Vietnamese Martial Arts: The Champion's Scars

VIETNAMESE MARTIAL ARTS: THE CHAMPION'S SCARS On a late-autumn afternoon at the National Sports Training Center, I sat quietly watching a young fighter wipe a bruise on his cheek. He said nothing, just kept punching the heavy bag, each rhythm as steady as the festival drums that echo through village nights in northern Vietnam. Outside, the news ticker of an international martial arts tournament updated: Vietnam's delegation had won another medal, but not the gold the whole team had longed for. On the screen, the words "silver medal" appeared, coldly. Behind each of those medals lies a scar — not one to weep over, but one to inscribe into the song of the victor in its own way. After more than twenty years of following Vietnamese martial arts, I have learned one thing: glory never comes alone. It always comes with loss, and one truly understands the value of victory only after tasting the bitterness of defeat. That afternoon, I decided to write about those scars — not out of pity, but to understand why we choose to rise after every fall. There are nights that need no sleep, because someone else's dream is bright enough to carry you forward. Vietnamese martial arts have a depth few countries in the region can match. From the traditional martial arts of Binh Dinh — birthplace of legendary techniques tied to the masters of the Tay Son land — to Vovinam, founded by master Nguyen Loc in 2026 in Hanoi. These are not merely technical systems, but a whole philosophy of life passed down through generations. What is remarkable is that Vietnamese martial arts have never stood still. If traditional styles once existed mainly in village dojos, taught from father to son, then from the 1990s onward a new wave appeared. Vovinam began to be included in official competition systems. Styles such as Pencak Silat, Taekwondo, Karate and Judo gradually became familiar events at the SEA Games and regional sporting congresses. A turning point came when Vovinam was added to the SEA Games competition program. It was the first time a martial art founded by a Vietnamese person appeared on a regional sporting stage, opening a chance for Vietnamese martial arts to assert their standing. Behind that decision lay a long, persistent campaign by sports officials who believed that a national martial art deserved a major arena. Alongside that, modern combat sports also grew strongly. Vietnamese boxing, once just a few small clubs, rose to become one of the flagship disciplines. Vietnamese fighters began to appear more often at international events, bringing home precious medals. This reveals a transformation: from hesitancy, Vietnamese martial arts dared to step onto the big stage. But behind the medal counts, behind the happy headlines, lie stories few tell. There are the dawn-to-dusk training sessions, the silent injuries, the anxious hours before stepping onto the scale, and the defeats no one records. I have watched these things through the eyes of someone who has spent his whole youth sitting at the edge of the ring, and each time, I understand a little more about the price of glory. What makes Vietnamese martial arts different is not how many medals we have, but how we build the foundation. Looking at the history of development, a clear model emerges: tradition as the root, modernity as the destination. Vovinam is the clearest example. This discipline is not only a system of techniques but a philosophy of life. Vovinam's technique combines hand strikes, kicks, grappling and especially locks. Its uniqueness lies in the balance between attack and defense, between strength and suppleness. A good Vovinam fighter needs not only peak fitness, but also the ability to read the opponent, judge situations and strike at the right moment. In combat competition, Vovinam fighters are often highly rated for their agile movement. Their footwork — the way they shift their axis, the way they evade — is considered one of their strengths. When facing fighters from other disciplines, the diversity of Vovinam's technique creates a certain advantage. Yet this is also a double-edged sword: having to master too many techniques can sometimes cost a fighter the specialization they need. On another front, the traditional martial arts of Binh Dinh carry the martial spirit of the Tay Son land. The forms and weapon routines here are not just movements but a whole historical story. Students of traditional martial arts are taught humility, respect for opponents, and never to use martial arts to bully the weak. These cultural values are wrapped inside every stance. Turning to boxing, the picture differs. This is a purely combative sport, where the result is measured by landed punches and judges' scorecards. Vietnamese boxing has made significant strides in recent years. Young fighters are better trained and exposed to more modern sports science. They do not only practice punching; they also learn about nutrition, recovery and competitive psychology. Common to all these martial arts is the role of the teacher. In Vietnamese martial arts, the teacher not only passes on technique but also guides ethics and character. The teacher-student bond here is sacred, almost like a family relationship. This is a beautiful feature, but it also raises a question: is this model still suited to modern professional sport? I once had the chance to talk with a veteran coach. He