Nguyen Thu Huong. Culture, Health, and Sexuality, Volume 14, Issue 1, 2012.
Introduction
Sexual violence against women has been the subject of growing international attention over the past decades and is generally considered a serious violation of women’s human rights. The relationships between violence against women and social constructions of sex, gender and sexuality in Asia have also received increasing attention in recent years, as seen in the growing number of English-language texts, articles and newsletters on the topic (see among many others, Manderson and Bennett 2003; Niaz 2003; Burns 2005; Nguyen Thu Huong 2011). The general view is that due to humiliation, pain and risk of stigma, women who have experienced sexual assault tend to treat it as a personal matter. Most authors tend to portray these women as victims of male oppression and violence, while largely overlooking the agency of women.
Although rape has become more visible in Vietnam due to the changes brought about by Doi Moi (Nguyen Thu Huong 2011), the topic is still shrouded in taboo and shame. Why? Because to speak of being raped or sexually abused is to invite stigma and social exclusion, not only for the victim but for her extended family as well. It is thus appropriate to examine a less studied aspect in rape research—the role of kinship—which still carries considerable weight especially in rural areas of Vietnam (Werner 2009) in decisions over whether or not to bring cases to light. The empirical work undertaken by Luong (1989), Rydstrom (2003) and Vijeyarasa (2010) indicates that patriarchy in Asian cultures takes a different form from patriarchy in the West. In the case of rape, the notion of family honour is used as a distinctive patriarchal tool to restrain the victim’s choice in pressing charges against the rapist. In this study I will explore how the notion of family honour is manifested not by acts of violence but through efforts of negotiating a settlement and/or finding ways at the family and kin level to deal with social consequences caused by the rape of a family member.
To understand how and why family dynamics and kin relations play a major role in the reporting decision, my discussion focuses on two main points: the gendered role of women in the kinship structure and family honour. My findings indicate that the mother occupies a central place in the process of disclosing and/or reporting rape. The significant involvement of mothers in the aftermath of their daughters’ rape confirms the observations made by Stoler (1989) and Douglas (1991) that women are held responsible for policing the moral-physical boundaries of their families, including the sexuality of women and girls. By focusing on relationships between victims’ family members, within wider kin networks and within social hierarchies more generally, I try to gain insight into aspects of ‘face-saving’ that often arise in post-rape settlements.
Methods and sample
This paper is based on an ethnographic study of a limited number of respondents from the Kinh majority in Vietnam, using open-ended interviews, life histories and participant observation. Given the cultural and social stigma attached to rape, I approached victims through a counselling office that provided a contact address in the flyers I distributed at the beginning of my research. The flyer highlighted the purpose of the research, the confidentiality of personal information, the voluntary nature of participation and the free counselling services offered by a local non-governmental organisation—the Research Centre for Family Health and Community Development (CEFACOM)—whose main activities at the time focused on child sexual abuse. The Research Centre for Family Health and Community Development had agreed to provide consultation to rape victims through its network, acting as a contact point for prospective clients coming from the flyer distribution campaign and providing information such as where to go for medical examination and/or psychological help, how to bring the case to court and where to find safe accommodation or temporary shelter if necessary. Well aware that those seeking help may not be interested in taking part in the research, we made clear that everyone was welcome without obligation. All in all, we distributed 50,000 flyers mainly in the Hanoi area.
In the end, I managed to follow 23 cases, including four cases pending from previous fieldwork conducted in 2005. Three were brought to my attention by CEFACOM and the rest came from the leafleting campaign. Data were collected through interviews with these young women and girls, as well as members of their social networks including family members, relatives, neighbours, friends, colleagues and social workers.3 See Appendix 1 for demographic details of research participants and types of rape.
Findings
Intra-familial decision: going public or not
Disclosure is a crucial first step in the process of reporting an assault to the appropriate authorities (Hanson et al. 1999; MacMartin 1999). Accordingly, depending on the types of support providers (informal versus formal), victims may receive positive or negative reactions after disclosure (Ahrens 2006; Ahrens et al. 2007). Prior research on rape disclosure (Felson et al. 2002; Felson and Pare 2005) shows that speaking out about the assault to insensitive interlocutors may have detrimental consequences for the victims as they are subjected to further trauma at the hands of the very people they turn to for help. The experience may seem like a secondary victimisation (Campbell et al. 2001).
