How has the áo dài been used as a disguise?
Below is a personal account by writter Lady Borton:
Others describe the áo dài as a gracious garment, but I have always thought of it as a disguise. However, until recent years, I had never thought of myself as someone who might be camouflaged by an áo dài.
During the American War, one of my tasks when I lived in Quảng Ngãi was to fetch the Quaker Service mail that came into the local American military compoudn. As someone from the Peace Movement, I felt conflicted by the requirement that I enter the American army base every day, but then I must also admit that I was intrigued by the chance to stand in the line with waiting Gls and watch life from another point of view.
The mail room opened at 5 PM; this was also the time when many Vietnamese staff left Kramer Compound. Most of the women worked as cleaners; they wore ordinary peasant clothes - black satin trousers and white áo bà ba blouses. But one woman working in a low-level clerical job always wore a colourful áo dài.
The mail room was close to the compound's main gate. From my place in line, I could watch the military police (MPs) search the women's baskets one by one for pilfered goods. The woman in the áo dài was always particular coy as she dutifully opened her purse. She was also by far the most beautiful. I had talked to these women and knew they lived outside the town of Quảng Ngãi in areas sympathetic to the Revolution. The woman in the áo dài lived on the road to Mỹ Lai, where the famous massacre of March 1968 occurred.
I remember watching that scene day after day, amazed by the MPs' search in general and by her long hair so that it swished over the alluring bodice of her áo dài before it cascaded down the garment's richly coloured silk.
I thought to myself: Why check their baskets? Surely, whatever "goods" - maps, news of troop movements, inventories - those women carried lay hidden securely inside their brains.
Quaker Service does not take sides during a war, but instead looks for ways to assist civilian victims on all sides. And so I never mentioned my perceptions to either the MPs or the women, not, began research for a book, After Sorrow, about the lives of ordinary Vietnamese during the American War. In the Mekong Delta's Tiền Giang Province, I spoke with a number of women who had been active with the Revolution.
Ninth Rose, then in her early forties, was particularly pretty. She had a lightness about her the other women didn't share, perhaps because, as vice-president of the Province People's Committee, she was more accustomed to meeting strangers. Ninth Rose had been a youth organizer in the city of Mỹ Tho during the American War and also - like so many women in the markets and in the streets and even in the American officers' quarters - she had been s spy.
Ninth Rose had worn many costumes. Some days she pretended to be a school teacher, rubbed ink into her fingers, and wore a long, flowing vegetable vendor. Once, wearing áo dài, she rode in the front of an American jeep driven by an American officer into the headquarters of the US Ninth Infantry Division. I imagine she had long, shimmering hair then instead of the curls she wears now; I expect Ninth Rose was expert at doing that seductive sweep with her hair so it swished over the tempting bodice of her áo dài.
"Don't you see?" Ninth Rose said to me; laughing so many years later. "That ride into the US Ninth Division was a mission into the belly of the enemy!".
Many other women made similar missions. It was dangerous work. Dr. Dương Quỳnh Hoa, Revolutionary Government of South Việt Nam ("Việt Cộng") engaged in regular "missions". Dr. Hoa attended cocktail parties hosted by each successive American ambassador, charming them one after another with her superb French and her English, too. Surely on those evenings Dr. Hoa chose her disguise carefully from among her best áo dài.
I had known these stories and many others for years before I found myself slipped through in disguise.
In 1995, I tagged along with the delegation of more than 150 Vietnamese attending the Fourth International NGO Forum on Women in Huariou, Beijing. On 2 September, the Vietnamese delegation organized a parade to commemorate the 50th anniversary of President Hồ Chí Minh's Declaration of Independence.
I had brought one of the suitcase filled with banners that women in every province of Việt Nam had embroidered for the project, "Weaving the World Together". I was running late on the morning of 2 September. My Vietnamese friends share my opinion of the áo dài as, with all its grace, the most impractical and uncomfortable of garments. For me, an áo dài is like a Western evening dress. I had snapped myself into my áo dài (a two-person task I had finally managed alone). Then, wearing the áo dài, I'd strapped a huge (and heavy!) suitcase filled with banners onto a back of a bicycle. I secured my camera bag to the handlebars and took off, arriving at the agreed-upon assembly point just in time to unload the suitcase and park the bike.
It was a glorious parade on the one brilliant, sky-blue day of the Forum. I had never before seen such exuberance from women in áo dài as on that day. Wearing their most beautiful embroidered áo dài and their conical hats, the Vietnamese women formed into two lines, leading off with the banners from Hồ Chí Minh City and Hà Nội and following with banners from the provinces.
"Việt Nam! Hồ Chí Minh!" they sang. "Việt Nam! Hồ Chí Minh!"
It was a once-in-a-lifetime photo opportunity. I loved being able to catch images of so many friends.
"My turn!" one would say, posing.
"Now, mine!" another would sing out, laughing.
Soon we reached the security gates leading to the Forum's meeting grounds. Suddenly I realized that I'd left my identification badge in my room.
"I cant get in", I said in Vietnamese to no one in particular. "I forgot my badge!"
"Sure you can!" one woman said.
"Sure you can!" others echoed.
"You're wearing an áo dài!" they chorused.
"Duck between the banners!" the women directed, lifting a banner. I scuttled in between the banners from Hà Nội and Hồ Chí Minh City.
"Now, take pictures!" they ordered.
Sheltered by Hà Nội and Hồ Chí Minh City, I joined in, singing, "Việt Nam, Hồ Chí Minh!"
Our voices rose as the long line of 150 women carrying the banners reached the metal-screening booths. The Chinese guards stepped back from their posts, clapping and cheering as they abandoned their security gates, completely disinclined on Independence Day to check the security badge of anyone wearing a traditional Vietnamese áo dài.