told me something I have never forgotten: "Martial arts do not teach you how to win; they teach you how to stand up after losing." That sentence haunted me for years. It explains why, in Vietnamese martial arts, defeat is never treated as an ending. Every loss is a lesson, every scar a mark of growth. Looking at the data, an interesting trend appears. At recent SEA Games, Vietnam's delegation has regularly won many medals in martial arts. This is evidence that our training foundation has depth. However, the number of gold medals in direct combat events remains modest relative to potential. This shows there is still a gap between tradition and the professional summit. Tactically, Vietnamese fighters are often rated as having a good physical base and high endurance. They can sustain competition intensity over long periods, something not every fighter can do. But in return, at decisive moments — when a finishing blow is needed — they sometimes show a lack of the necessary coldness. This is a problem for an entire sporting system, not for any individual. What I always stress when writing about Vietnamese martial arts is this: never underestimate the power of culture. A fighter raised in a martial tradition carries an invisible weapon — self-respect and a spirit that refuses to give up. These qualities cannot be measured on a scorecard, yet they are present in every strike. One cannot discuss Vietnamese martial arts without acknowledging the contribution of female fighters. Over many years, Vietnamese female fighters have achieved impressive results on international stages. They fight not only opponents but also gender prejudice in a field long considered male territory. Each of their medals is a quiet but powerful declaration. Behind every fighter stands a whole community. There is family, which has sacrificed much so their children can pursue a passion. There are coaches who devote their lives to training. There are friends and teammates who are present at every session. Vietnamese martial arts grew thanks to these quiet people. Delving deeper into technique, one can see that Vietnamese martial arts are undergoing an important transition. Today's fighters face opponents trained to international standards, with ever-more complete fitness and technique. To compete, they cannot rely on instinct or tradition alone. They need a scientific training system, a clear competition strategy and a professional support team. In reality, the most successful Vietnamese fighters of recent years are those who harmoniously combine their traditional roots with modern methods. They keep the martial spirit while absorbing advanced training methods. This is the model I believe will shape the future of Vietnamese martial arts. But precisely because I cherish scars so much, I must ask myself: are we romanticizing pain too much? That empty summer, I heard the scars whisper the champion's song — but that song only matters if it does not lull us to sleep before real problems. This is what has troubled me for years. When writing about defeat, one easily falls into the trap of sentimentality. We praise fighters who fall and rise, but sometimes forget that behind every fall is a body in pain, a mind under strain. Excessive glorification of sacrifice can inadvertently turn pain into merchandise, into a story to exploit rather than to empathize with. I once watched a young fighter compete with an unhealed injury. He still stepped into the ring, still gave his all, and then lost. After the match, no one mentioned the injury. People only spoke of defeat. But if someone listened carefully, a bigger question emerged: have we placed too much pressure on young fighters? The issue is not in honoring the fighting spirit. The issue is that sometimes we use that spirit to cover up systemic shortcomings. When a fighter loses because of insufficient medical support, inadequate nutrition, or too few international competition opportunities, praising their scars solves nothing. It only makes us feel more at ease. I do not want this piece to become a sweet lullaby for endurance. I want it to be a reminder that behind every medal is a human being with real limits. And our task — as writers, as fans — is not to turn them into symbols of sacrifice, but to create conditions for them to develop sustainably. Vietnamese martial arts need scars, but not preventable scars. They need a fighting spirit, but also care. They need glory, but also sustainability. That is the balance any sport wanting to grow must find. When I left the arena that afternoon, the young fighter was still sitting by the heavy bag. I did not approach, did not speak. I simply quietly recorded that moment — as I have done for so many years. Because I believe that one day he will understand what I have understood: every scar is not an ending, but a note in a long symphony. Vietnamese martial arts stand at a crossroads. On one side is the path of tradition, of enduring values but sometimes slow. On the other is the path of professionalization, of science and modernity but full of pitfalls. I do not believe we must choose one. I believe Vietnamese people have enough grit to find their own path — a path where scars and glory coexist. And perhaps that is the very song we are writing. Not the song of invincible champions, but the song of those who dare to rise after every fall, who dare to wear their scars as medals in another way.