Some of the women and young girls in this study suffered severe physical injuries as a result of rape. These victims, however, did not initiate disclosure themselves; rather, their sexual assault was discovered ‘accidentally’, for example when the physical injury of a child was noticed by an adult. It is important to add that children rarely have the resources to report directly to the police or other agencies. Therefore they may have to rely on an adult for facilitating abuse reporting. Moreover, one should take into account the social-cultural context of Vietnam where people often get things ‘done’ through informal networks rather than seeking recourse to official channels. In such cases, reporting is a collective effort in which the individual’s moral position and meanings of the family’s honour are jointly negotiated. This conceptualization, on the one hand, highlights the potential dynamics of the family as a whole in post-rape negotiations—which may leave out the victim’s voice. On the other hand, family involvement can allow the individual victims of rape to turn their painful predicament into a more or less collective endeavour, a sort of social sharing, rather than having to bear it alone.
Before discussing the ways that kinship relations can influence rape experiences of women and girls in Vietnam, I will outline what rape is in the context of the current law. In Vietnamese legal parlance, rape is defined as an act committed by someone who, through means of violence or a threat of violence or by taking advantage of the victim’s helplessness or other means, forces the victim to have sexual intercourse against her will. It carries a punishment of imprisonment for two to seven years. Convicted offenders are barred from taking up any positions of responsibility or performing certain kinds of jobs for a subsequent period of one to five years. Terms of up to 20 years or even life imprisonment could be imposed in severe cases where victims suffer grievous bodily harm, perpetrators are known HIV carriers, or victims die or commit suicide as a result of rape (for a detailed treatment of the legal aspects of rape in Vietnam, see Nguyen Thu Huong 2006).
I encountered several cases of rape involving a report to the authorities soon after the assault. Take the case of 17-year-old Linh, raped by her uncle in 2003. In her own account, Linh’s mother, Nhi (54 years old) expressed her outrage over the rape of her daughter, particularly venting her anger at the offender, a member of her extended family.
Who would expect it to happen right in my mother’s house? What scum. When they [Linh’s cau or younger brothers of her mother] dragged him away from her, he got down on his knees, kowtowed to grandma and cried out that everyone could beat him to death right there in the house. Then he ran upstairs, threatening to jump to his death. They [Linh’s cau] had to drag him down as he raised a hullabaloo to cover his crime. My mother [Linh’s ba ngoai or grandmother] was afraid that if he stayed in the house, my younger brothers would beat him up. Yes, the three of them would beat him to death. In that case they would commit a crime themselves.
Linh’s grandmother’s decision to contact the police came only after she had gone through a family drama involving intricate kin interactions. It is interesting to note that the ‘rapist uncle’ at first appeared remorseful, fully aware of the prospect of returning to jail (he had previously served a long sentence for raping another niece). Since parents and elders in the family often command respect from and exert influence over their offspring, the rapist uncle turned to Linh’s grandmother—the de facto head of the household after her husband’s death—to apologize and seek pardon, together with a threat to kill himself. This double act of contrition was nullified, however, by his denial of the crime at the trial.
The idea that women are accountable for their children’s behaviour and their family’s moral image is prominent in Vietnamese social discourse. Women are the most affected when their families encounter difficulties. Mothers are commonly blamed when reproduction goes awry (Gammeltoft 2007), while wives bear responsibility for marital conflict (Schuler et al. 2006). Mothers are often blamed for the sexual abuse of their daughters. In Linh’s case, the grandmother’s decision to seek legal intervention was grounded in the anticipation of trouble if she chose to deal with the case informally. It was a move to pre-empt her sons from committing crimes of their own.
