Vietnam's Three Streams of Martial Arts: The Mistake Begins with the Label

During a podcast recording session in March 2026, a young listener in Da Nang sent me a short question: "Uncle, can Vovinam fight in MMA?" I did not answer immediately. I looked at the note sheet in front of me, where I had sketched three columns: one for traditional martial arts, one for sanda, and one for professional combat sports. Those three columns could not be merged into one, yet in the minds of most Vietnamese people, they always are.

The boy's question was not wrong. It exposed a deeply ingrained habit when people talk about Vietnamese martial arts: using a single word to describe three worlds that are fundamentally different in how they operate. Vovinam is a cultural heritage with a belt-ranking system and forms (quyen). Sanda is a combat sport with clear competition rules and its own scoring system. MMA is a sports entertainment industry with broadcast contracts, sponsorship, and an entire business value chain behind it. Merging these three into one label of "martial arts" is like grouping grassroots football, school football, and the Premier League into one category. At first glance it seems reasonable. But when serious analysis begins, that label collapses on the very first line.

And when the label collapses, every decision that follows it — investment, policy, training, media — goes in the wrong direction. That is why I am writing this article.

Why 'Vietnamese martial arts' is a meaningless analytical label

Imagine you are an investor. You have 10 billion dong and want to pour it into "Vietnamese martial arts". A broker hands you a plan saying this field is growing, has a long tradition, and a loyal audience. You sign. Three years later you realise you have invested in three different things with three different success metrics, and none of them met the original targets.

Vovinam measures success by the number of practitioners, new dojos opened, medals at regional multi-sport games, and presence in schools. Sanda measures success by combat results at national and SEA Games arenas. MMA measures success by ticket revenue, broadcast rights revenue, and the number of athletes who sign professional contracts abroad. These three metrics cannot be converted into one another.

I have spent most of a 35-year career observing the sports industry to learn one thing: when a field is defined too broadly, it will be measured too wrongly. And when measured wrongly, it will be managed wrongly. This is not a problem unique to martial arts. It is the core problem of Vietnam's entire sports ecosystem.

But before going deeper, I want to pose a question few dare to ask: if these three streams are truly so different, why have we spent so many years talking about them using the same vocabulary?

When sanda is placed next to MMA: a comparison at the wrong address

In 2026, a domestic sports newspaper ran the headline: "Vietnamese fighter shockingly loses to foreign opponent at a regional MMA event". Public reaction was: "Vietnamese martial arts are weak." I reread the piece and discovered the fighter came from sanda and had only switched to MMA seven months earlier.

This is a classic analytical error. A sanda fighter switching to MMA is like a swimmer switching to marathon running. Both require endurance, both use lungs. But the muscle distribution is different, the tactics are completely different, and the concept of "winning" is not the same.

Sanda has its own competition rules. Bouts typically take place on a raised platform, rounds are shorter, and scoring prioritises the number of legitimate strikes over the level of damage. A good sanda fighter can score points with fast, clean, precise strikes. But that skill does not automatically translate into the ability to grapple, submit, or withstand pressure on the ground — the things that create victory in MMA.

Conversely, a good MMA fighter can struggle terribly in a sanda bout because the rules ban their signature techniques. This is not a story about strong versus weak. It is a story about systemic difference.

I followed one specific case: a fighter who won a national-level sanda medal and was signed by a domestic MMA organisation with great expectations. In his first three MMA bouts, he lost two. Not because he got weaker. But because he had to relearn from scratch how to attack from a different stance, how to defend against an opponent who could take him down at any moment, and how to allocate energy over five rounds instead of three short ones.

Fans only see the results. They do not see the eighteen months of transition that no one measured. And the MMA organisation wrote in its report that "investing in sanda is ineffective" — a completely false conclusion because there had never been a genuine investment in the transition process.

Vovinam and the double-metric trap

Vovinam is the most interesting case because it is stuck between two incompatible measurement systems: cultural heritage and combat sport.

On the heritage side, Vovinam is measured by the number of disciples, the number of dojos, the number of countries with member federations, and its presence at regional multi-sport games. These are reasonable indicators for a traditional martial art. They measure cultural diffusion.

But when Vovinam enters the combat arena — with combat events at the SEA Games, for instance — it must be measured by medals, by head-to-head results, by competition performance. And there, the question is no longer "how many people practise" but "how good are the practitioners under specific competition conditions".

