yet such ideas go down well with the target audience in Europe: supporters of right-wing parties – from Ukip to Orbán’s Fidesz – who are motivated in large part by a desire to turn the clock back to an idealised past. By simultaneously stressing opposition to America and its attempts to create a “unipolar world”, the Kremlin also manages to bring on board those on the far left who have failed to notice that Moscow is no longer the centre of world revolution.

Putin also has other tricks up his sleeve, including what Snyder calls “implausible deniability” – in which the Kremlin insists it did not do something while knowing full well that no one believes it. This “I am lying to you openly and we both know it” approach has characterised its reaction to events such as the downing of Malaysia Airlines flight MH17 in July 2014 and its interference in the American election two years later – and, to some extent, the poisoning in March this year of the former spy Sergei Skripal and his daughter, Yulia, in Salisbury.

This is coupled with “reverse asymmetry”, a policy of trying to portray the strong as the weak and vice versa, displayed to dramatic effect in the conflict in eastern Ukraine, in which invading Russian soldiers pretended to be partisans defending their communities against the bullies in Kiev. The Ukrainians called the invaders “little green men” – a joking suggestion that the soldiers in their unmarked uniforms must have come from outer space.

Snyder and Eltchaninoff, editor-in-chief of France’s Philosophie magazine, risk exaggerating the extent to which such policies are the product of a deeper ideology. Could Putin’s motivation not be a simple – and in many ways understandable – desire to reverse the indignities he feels have been heaped on his country by America and its allies since the break-up of the Soviet Union? Or, indeed, simply the wish for personal wealth and power?

With that disclaimer out of the way, it is nevertheless intriguing to explore the ideological underpinning of his ideas; in particular the role played in the Putinosphere by various 19th and 20th century Russian thinkers – chief among them Ivan Ilyin, a near contemporary of Stalin, who was forced into exile after the Bolshevik revolution and, while dividing his time between Germany, Switzerland and Italy, came up with an ideology best described as Russian Christian fascism. Putin namechecks Ilyin in speeches and reportedly had a collection of his works sent to all members of Russia’s ruling party and its civil servants. He also went so far as to organise the repatriation of Ilyin’s remains from Switzerland and reburial in Moscow in 2005.

Ilyin’s philosophy is repugnant – not surprising given his open admiration for both Hitler and Mussolini. According to Snyder, it has three core features: “it celebrated will and violence over reason and law; it proposed a leader with a mystical connection to his people; and it characterised globalisation as a conspiracy rather than as a set of problems.” Revived in a modern context, Ilyin’s ideology serves as “a catalyst for transitions away from public discussion and towards political fiction; away from meaningful voting and towards fake democracy; away from the rule of law and towards personalist regimes”.

Such an ideology, Snyder argues, provides a convenient justification for many attributes of Putin’s rule: from the cult of the strong man and a disregard of truth to his portrayal of Russia as a “virginal organism troubled only by the threat of foreign penetration”. Putin also shares Ilyin’s dismissive attitude to Ukrainians, a people the philosopher referred to “in quotation marks, because he denied their separate existence”.

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Snyder’s main concern, however, is not Putin’s ideas but rather the extent to which they are taking root in the West – culminating in the installation in the White House of a president who, from the moment he entered the campaign, not only appeared inexplicably fond of the Kremlin leader, but also demonstrated a similar casual attitude to the truth. “Trump’s proposal to ‘make America great again’ resonated with people, who believed along with him, that the American dream was dead,” argues Snyder. “Americans were vulnerable to the politics of eternity because their own experiences had already weakened inevitability.”

But to what extent was Trump also Putin’s man? One can only hope we will get an answer to this when Robert Mueller, the special counsel, concludes his investigation into the “links and/or coordination” between the Russian government and the Trump campaign – provided the president does not fire him before he can finish his work.

In the meantime, Luke Harding, a former Moscow correspondent for the Guardian, has attempted an answer. His book, Collusion, has at its heart the dossier compiled by Christopher Steele, a former MI6 officer, on Trump’s relations with Russia, notorious for alleging the existence of what the American media have taken to calling the “pee-pee tape”. The claim, denied by the president, is that during a visit to Moscow in 2013 he paid prostitutes to urinate on a bed in the Ritz-Carlton once slept in by the Obamas, which was then, naturally enough, recorded by the Russian secret services. Harding’s challenge is to demonstrate not just that the Kremlin propaganda machine did all it could to ensure Trump’s election – which few would dispute – but also that Trump himself was party to an active conspiracy, perhaps because he was being blackmailed by the Russian leader, whether over his murky financial affairs or the tape.

Harding fails to produce a smoking gun; perhaps there isn’t one. However, both he and Snyder provide a catalogue of links between the two sides, centred on Trump’s real estate deals, many of which look like a mechanism not just for laundering dirty Russian money but also for furthering the property mogul’s political career. Trump’s son, Donald Jr, admitted as long ago as 2008 that “Russians make up a pretty disproportionate cross-section of a lot of our assets”. It is telling that during the six months in 2016 between his father’s nomination as the Republican candidate and his presidential election victory, 70 per cent of the units sold in Trump Jr’s buildings were purchased not by individuals but by limited liability companies – the resulting anonymity raising the suspicion that this may also have been a Russian operation to prop up Trump.

But to portray Trump as a “Siberian candidate”, who was groomed over a period of years by the Kremlin and then installed in the White House, risks taking us into the world of fantasy. His victory has also proved something of a pyrrhic one as far as Russia is concerned. While Putin has no doubt relished the damage Trump has done to the Western alliance and to America’s standing in the world, sanctions against Russia have been tightened – not loosened – since he came to power. By launching air strikes on Syria, Trump has enforced Barack Obama’s red lines on chemical weapons in a way the former president failed to do.

Nor should we forget that, regardless of how much help Trump received from Moscow, his populist message undoubtedly struck a chord with the 63 million Americans who voted for him. By the same token, the Kremlin cannot claim sole credit for the rise of the far right in Europe. Much of the responsibility must be laid at the door of establishment politicians who pushed EU integration faster than many of their citizens wanted, failed to appreciate the impact of immigration and presided over an unfair distribution of income and wealth in the years since the crash of 2008.

The robust nature of Western institutions should give us hope. While Putin has remade the Russian political system in his own image, American democracy will survive Trump, who may yet implode under the accumulated weight of the various scandals and investigations. Europe’s populists are good at attracting protest votes but not always so good at governing – a lesson that, with time, will be learned by those who elect them. To borrow Snyder’s labels, there is nothing inevitable about the shift to the politics of eternity. l

Peter Conradi is foreign editor of the Sunday Times and author of “Who Lost Russia: How the World Entered a New Cold War” (Oneworld)

The Road to Unfreedom: Russia, Europe and America
Timothy Snyder
Bodley Head, 368pp, £25

Inside the Mind of Vladimir Putin
Michel Eltchaninoff
Hurst & Co, 208pp, £12.99

Collusion: How Russia Helped Trump Win the White House
Luke Harding
Guardian Faber, 352pp, £14.99

This article first appeared in the 06 December 2010 issue of the New Statesman, Vietnam: the last battle