At first glance the strong position of the elderly widow does not fit the general perception of Vietnamese kinship as dominated by patriarchal lineage. But in fact the gender roles of men and women and the distribution of power within Vietnamese families can be seen as a paradox of power (Oosterhoff et al. 2008). Although the woman’s traditional position is quite limited (Vu 2008), it is enhanced when she gives birth to a son, thus strengthening her husband’s line. The wife’s influence becomes even greater when her sons marry, due to her right to ‘teach’ her daughters in-law. Her authority increases even more after her husband’s death; elderly widows often act as matriarchs in their families (Teerawichitchainan 2009). This can be seen in Linh’s ba ngoai (maternal grandmother) acting as the de facto head of her household after the death of Linh’s ong ngoai (maternal grandfather) in 1998. Linh’s ba ngoai—the chairperson of the Women’s Union at the local ward and an important social figure—had been the breadwinner for her family of nine children ever since. Her position inside and outside her family no doubt influenced her decision to report the rape to the local authorities. Arguably, her involvement in local politics made her all the more aware of her obligation to report cases of child sexual abuse to the authorities, especially when it happened in her own family.
Examination of the family composition revealed that this ba ngoai was in fact the second wife of Linh’s ong ngoai, who also had a daughter from his first marriage. This daughter was married to the man who raped Linh. Was the ba ngoai, in seeking external intervention, trying to avoid blame for the internal conflict in her family? The grandmother’s decision to report to the authorities was a complicated, risky business.
The above example also illustrates how biological children are favoured over stepchildren, as reflected in the popular proverb doi nao me ghe ma thuong con chong (No stepmother will ever love her stepchildren). It is relevant here to address how incest is perceived and defined in Vietnam. The legal recognition of incest as a crime, as provided for in the Penal Code is part of an attempt to address with greater sensitivity the prevalence of sexual intercourse between close relatives. It is interesting to note that Vietnamese people conceive of incest to include ‘blood/consanguineal relatives’ (i.e., parents-children; grandparents-grandchildren) and those related by adoption or marriage within three generations of the family (i.e., the first includes adoptive, in-law and step parents; the second generation refers to full, half and/or in-law siblings and the third covers both patrilateral and matrilateral same-generation cousins). In this case, the absence of blood ties with the perpetrator—an affinal relative of Linh—made disclosure easier. Because of the limited scope of this study I did not discuss potential differences in dealing with the issue of family honour in cases of rape involving perpetrators who are affinal relatives of the victims and cases of rape involving perpetrators who are acquaintances or strangers. This could be a subject for future studies.
Pressing charges: the buffering effects of kin support
In addition to the role of mothers (or grandmothers) in the decision-making process, the relationship between a mother and her own siblings or siblings in-law plays a buffering role in efforts to seek help. More particularly, the response the victim’s family receives from its kin members is likely to affect its course of action, from reporting to initiating a lawsuit.
Thu, 17, was raped by a 66-year-old next-door neighbour in 2004. Her mother did not know about the incident until she was told by another neighbour one week later. Thu had first knocked on this neighbour’s door for help. Fearing that her mother would punish her, she had wanted to cleanse herself so that her mother would not know what had happened. Thu then turned to her co (paternal aunt—the younger sister of her dead father) who lived nearby and told her about the rape. Knowing that her mother and her nha noi (paternal family) were not getting along and were unlikely to discuss the matter together, Thu sought support from this aunt. However, the aunt used the occasion to badmouth Thu’s mother, blaming her for her daughter’s misfortune. Thu’s mother, Sao (44 years old) recalled her anger when her mother in-law told her:
See, if you save a person’s life you will reap multiple merits, but this daughter of yours is pretty whorey, you know it. If he [the rapist] goes to jail, it still doesn’t solve anything.
Women’s rape narratives are often called into question, even by other women who deny the reality of pervasive male violence against them and their loved ones (Shearer-Cremean and Winkelmann 2007). Emerging from this attitude is an emphasis on women’s responsibility for male violence that influences social attitudes towards women as victims. Newman (2007), in her study of childhood sexual abuse in the USA, points out that the socio-cultural and historical milieu of sexual trauma create environments in which survivors anticipate disbelief, shame, blame, alienation or punishment from others.