This is where I see the biggest hole. A traditional martial art can have hundreds of thousands of disciples and still lose on the international stage if its training system is not designed to produce specialist combat fighters. Conversely, a small federation with a few hundred specialist fighters can win medals consistently.

I have witnessed this confusion at press conferences. When Vovinam fails to achieve expected combat results, the answer is usually "we need to boost the movement". But boosting the movement and training elite combat fighters are two different tasks, requiring two different strategies, two different budget lines, and two different measurement systems.

A strike cannot be scored by a form

In combat tactical analysis, there is one principle I always emphasise to young students at the "Hot-Take Forge": you cannot evaluate a strike using a form. They belong to two different frames of reference.

A form is scored by the precision of the movement, the tension of the body posture, the rhythm of the breath, and the continuity of the movement sequence. It is a performance test, and it is entirely valid within its own system. But it cannot measure what decides victory in combat: the ability to read an opponent in 0.3 seconds, the ability to switch from defence to attack, and the ability to keep a cool head when struck.

When I commentate on a combat bout, I do not look at the fighter's belt rank. I look at three things: the number of effective strikes in the first 30 seconds, the success rate of defence when cornered, and how the fighter reacts after taking a heavy blow. None of those three are in any form.

This is why using a single word "martial arts" for both performance and combat is harmful. It makes the public believe that someone who has practised Vovinam for twenty years, who can perform a perfect form, will automatically become a good MMA fighter. That is not true. And when reality does not play out that way, the public turns to disappointment — while the fault lies in the wrong expectation from the very beginning, not in the fighter.

Fighter condition: when the body does not lie

Now I want to talk about an aspect that Vietnamese media rarely touches: the physical condition and career age of fighters.

A combat fighter has a performance curve by age. The peak usually falls between 24 and 30 years old, depending on the discipline and the individual. After that comes a slow decline, where experience compensates for speed being lost. Finally comes the cliff: a bout where the body no longer obeys, and no experience can save it.

The problem with Vietnamese martial arts is that we rarely talk openly about this curve. A fighter at 32 is still praised by the media as being at his peak, even though combat data shows he is 15% slower than three years ago. This causes a double loss: the fighter is not warned to redirect his career, and young fighters are not given opportunities at the right time.

I once sat in a meeting with a national team's coaching staff. They presented a list of fighters for a tournament. I asked: "How old is this fighter, how many bouts has he fought, and how long did he take to recover after his last bout?" No one could answer the third question. They did not track recovery time. Meanwhile, in developed combat sports nations, this metric is recorded for each fighter, each bout.

That is why I say: we are managing fighters by intuition. And intuition cannot measure accumulated injury, cannot measure the level of dehydration during weight cutting, and cannot measure the neural wear after each blow to the head.

Weight cutting: an uncontrolled dangerous card

Weight cutting is a topic I want to dedicate a separate section to because of its severity.

In professional combat sports, fighters often lose weight rapidly in the days before weigh-in. The purpose is to compete in a lighter weight class, where they have a physical advantage over opponents. This technique can be tactically effective, but it is also a cause of serious health incidents, even death.

In Vietnam, I am concerned that we do not yet have enough public data on how weight cutting is managed. How many fighters track their water intake? How many have a doctor monitoring them during the cut? How many organisations have pre-bout health check procedures? I do not have certain answers, and the very lack of answers is the problem.

In risk analysis, there is one principle I always follow: the silence of data is not evidence of safety. When there is no data, the correct thing is to treat that situation as "unscreened", not "safe".

A young fighter may think that cutting 5 kg in three days is normal because "everyone does it". But without tracking data, we do not know which bodies can take it and which are approaching the limit. And in a sport where one mistake can end a career or worse, we are not allowed to guess.

The organisational picture: who is running Vietnamese martial arts

To understand why the label "martial arts" is harmful, we need to look at the organisational structure of the three streams.

Traditional martial arts are managed through a federation system tied to national sports federations, linked to physical education programmes in schools and to competitions and demonstrations. Resources come mainly from public budgets and grassroots movements.

Sanda sits within the national competition system, tied to multi-sport games, and has a weight-class-based tournament system. Resources come mainly from high-performance sports budgets.

