The Art of Keeping the Beat: When Vietnamese Martial Arts Face the Question of Identity

On a weekend afternoon at a small martial arts school in Nha Trang, I sat in the corner, watching an old master guide five disciples through an ancient form routine. The atmosphere was so still that I could hear each person's breathing — a sound that modern arenas with neon lights and roaring crowds can never reproduce. The master spoke little, only correcting each movement, each gaze. The session lasted two hours, and during that time, I realized something: a tradition can be lost not because it is destroyed, but because it is diluted beyond recognition. The story of Vietnamese martial arts in recent years is a story of hasty transformation. Modern combat tournaments have sprung up like mushrooms after rain, young fighters flock to highly commercialized disciplines, and federations race to bring martial arts into professional competition systems. On the surface, this is welcome development. But looking closely, I see a gap — something being forgotten in that race. In fifty years of following sports, I have witnessed many martial arts transform. Some kept their essence; others became mere forms. The difference lies in how they handle the relationship between tradition and modernity. Those who see tradition as a burden will discard it. Those who see modernity as an enemy will be left behind. But those who know how to transform — keeping the spirit, changing the form — can survive through time. I remember the 2026 season, when I wrote a series about a young midfielder for Khatoco Khanh Hoa. He ran 1.2 km more per match than the previous season, but no one noticed that number. People only look at goals, at results. I realized that in sports, the most important things are often the most invisible — like the spirit of a martial art. People remember goals; I remember the sighs behind the goal. People remember beautiful strikes; I remember quiet practice sessions in the back yard, where fighters repeat a single movement hundreds of times. The essence of martial arts is not in the match — it lies in the hours no one sees. But times are changing. Online platforms demand short, flashy, shocking content. Sponsors want dramatic matches with conflict and strong emotions. Vietnamese martial arts are being pulled into that vortex, and I wonder: are we losing ourselves? There is a paradox I have observed for years: the more commercially successful a martial art becomes, the more likely it is to lose its identity. When a school becomes a brand, when a master becomes a media star, when a form is edited to fit a video's duration — what remains may still be beautiful, but it is no longer martial arts. I am not against modernization. I myself follow combat tournaments, analyze tactics with data, and appreciate reforms that help martial arts reach more people. But I believe there is a line that, once crossed, we no longer recognize what we are pursuing. What is that line? It is when we begin to treat martial arts as a pure product — a product to consume, to entertain, to make money. Then the practitioner becomes a worker, the master becomes a manager, and the martial art becomes a production line. I have seen this happen to many other sports, and I do not want it to happen to Vietnamese martial arts. St. Petersburg taught me that a stumble is the fastest way to learn to walk. In 2026, I mispronounced a player's name three times during a World Cup semifinal and was harshly criticized. That night, I sat down, reviewed the footage, took notes, and practiced pronunciation until dawn. I stumbled, and I learned a lesson about precision, about never underestimating small details. Vietnamese martial arts are at a similar moment — a stumble can be the beginning of a learning journey, or the end of a tradition. I remember 2026, when the pandemic stopped everything. Martial arts schools closed, tournaments were postponed indefinitely. But I also witnessed miracles: masters held online classes, students trained at home, and many young people turned to martial arts as a way to hold their spirit steady in turbulent times. That gives me hope that Vietnamese martial arts have a vitality that transcends any upheaval — if we know how to cherish what is essential. The question is not "should Vietnamese martial arts modernize," but "how to modernize without losing identity." This is a question I believe every master, every federation, every martial arts lover needs to ask. And the answer does not come from numbers or awards — it comes from a deep understanding of what the discipline truly means to us. Every season has its own beat, if you only listen. Likewise, each martial art has its own beat — and that beat cannot be adjusted by fleeting tastes. It pulses according to a rhythm shaped over generations, through ups and downs, through long nights of practice witnessed by no one. In my fifty-year journey observing sports, I have seen many martial arts come and go, many stars shine and fade. But the things that last longest are not the most glamorous — they are the ones that stay true. The quiet star never goes out — because its light does not depend on others' attention. I do not know what the future of Vietnamese martial arts will be. But I know that if we keep the original beat — if we do not let outside noise drown out the breathing of practitioners — the discipline will find its own path. And then, no matter what form it takes, the spirit of Vietnamese martial arts will be passed from generation to generation. The arena has no spectators, but I hear the applause of those who never give up. They are the ones who still come to the school every morning, who still repeat each movement meticulously, who still believe there is something more precious than victory — honesty with oneself. To me, that is the true spirit of martial arts, and that is what we need to protect in this modern transformation.