The response of Thu’s grandmother reflects the nature of bloodline and intra-family relationships. However, this bloodline relationship did not appear to act as a buffer in the disclosure process. Thu’s aunt spread malicious gossip instead of giving her solace or tangible aid. It is possible that the aunt did not feel comfortable discussing the rape with Sao. The distance between Sao and her in-laws can be traced to their family history. Though born out of wedlock, Thu’s father was the eldest son in the family. While Thu’s paternal grandfather was still alive and seemed sympathetic towards Thu and her widowed mother, he did not give his con dau (daughter in-law) and chau gai (granddaughter) any tangible help. As Sao explained to me, this was because he was now living with a married son, on whom he depended. Thu’s grandmother showed little sympathy after disclosure of the incident. In doing so, she made a point of denying Sao a sense of belonging: Sao was neither part of the family nor a member of the extended kin group and thus had no moral right to ask for help. Thu’s co (paternal aunt) told me in an interview:
She [Sao] is just a peasant woman who left her village to pick garbage in the city. At night she sleeps with the landlord, that’s why her daughter is good for nothing.
Sao herself was also the subject of gossip and was blamed for breaking up other people’s families. Thu’s father was already married to another woman when they met.
Out of this complex intra-familial web, the moral line is simple: a mother who fails to live up to the moral ideal of chastity is bound to have a daughter who behaves in similar ways that will drag her into the mud. This reasoning, which dominated the ‘public’ assessment of Thu’s sexual victimization, resonates with a long tradition in Vietnamese culture of attaching moral meanings to social events. Local mores, grounded in Buddhist beliefs of luat nhan qua (karma), tend to link misfortune to the family’s lack of phuc duc (merit and virtue): what happens to a person in this life is governed by the law of cause and effect and may be due to actions in one’s previous life or those of one’s immediate family members. More specifically, the Kinh believe that phuc duc tai mau, that merit and virtue are derived from the mother. A good woman of proper conduct and morals brings happiness and good fortune to her family; a bad woman brings only tragedy and despair. This popular belief masks the cultural construction of women as the keepers of morality (Nguyen and Harris 2009). Yet the accountability that phuc duc places upon family members through different generations may operate as a social resource for the fashioning of individual thought and action, in this case of the victims of rape.
This moralized version of rape suggests that if the mother transgresses orthodox moral standards, the daughter might do likewise. Inevitably the victim/daughter is subjected to innuendo and suspicion that she may have provoked the rape herself. This is in line with the framing of a ‘just world’, where the victim is seen as responsible for her fate, a mother is held responsible for her child-rearing and a woman is blamed for any deviant behaviour that goes against the prevailing gender ideology. By challenging the perpetrator through legal action, Sao wanted to show that she had nothing to hide, thereby enhancing her credibility and reducing the risk of being blamed. The negative reactions from her kin relatives also affected her decision to take legal action.
At another level, Sao’s anger was partly due to her failed attempt to claim for her daughter a proper place in the paternal family. Given the position of Sao as a poor migrant widow living on the margins of society, such a claim would also appeal to a sense of responsibility on the part of her husband’s family. Still, these kin members rejected her cry for help, giving no resources or referrals. Left out in the cold by her family in-law, Sao decided to go it alone, bringing her daughter’s case to justice. In doing so, Sao not only wanted to show that she was badly treated by her in-laws, but also what a poor migrant widow could do to secure her and her daughter’s rights.
All quiet at one’s home village: a rescue alternative
Sao did not turn to her natal kin for help because she believed that doing so would only bring shame and blame upon her. The underlying cultural norm is that a married woman is considered as ‘belonging’ to her husband’s family, thus cutting her off from her natal kin (Bélanger 2002). Central to this view is the belief that a woman should consult with her husband’s family to which she belongs, both socially and morally.
Meanwhile, the support that Linh and her mother received from their maternal relatives seems to be in tune with the popular saying of chau ba noi toi ba ngoai (one can be a granddaughter of a paternal grandmother but the burden of care falls on the maternal grandmother). This in a way contradicts the scenario above. But as Luong (1989) points out, even after marriage a daughter still maintains strong ties with her natal family, reflecting a certain bilinearity in the Vietnamese kinship system.
A closer look at Thu’s case reveals that the mother tried to keep the incident secret from her que (natal village), fearing social consequences would follow if others back home knew about her daughter’s predicament. As Sao explained:
Such a story will make it impossible for her to get a husband there. I asked everyone [in her natal family] to keep it [the incident] within the family. Later if she [Thu] wants, she might go back there to find a husband.
In doing so, Sao was preparing an escape route for her daughter to return to her home village, which may have hindered her efforts to seek social support from her natal kin.