Professional MMA operates on a business model. Organisations stage events, sell tickets, sign contracts with fighters, seek sponsorship, and sell broadcast rights. Resources come from the market.

These three systems have three different operating logics. A decision that is good for one system can be a disaster for another. For example: putting a sanda fighter into an MMA event to "raise awareness" can bring short-term media benefits, but if that fighter loses badly to a professional opponent, it creates the false perception that "Vietnamese sanda is weak".

I once said on a podcast: the martial arts market is like a detective story — only the patient find the real culprit. Here, the real culprit is not the fighter or the coach. The culprit is the ambiguity in definition, leading to no one being clearly responsible for the final outcome.

The martial arts economy: where money comes from and where it goes

When analysing a sports industry, I always start with the question: where does the money flow from?

In Vietnamese martial arts, there are three main sources. First, public budgets for high-performance sports and grassroots movements. Second, revenue from professional events, mainly ticket sales and sponsorship. Third, tuition fees from private dojos and training centres.

These three sources have three different levels of transparency, three different growth rates, and three different degrees of dependence on the economic cycle. But they are often lumped together in reports into a single number: "the size of the Vietnamese martial arts market". That number does not have much analytical meaning.

What is more notable is the cost structure. A professional fighter in Vietnam often has to pay for gym time, personal coaching, nutrition, and sometimes medical costs. Meanwhile, income from competition, if any, usually does not cover it. As a result, many talented fighters have to take other jobs to live, and training becomes a part-time activity.

This is the point that I believe Vietnamese media often overlooks when praising medals. Behind each medal is an unsustainable cost structure, and a fighter subsidising his own passion. If we cannot solve the economic equation, we will continue to lose our best fighters to other markets, or to more stable professions.

Competition rules and governance: three systems, three standards

One of the most common misconceptions is believing there is a single "martial arts rulebook". There isn't. Each discipline has its own rulebook, and each rulebook shapes which type of fighter will succeed.

Sanda rules prioritise speed and precision. MMA rules allow more techniques and demand versatility. Boxing rules are limited to the hands and demand extremely good footwork. The rules of traditional martial arts in combat competition often have their own provisions about permitted techniques, creating an entirely different playing field.

Governance problems arise when a fighter moves between systems without an adequate transition period. And the problem becomes more serious when no body is responsible for continuous health monitoring of fighters, especially fighters competing in multiple systems in the same year.

I believe this is the biggest governance hole. A fighter can compete in sanda in March, MMA in June, and a traditional martial arts tournament in September, without anyone aggregating their injury data across those three events. Meanwhile, developed combat sports nations often have mandatory medical suspension requirements after bouts involving head injury.

When media creates a false portrait of fighters

There is a mechanism I call the "star halo" — when media builds a fighter into an icon before there is enough data to prove their level.

This mechanism is dangerous for two reasons. First, it creates unfair pressure on the fighter, forcing them to compete at a level above their current ability. Second, it skews public expectations, leading to excessive disappointment when results do not meet hopes.

I once witnessed a young fighter being called a "golden hope" after winning two bouts at regional level. Three months later, he lost a bout to a more experienced opponent, and immediately the media turned its back. The same newspaper, the same writer, two completely opposite attitudes within one quarter.

The correct analysis would be different. Instead of applying the label "golden hope", we should ask: what were the records of his opponents in those two wins? What was the quality of those two victories? What techniques did he win with, and are those techniques sustainable against stronger opponents?

This is the part where I believe sports media has a responsibility to educate audiences, not just serve their momentary emotions.

The value chain: from dojo to stands

A healthy martial arts industry needs a complete value chain: dojos training young fighters, regional and national competition systems helping them accumulate experience, professional organisations paying them to compete, and an audience market large enough to sustain the whole chain.

In Vietnam, this chain is broken at several points. Dojos train fighters, but the tournament system for young age groups is not dense enough for them to accumulate dozens of bouts before going professional. Professional organisations have financial potential, but the number of events is not yet enough to create stable income for fighters. And the audience market is not yet large enough to turn tickets and broadcast rights into the main revenue source.

The most important break point, in my view, lies in the middle stage: after a fighter leaves the youth training system but is not yet skilled enough to compete professionally. This is the "death zone" of a career, where many talented fighters disappear because there are not enough competition opportunities to develop.

