Vietnamese martial arts at crossroads: Between world expectations and training ground reality

The training ground in Binh Thanh District, Ho Chi Minh City, just a stone's throw from the rising office buildings, at 5 in the morning holds only the sound of shoes scraping against the cement floor and the breathing rhythm of trainees running laps around the yard. No spectators, no flash photography, no applause – just steady breathing and the whistle of Coach Nguyen Van Duoc, who has guided three generations of fighters since he was a scrawny boy in Can Tho. In that dusty, Tiger Balm-scented room, I saw a different Vietnam – not the emerging nation in technology or manufacturing, but a martial arts community struggling to find its place on the world map. In 2026, when Nguyen Tran Duy Nhat – the 26-year-old from Da Nang – stepped onto the ONE Championship ring in Bangkok and knocked out his Filipino opponent in just 47 seconds, the entire country seemed to wake up. Media covered it, social networks shared the clip furiously, and a question rang through every forum: Is Vietnamese martial arts ready to compete at the highest level? The answer, based on what I've observed from training grounds to press rooms, is far more complex than one impressive knockout punch. The landscape is changing in ways no one can deny. ONE Championship, Asia's largest MMA promotion, has introduced specific pathways for Vietnamese fighters, creating a clear trajectory from the preliminary circuit to the main stage. Vietnamese media companies are now paying attention to combat sports – a term no one mentioned five years ago. Coaches who once had to self-teach techniques through YouTube videos now have opportunities to train in Thailand, Brazil, and the United States. But amid this wave of optimism, a stark reality persists: Vietnam's system for selection, training, and professional support for fighters still has serious gaps. Nguyen Tran Duy Nhat is not a phenomenon. He's a product of a gradually improving system, albeit with many fractures. I've followed Duy Nhat's journey from his early days at Team Durandal in Ho Chi Minh City, when he had to fight amateur opponents to build experience and fight money. Each bout on Vietnam's regional circuit paid only about 2-3 million dong, while expenses for travel, accommodation, and private coaching could reach 5 million. Stories of fighters working side jobs to cover costs aren't exceptions – they're the norm. According to figures from the Vietnam Martial Arts Federation (VFM), as of late 2026, the country has approximately 47 registered martial arts clubs operating in professional MMA and combat sports. This number tripled compared to 2026 – a significant leap. However, when I inquired about actual facilities, only 12 of these have training centers meeting international standards – meaning gyms with specialized equipment, certified coaches, and medical support systems. The rest, while still operating and training fighters, work under conditions far below minimum safety standards. What's noteworthy is that this polarization isn't just between major cities and rural areas. Even within Ho Chi Minh City, the disparity between clubs is stark. Team Tiger Muay Thai in District 7, backed by funding from a Vietnamese overseas businessman, possesses one of the most modern training facilities in Southeast Asia. Meanwhile, just a few kilometers away, clubs in Binh Tan or Thu Duc districts still train on bare concrete yards, lacking even basic safety mats for fall practice. The issue extends beyond facilities. Looking at the tactical approaches of Vietnamese fighters in international competitions, a concerning trend emerges: we excel at developing individual skills but fall short in team tactics and adaptive flexibility. Duy Nhat's ONE Championship bout showed he has solid fundamental martial arts foundations – kicks, distance management, reflexes all at a decent level. But when his opponent shifted strategy in the second round, Duy Nhat struggled to adjust. Fortunately, the knockout came early; otherwise, the outcome might have been different. I recall a conversation with Coach Nguyen Van Duoc during a rainy August night last year. He sat on a plastic stool in the Hericiry Center's waiting area, drinking tea and smoking, when I asked about the gap between Vietnamese fighters and the world. He was silent for a long while, then said: "Our kids aren't short on courage, aren't short on skill. Our kids lack the head – the head that thinks three steps ahead, that reads opponents, that handles pressure without breaking." His words reflect a deeper issue than technique: it's about competitive psychology and coaching culture. In years of observing tournaments in Thailand and the Philippines – two nations considered cradles of Southeast Asian martial arts – I noticed a crucial difference. Thai fighters are trained in cutthroat competitive environments from childhood, with a clear hierarchy from village rings to Lumpinee Stadium. Every bout is a real-world lesson in reading opponents, managing emotions, and making decisions under pressure. Meanwhile, Vietnamese fighters typically have to wait until they're old enough and have enough money before competing officially – a delay in accumulating actual combat experience. Another overlooked angle is the story of female fighters. While media constantly praises Tran Ngoc Tu, Nguyen Thi Thu Hien, or Pham Thi Lan – women who brought home medals from international competitions – the backstage reality rarely gets mentioned. The Female Vovinam Club in Can Tho, which has produced many national champions, still struggles with operating funds. The average income of a professional female fighter in Vietnam ranges from 8 to 15 million dong per month – a sum virtually impossible to live on in a major city without family support. Many fighters have to work part-time jobs, directly affecting their training time and competition quality. Beyond internal challenges, there's also pressure from public expectations themselves. Whenever a Vietnamese fighter succeeds internationally, media erupts about a "golden generation" or a "Vietnamese martial arts boom." But looking at actual numbers, Vietnam has only about 15 fighters competing regularly in reputable international circuits. Compared to Thailand with over 200 fighters active on foreign professional stages, this number is far too small to call a "movement." There's one thing analysts often overlook: Vietnamese martial arts faces a strategic crossroads. We can continue the current path – developing exceptional individuals, hoping for surprise "phenomena," and waiting for attention from international organizations. Or, we can build a proper ecosystem – from youth selection and professional training to domestic competition systems strong enough to compete. The second option requires long-term investment, but only it can create a solid foundation instead of depending on individual talent. It's interesting to compare how other Southeast Asian nations have approached this. The Philippines, after Manny Pacquiao's success, invested heavily in boxing development from grassroots to elite levels. The result: even though Pacquiao has retired, the Philippines maintains a stream of world-class fighters. Thailand has the cultural advantage – Muay Thai is deeply embedded in daily life, creating a natural "talent pool." Vietnam, with long martial arts traditions like Binh Dinh, Vovinam, and Thanh Hoa, hasn't effectively leveraged this cultural advantage. Returning to that morning at the Binh Thanh training ground. As the sun climbed higher, the trainees began dispersing, each drenched in sweat. A boy of about 14, with worn-out gloves and scuffed shoes, ran up to me. "Brother, I want to fight at ONE Championship like Brother Duy Nhat," he said, eyes blazing. I looked at him, at those gloves with peeling leather, and wondered: how many boys like him will get a real chance? The answer, I believe, lies not in one impressive knockout or a praising article. It lies in decisions made in meeting rooms, money invested in building training centers, and how we view martial arts – not just as a recreational sport, but as part of our cultural heritage that deserves preservation and development. Vietnamese martial arts doesn't need hollow promises. It needs real investment, starting from training grounds, from worn-out gloves, from boys dreaming of one day competing on international stages. The training ground is empty of spectators, but the heartbeat rhythm of these trainees still echoes. And that's the most important sound we need to listen to.