A closer look at Sao’s interactions with the larger kin group indicates that speaking out about the rape had detrimental consequences for the mother herself as she was subjected to blame by the very people she turned to for help. This most often occurs when there is no father figure in the family, highlighting the importance of the (usually male) head of the family, not only for the household’s socio-economic status but for upholding family life, discipline and morality. Given the intricate interplay of family and kin relations, revealing the rape of a female family member is generally a risky and unpredictable matter.
These cases took place against the socio-cultural backdrop of the majority Kinh people and its Confucian emphasis on female virginity and chastity, where the public reporting of rape entails serious consequences—not only for the raped person but for the whole family. But in Linh’s case, no one seemed to take this into account when initiating legal steps. Linh’s mother, citing the need to protect her daughter’s good name, decided to drop the case only after the lower court passed an unfavourable judgment. There are often conflicting family interests—particularly the parents’ own interests and the need to focus on their daughter’s well-being. The following sections examine the complexity of post-rape dealings at the inter-familial level, which may result in a ‘sentiment-based’ negotiated settlement or a legal fight till the bitter end.
Apology and restitution
In most incidents in this study, the victims’ mothers told me that the attitudes and responses of the offenders and their families influenced their decision over whether or not to file formal charges. Mothers who initially reported the rape to the police sometimes reconsidered their decisions, eventually dropping the case.
In the case of 17-year-old epileptic, Nga, raped by a neighbour in 2003, the arrogant behaviour of the offender and his family was the major factor leading to her mother’s decision to report the rape to the police, though she and her family were well aware of the possible consequences. Nga’s mother, Hoa (58 years old) told me:
To tell the truth, when all this happened it was not really a good thing for my daughter, deep down I was very apprehensive.
Sao shared similar feelings:
I did not want to start a big fight. It’s a matter between humans and not with animals. If it became a big thing, my daughter, young as she is, would have to bear all the shame.
The delay of the police in bringing rape charges against the assailants signalled to the victims’ families that they should resolve the issue informally. The popular notion about female virginity also emerged in the local police’s thinking. Hoa recalled:
They [the police] said: ‘Your daughter is unhurt, that’s a good thing, no problem now. Your family denounces his crime, which is just. But since your daughter is OK, it’s better to drop it.’
The police’s emphasis on female virginity (‘your daughter is OK’) likely reflected their prejudices concerning the seriousness of the case, rendering the offender’s act not so serious as to be considered rape. When this occurs together with blaming and doubting from the local community, it only reinforces the perception that existing systems do not care. For Nga and Thu, their lower socio-economic status may have encouraged the perpetrators and their families to deny responsibility, apology and compensation. As Bataineh and Bataineh (2006) point out, the assumption is that apology shows a willingness to humiliate oneself, to the extent that it is a face-saving act for the recipient and a face-threatening act for the offender.
In Thu’s case, the offender was released after a nine-day detention. The police did not investigate the case further, thus sending a signal that his crime would go unpunished. Sao:
He [the perpetrator] just acted arrogantly, telling his neighbours that he didn’t care or else he could have ‘slapped that damned woman’s face’ [Sao]. At that time my blood boiled, I just wanted to fight him then and there. If this was what he wanted, I’d take him to court to make it clear, black and white. If his family didn’t have money, he’d have to come and talk to my family, asking for pardon, then I might forgive.
Apology, especially when involving some form of restitution, plays an important role in Kinh social relations. Apology is often negotiated in the context of the extended family and clan. Attempts to offer apology may restore face and re-establish harmony in social relationships which, in turn, may prompt forgiveness. As Hook, Worthington and Utsey (2009) observe, for collectivists group, harmony and preservation of mutual face are crucial.
There are also cases of stranger rape when the perpetrator’s family is unavailable for negotiation or when the perpetrator cannot be identified. In such cases, Nguyen Thu Huong (2011) has shown that as soon as the perpetrator is identified by the police, his family or representatives will do all they can to get information about the plaintiff. All in all, the practice of law enforcement in rape cases often reflects a power play between the victim (and her family), the perpetrator (and his family) and the local authorities.