Others describe the áo dài as a gracious garment, but I have always thought of it as a disguise. However, until recent years, I had never thought of myself as someone who might be camouflaged by an áo dài.
During the American War, one of my tasks when I lived in Quảng Ngãi was to fetch the Quaker Service mail that came into the local American military compoudn. As someone from the Peace Movement, I felt conflicted by the requirement that I enter the American army base every day, but then I must also admit that I was intrigued by the chance to stand in the line with waiting Gls and watch life from another point of view.
The mail room opened at 5 PM; this was also the time when many Vietnamese staff left Kramer Compound. Most of the women worked as cleaners; they wore ordinary peasant clothes - black satin trousers and white áo bà ba blouses. But one woman working in a low-level clerical job always wore a colourful áo dài.
The mail room was close to the compound's main gate. From my place in line, I could watch the military police (MPs) search the women's baskets one by one for pilfered goods. The woman in the áo dài was always particular coy as she dutifully opened her purse. She was also by far the most beautiful. I had talked to these women and knew they lived outside the town of Quảng Ngãi in areas sympathetic to the Revolution. The woman in the áo dài lived on the road to Mỹ Lai, where the famous massacre of March 1968 occurred.
I remember watching that scene day after day, amazed by the MPs' search in general and by her long hair so that it swished over the alluring bodice of her áo dài before it cascaded down the garment's richly coloured silk.
I thought to myself: Why check their baskets? Surely, whatever "goods" - maps, news of troop movements, inventories - those women carried lay hidden securely inside their brains.
Quaker Service does not take sides during a war, but instead looks for ways to assist civilian victims on all sides. And so I never mentioned my perceptions to either the MPs or the women, not, began research for a book, After Sorrow, about the lives of ordinary Vietnamese during the American War. In the Mekong Delta's Tiền Giang Province, I spoke with a number of women who had been active with the Revolution.
Ninth Rose, then in her early forties, was particularly pretty. She had a lightness about her the other women didn't share, perhaps because, as vice-president of the Province People's Committee, she was more accustomed to meeting strangers. Ninth Rose had been a youth organizer in the city of Mỹ Tho during the American War and also - like so many women in the markets and in the streets and even in the American officers' quarters - she had been s spy.
Ninth Rose had worn many costumes. Some days she pretended to be a school teacher, rubbed ink into her fingers, and wore a long, flowing vegetable vendor. Once, wearing áo dài, she rode in the front of an American jeep driven by an American officer into the headquarters of the US Ninth Infantry Division. I imagine she had long, shimmering hair then instead of the curls she wears now; I expect Ninth Rose was expert at doing that seductive sweep with her hair so it swished over the tempting bodice of her áo dài.
"Don't you see?" Ninth Rose said to me; laughing so many years later. "That ride into the US Ninth Division was a mission into the belly of the enemy!".
Many other women made similar missions. It was dangerous work. Dr. Dương Quỳnh Hoa, Revolutionary Government of South Việt Nam ("Việt Cộng") engaged in regular "missions". Dr. Hoa attended cocktail parties hosted by each successive American ambassador, charming them one after another with her superb French and her English, too. Surely on those evenings Dr. Hoa chose her disguise carefully from among her best áo dài.
I had known these stories and many others for years before I found myself slipped through in disguise.
In 1995, I tagged along with the delegation of more than 150 Vietnamese attending the Fourth International NGO Forum on Women in Huariou, Beijing. On 2 September, the Vietnamese delegation organized a parade to commemorate the 50th anniversary of President Hồ Chí Minh's Declaration of Independence.
I had brought one of the suitcase filled with banners that women in every province of Việt Nam had embroidered for the project, "Weaving the World Together". I was running late on the morning of 2 September. My Vietnamese friends share my opinion of the áo dài as, with all its grace, the most impractical and uncomfortable of garments. For me, an áo dài is like a Western evening dress. I had snapped myself into my áo dài (a two-person task I had finally managed alone). Then, wearing the áo dài, I'd strapped a huge (and heavy!) suitcase filled with banners onto a back of a bicycle. I secured my camera bag to the handlebars and took off, arriving at the agreed-upon assembly point just in time to unload the suitcase and park the bike.
It was a glorious parade on the one brilliant, sky-blue day of the Forum. I had never before seen such exuberance from women in áo dài as on that day. Wearing their most beautiful embroidered áo dài and their conical hats, the Vietnamese women formed into two lines, leading off with the banners from Hồ Chí Minh City and Hà Nội and following with banners from the provinces.
"Việt Nam! Hồ Chí Minh!" they sang. "Việt Nam! Hồ Chí Minh!"
It was a once-in-a-lifetime photo opportunity. I loved being able to catch images of so many friends.
"My turn!" one would say, posing.
"Now, mine!" another would sing out, laughing.
Soon we reached the security gates leading to the Forum's meeting grounds. Suddenly I realized that I'd left my identification badge in my room.
"I cant get in", I said in Vietnamese to no one in particular. "I forgot my badge!"
"Sure you can!" one woman said.
"Sure you can!" others echoed.
"You're wearing an áo dài!" they chorused.
"Duck between the banners!" the women directed, lifting a banner. I scuttled in between the banners from Hà Nội and Hồ Chí Minh City.
"Now, take pictures!" they ordered.
Sheltered by Hà Nội and Hồ Chí Minh City, I joined in, singing, "Việt Nam, Hồ Chí Minh!"
Our voices rose as the long line of 150 women carrying the banners reached the metal-screening booths. The Chinese guards stepped back from their posts, clapping and cheering as they abandoned their security gates, completely disinclined on Independence Day to check the security badge of anyone wearing a traditional Vietnamese áo dài.
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