Vietnamese martial arts at a crossroads: When 'Vietnamese blood' is no longer an emotional story

I remember that night in March 2026, sitting in the livestream room in Shenzhen, the screen divided into three: one corner showed the bloodied face of a fighter, another showed the countdown clock, and the last corner displayed comments scrolling like a waterfall. The fight ended with a knockout in the second round. The winner raised his fist, the loser lay face down on the canvas. The chat room exploded: 'Vietnamese blood flows in his veins!' I turned off the mic, looked back at the story I had just told Chinese audiences about a fighter of mixed heritage, and asked myself: are we celebrating talent or selling a dream?

The story of Vietnamese-origin fighters succeeding on international stages is nothing new. From the early days of MMA, the name Cung Le became legendary in the Vietnamese community. He didn't just win fights; he won with heart – a beautiful story that any media professional would want to exploit. But since the 2026 World Cup, I know that livestream is where hearts are exposed, and it is also where illusions are stripped bare.

Look at the facts. According to statistics from major promotions like ONE Championship and UFC, the number of fighters holding Vietnamese nationality or of Vietnamese descent competing professionally at the highest level still hasn't exceeded 20. Meanwhile, Thailand has hundreds, the Philippines has dozens, and Japan – despite its MMA scene showing signs of stagnation – still maintains a steady system for producing fighters. That number 20, divided by 15 years of Asian MMA development, reveals one thing: we are living off exceptional individuals, not a system.

I have followed the careers of every Vietnamese-origin fighter on international stages since 2026, when I was still a first-year student. There is a recurring pattern: they usually start abroad, train at foreign gyms, and are only called 'Vietnamese pride' when they win. When they lose – and everyone loses – silence prevails. Livestream is home, not a place to pass through, and I have witnessed too many times the comment stream shifting from 'legend' to 'disappointment' within a single round.

Sitting in front of the screen in the summer of 2026, when football came to a halt and I switched to writing about football games, I understood that athletes also know loneliness. But for fighters, that loneliness is multiplied tenfold. They step into the octagon alone, with no teammates to pass the ball, no coach shouting from the sideline. Just them, their opponent, and a naked truth: no one can replace them. Yet we – the audience, the journalists, the media makers – place an entire nation on their shoulders.

The truth is: the burden of 'Vietnamese blood' is killing fighters before they can develop.

Let's look at the case of Nguyen Van A. I won't use his real name because the story is too painful. A young fighter, 24 years old, discovered at a gym in Ho Chi Minh City, with an impressive amateur record. He was recruited by a foreign organization, sent abroad for training, and suddenly became the 'face of Vietnamese martial arts' in the media. He won his first three fights. The press cheered. Fan pages posted photos with the caption 'Proud to be Vietnamese.' But in his fourth fight, he lost by submission in the first round. And then? Silence. No one mentioned him anymore. The pressure of an entire nation's expectations, when not properly managed, crushed a young talent before it could ripen.

I write hot takes so that when I look back in the future, I can still see that I once had passion. And I am truly passionate when I see how we treat our own fighters. We demand they win, but we don't build a system where they can lose and learn. We want them to be 'pride,' but we don't invest in basic training, don't build professional domestic leagues, don't create a clear pathway for a 15-year-old who wants to become a professional fighter.

From the pitch to the gaming keyboard is a continuous flow, not a division. When I wrote about FIFA Online 4 during the pandemic, I realized something: Vietnam's young generation is passionate about sports, but they have no outlet for that passion. They play football games because there are no football fields. They watch MMA on YouTube because no television channel broadcasts it live. They know UFC fighters' names but don't know which Vietnamese fighters are competing where, because there is no platform telling those stories systematically.

This is not a criticism aimed at any specific individual or organization. This is a reality that needs to be acknowledged. I have worked in sports media in China for 6 years, witnessing how they build a martial arts system from scratch. They don't just look for talent – they create an environment for talent to emerge. They don't just tell stories about winners – they build narratives for losers too, turning defeat into part of the journey.

Emotions don't need tickets to enter the stadium, Euro 2026 taught me that. When I wrote my editorial about the three black players who missed penalties in the Euro final, I realized that the emotions of the audience – whether in the stadium or online – have equal power. And if we don't control that emotion, it will devour both athletes and fans.

So what is the solution? I don't have a perfect answer, but I have some observations from 6 years in the field.

First, we need to build domestic leagues. Not a 'symbolic' tournament held once a year, but a regular competition system with rankings, points, and a clear promotion pathway. A Vietnamese fighter shouldn't have to go abroad to get a professional fight. They need a platform at home.

Second, we need to change how we tell stories. 'Vietnamese blood' cannot be the only reason a fighter gets attention. We need to talk about their technique, their tactics, their training process, their sacrifices, and even their mistakes. A fighter is not 'national pride' just because they hold Vietnamese nationality. They are 'pride' when they represent the true values of martial arts: discipline, respect, and an never-give-up spirit.

Third, we need to accept failure as part of the process. In China, when a fighter loses, the media doesn't disappear. They stay, analyze, and tell the story of a comeback. In Vietnam, when a fighter loses, silence falls like a death sentence on their career. This is not only unfair to the fighter but also counterproductive to the development of the entire martial arts scene.

I could be wrong. Maybe I'm viewing the problem through the lens of a media professional living far from home, with a tendency to be more pessimistic than necessary. Maybe what I call a 'crisis' is actually just a natural stage of development for a young martial arts scene. Maybe I've overlooked the silent efforts of coaches, gyms, and organizations working day and night to build foundations.

But I also can't deny what I've seen. From 2026 to today, I've witnessed at least 5 promising Vietnamese-origin fighters quit due to lack of support. I've seen gyms in Vietnam close because they couldn't get enough students. I've heard stories of young talents abandoned after one loss. And I've witnessed how the global martial arts industry – dominated by UFC, ONE Championship, and other major organizations – devours talent from smaller countries without leaving anything behind but promises.

Every transfer news is a bet, I just record it with my heart. And my heart tells me: we are betting on the future of Vietnamese martial arts. If we don't change, 10 years from now we'll still be sitting here, still telling stories about 'Vietnamese blood' of fighters born and raised abroad, and still wondering why we don't have a real champion from our own soil.

An empty stadium doesn't cool the fight, it only makes emotions explode louder. And those emotions, if not guided, will turn into disappointment, criticism, and ultimately, indifference. A martial arts scene cannot develop based on indifference. It needs passion, but also patience. It needs moving stories, but also cold analysis. It needs victories, but above all, it needs a system.

I will continue to write, continue to livestream, continue to tell stories about Vietnamese martial arts to Chinese audiences. But I will not tell deceitful stories. I will not sugarcoat a reality with many dark spots. I will not call a fighter 'national pride' just because they won one fight. I will tell the truth – that we still have a long way to go, that we need to work harder, and that each of us – from journalists to coaches to audiences – has a responsibility to build the martial arts scene we desire.

2026 was the first shout, and now I shout for an entire generation. And this shout, I hope, will not just be a useless sound in an ocean of soulless comments.