Half-hearted apologies and delaying tactics
A half-hearted attempt to apologize on the part of the offender or his family was often cited as the main reason for the injured party to seek justice. Hoa recalled:
A few days later [after the incident] his [the offender’s] mother and his wife kept on coming here. But suddenly they stopped coming, maybe they had already arranged something with the police. The scoundrel began to insult our family. He accused my daughter of selling him heroin, he had nothing to fear. It costs him 50 million VND, he said, so go ahead and sue him, he dared us.
In this case, the offender’s family tried to extricate themselves by using their social connections, which explained their reluctance to offer an outright apology. At first, the offender feigned goodwill by desiring an agreement with Nga’s family—a form of temporary appeasement. Soon, however, he began spreading rumours that he had spent 50 million VND to turn the case in his favour—a form of psychological pressure on Nga’s family to make them drop the case or risk being sued for calumny. From the offender’s perspective, success in having the case dropped would carry significant implications. His family would be seen as having won the ‘struggle’—socially as well as financially.
In the case of Ai, an 18 year-old who was intoxicated and gang raped by six teenagers in 2006, the offenders’ families delayed offering compensation until Ai’s mother filed a complaint. The mother, Thi (48 years old), recalled how she reacted to the attitude of the offenders’ parents:
I said to them: you just want to play it the hard way. You all knew about the incident after it happened, but you didn’t tell us. When we found out, you said you would pay compensation. After a time you stop coming here, you said you couldn’t find the money.
To understand the half-hearted attitude of the offenders’ families, it is necessary to explore the implications of apology in resolving interpersonal conflicts. When a person is accused of committing a misdeed, he/she is motivated to provide an excuse to avoid possible legal and social sanctions. Offering a formal apology, especially when accompanied by compensation, is perceived as an implicit admission of guilt, with stigma attached not only to the offender but to all his kin. When the need to negotiate arises, both parties profess a solution based on tinh lang nghia xom (community sentiment; cf. Gillespie 2005). But if one party perceives that its demands are not met (for example too little compensation) or that it has the upper hand in the legal process (owing to social and political connections), the willingness to make peace can evaporate. It is a tug-of-war involving both soft and hard tactics, with pauses in-between to assess the situation and rally support from influential quarters. Meanwhile, the community looks on, offering support or disapproval depending on the nature of their social relations with the involved parties.
Conversely, attempts to pursue legal justice may be prompted by social pressure from people outside the kin network. For instance, a neighbour commented in Nga’s case:
Everyone says: it shows that your family has lost to his family. They have money, but you don’t. You can’t pay the police, that’s why you lost.
This suggests that despite the pain and embarrassment caused to the victim’s family, the decision to go public via legal channels can be an attempt to restore the family’s social status. As Hoa explained:
We must protect our daughter’s rights, to defend her honour. It would give her some consolation and give us a clear conscience. It’s strange. The victim’s side is pushed deep in the mud while the offender’s side acts like victors. That’s why we’ll fight this to the bitter end.
Concern about the family’s ‘face’ also entered the picture in Thu’s case. This was different from the initial disclosure of rape, when her mother’s main worry was social disgrace for the whole family. Now, filing a lawsuit was a challenge to the social reluctance to acknowledge that rape had actually occurred. As Sao explained:
If I could bring a lawsuit, it’d be a good thing. If I couldn’t, they [local people] would laugh at me, saying: you bring a lawsuit, but you can’t do a thing against him [the perpetrator].
Because of such criticism as well as uncertainty over the legal outcome, Sao told her neighbours that she would be away visiting friends, when in fact she was busy with the legal proceedings. Her initial success, however, was crucial in changing the attitudes of others:
After I filed the complaint and the police came here to arrest him, the neighbours said: Oh yeah, it’s true, her daughter was harmed. They did not lie about it.
There was a measure of ‘heroism’ in Hoa’s account:
It’s a matter of honour. This scoundrel has raped quite a few women, but people couldn’t do anything despite his crimes [the perpetrator was a known drug addict having close contact with senior police officials]. First, it’s for the sake of our daughter; second, it’s a kind of contribution to society, this makes us determined to lay bare all the facts … to set an example for others in the future.
By linking her daughter’s rape to the series of crimes committed by the same perpetrator, Hoa benefited from a sense of solidarity, even support, within her community. This unexpected source of support brought a new dimension to the prosecution of the case, enhancing their chances of being heard and reducing the risk of being blamed. The satisfaction of being heard encouraged Hoa to look beyond her family’s predicament to the larger picture where justice was yet to be rendered in similar cases. The following section examines why Kinh women often take on the role of negotiator.