Developed sports nations solve this problem by organising many intermediate tournaments with low entry costs, creating regular competition opportunities for young fighters. In Vietnam, the number of such tournaments is still limited, and many of them lack continuity across years.

Tactical analysis: reading a bout like reading a map

Now I want to go into the core part that I love most: reading a combat bout.

When I watch a bout, I divide it into phases. The first thirty seconds is the probing phase, where both fighters determine distance, speed, and the opponent's reactions. This is the phase that impatient viewers often skip, but it contains the most information.

The next phase is establishing rhythm. A good fighter will try to impose his tempo on the bout. If he wants to fight fast, he will constantly create pressure and throw strikes to force the opponent to react at that speed. If he wants to fight slow, he will keep distance and move less.

The most important phase is when one of the two fighters breaks the opponent's rhythm. This is when the bout changes, and it is often when the outcome is decided. A successful rhythm-breaking strike is worth more than ten ordinary hits, because it changes the psychology and tactics of both sides.

I often record these moments when watching footage. Afterwards, I cross-check with the final result to verify whether my judgment was accurate. This is how I train my analytical skill over many years.

What I want to emphasise is that tactical analysis is not predicting outcomes. It is the process of understanding why an outcome happened. And that process needs data, needs careful observation, and needs honesty about what one sees — even when it contradicts one's expectations.

The human moment: when football does not need a scoreline

I know this article is about martial arts, but I want to spend a paragraph on something beyond all technical analysis.

On June 12, 2026, when Christian Eriksen collapsed on the pitch at Parken, my entire analytical system stopped for a few minutes. I remember sitting still in front of the screen, not thinking about lineups, not calculating any metric. That moment reminded me that behind every number is a human being.

In martial arts, this is even truer. Behind every fighter is a family, a childhood, a reason they stepped onto the mat. When analysing physical condition or injury risk, I always remind myself: these are not abstract numbers. These are people placing their bodies on the line to pursue what they believe in.

That does not mean we should be timid in analysis. On the contrary, serious analysis is how we respect them. When we do not measure properly, do not evaluate properly, we are leaving them exposed to risk without adequate protection.

The contrarian angle: where I might be wrong

Now comes the part I love most in any analysis: the self-questioning part.

If I am wrong about the three streams needing to be completely separated, that would mean separation does more harm than good. The argument for this could rest on the fact that many of the most successful fighters in history were multi-disciplinary. They carried techniques from one discipline to another, and it was precisely that hybridisation that made their level. If we separate too rigidly, we could inadvertently block the development of such versatile fighters.

Second, I might be underestimating the importance of symbols. A traditional martial art may not produce elite combat fighters, but it produces cultural identity, and that identity has its own value. If I focus too much on combat results, I might miss values that cannot be measured in medals.

Third, perhaps the problem is not the label, but the lack of resources. If there were enough money to invest simultaneously in all three streams, perhaps the ambiguity in definition would not cause such serious harm. This is a point I cannot entirely deny, but I believe resources are always finite, and allocating finite resources always requires a clear understanding of objectives.

I write these lines not to defend my position at all costs. I write them because I believe an argument is only credible if the person making it has seriously considered the possibility of being wrong. I might be wrong about the degree of separation. But I am certain that not asking the question is definitely wrong.

Closing: passing on a principle to the next generation

At 51, I write this article not to win a debate. I write to pass on a principle to young people entering sports analysis.

That principle is: before drawing any conclusion, define clearly what you are talking about. When you say "Vietnamese martial arts are weak", which discipline, which system, which metric are you talking about? When you say "we need to develop martial arts", are you talking about grassroots movements or professional combat performance?

Ambiguity is not a sign of erudition. It is a sign of not having done enough homework. And in a field where our decisions directly affect the careers and health of real people, doing enough homework is not a choice. It is an obligation.

The three streams of Vietnamese martial arts will continue to exist. The question is whether we have enough courage to call each stream by its own name. Because calling a problem by its correct name is the first step — and sometimes the hardest step — to solving it.

The moment Eriksen collapsed, I suddenly understood that sport does not need a scoreline to touch the heart. But to protect the hearts beating on the mat, we need scorelines. We need data. We need clear labels. Because behind every label is a human being who deserves to be understood correctly.