Mothers as peacemakers
In traditional Kinh families, the wife is supposed to be in charge of day-to-day decisions on running the household, leaving the important decisions to the husband who is considered ‘the pillar’ of the family (Rydstrom 2003). As noted earlier, mothers are considered responsible for raising children and often bear the brunt of blame for their children’s misfortunes. When it comes to rape—with all of its moral and social implications—the task is left to women as third-party mediators to negotiate a settlement. This is not to say that the rape itself is perceived as a ‘minor’ affair. Arguably, and regardless of the means by which the rape is resolved internally, the inherent secrecy surrounding it conveys the idea that sexual violence is something bad and dangerous. Within the victim’s family, rape with its gender and sexual connotations is regarded as ‘women and girls’ affairs’, something the husband would rather let his wife handle. The outcome of these negotiations, however, affects not only the ‘face’ of the raped woman but that of her family and wider kin.
Incidentally, the findings presented in this paper involved 18 cases where the father was absent or had a weak position as household head. It suggests that further research is needed on the fathers of rape victims—in its own right as well as to test the argument that it is primarily (or only) mothers who disclose and report cases of rape.
Women who act on behalf of the offender often appeal to the emotions of their counterparts in the victim’s family—to sympathy based on their shared gender but also on their role as mothers. As Thi told me:
Thành’s [the perpetrator’s] mother came here. First she writhed on the floor then pretended to faint on the bed. That made me quite afraid. I had to call the neighbours over to act as witnesses. I told them she did it on her own, none of my family did anything to her. She said only I could save him, nobody else.
Recourse to this informal woman-to-woman channel was also reflected in the case of 19-year-old Nghi, raped by a friend known through an Internet chat room. Her story contains the indirect threat of blackmail:
Shortly after the son was arrested, his mother came straight here to apologize. She kept saying to my mother: ‘Sister, please turn a blind eye so that our family could go on scraping a living. If you take him to court, my son will surely get no more than three years, but your daughter will have a hard time getting a husband.’
The situation of 23-year-old Minh, in a well-publicized gang rape case, was more delicate since one of the offenders was her mother’s cháu h (matrilateral distant relative).4 Though Minh and her distant relative had not recognized each other during the rape, Minh was struggling with whether to ask for a reduced sentence for him:
His mother came to ask me to write a petition asking for a reduction of her son’s sentence. She said although he’s young and foolish, he still has many years to live. They would give him a heavy sentence, no doubt. She kept begging me. She also put pressure on my mother. I don’t know what to think.
Conclusion
I have shown that the disclosure of rape—the crucial first step in the process of reporting an assault to the appropriate authorities—is inextricably bound up with ideas of family honour, kinship, social belonging and shared responsibility in a collective society such as Vietnam. The family’s decision regarding disclosure largely depends on the degree of closeness between the parents of the raped victim and their kin, while the process of reporting a rape to the authorities reflects the interplay of kinship relations and the socio-economic status of the parties. In this sense, the decision to pursue a case through legal means constitutes an attempt to defend the honour of the family and that of the larger kin network. On the other hand, when no support is received from the wider kin network, individual action can be seen as an attempt to put other kin members on the spot, forcing them to share the burden of social prejudice with the victim—their own kin. My research also reveals that serious crimes against the integrity of persons, such as rape, are sometimes dealt with outside the justice system—which is against the letter of the law.
In patriarchal societies, the chastity of a woman is not only emblematic of her dignity and morality, but also reflects the good name of her family, clan, kin group or class. This is what is affected when women and girls are raped or otherwise abused. But rape is a threat that hangs over each and every woman in Vietnam and elsewhere, like a sword of Damocles. In other words, the issue is not just about rape, but about the discursive and practical constraints on women’s freedoms. There are social rules that remain under the surface until one unwittingly transgresses them and feels the sanctions. Through exposure to such sanctions and—more commonly—the threat thereof, women and girls in Vietnam are constantly reminded of their ‘proper’ behaviour. Women, as mothers, know the rules all too well and more often than not actively contribute to upholding these gendered social and sexual norms, even at the expense of their own daughters’ welfare.