Three Worlds Behind One Word: Why Vietnamese Martial Arts Needs Clear Rules Before Stepping Onto the Big Stage

Opening: A Referee Standing Between Three Rulebooks

On an evening of competition at the Phu Tho arena, I sat in the professional section and witnessed a paradox that has repeated for years. On the same mat, three groups of fighters walked out in turn. The first group wrapped their hands, wore open-finger gloves, and had their goal summed up in one sentence: to finish the opponent as fast as possible. The second group wore neat martial arts uniforms, walking out to perform a form and earn points for every kick height and every turn of the body. The third group wore tight-fitting competition tops, lunging at each other to throw, choke, and lock joints. The crowd in the stands called all three by the same word: "martial arts".

For a referee, that is a nightmare. Referees do not create fouls; they only record what the rules already contain. When the rules are not clearly defined, the person holding the whistle becomes the scapegoat for an incomplete system. The first mistake of Vietnamese martial arts is not a shortage of talented fighters, but the absence of a classification system clear enough to make every decision verifiable. And by the principle I have kept throughout my career: the first mistake is not meant to be forgotten, but to serve as a benchmark.

Three Worlds Behind One Word

To understand why disputes in Vietnam's martial arts world persist, we must split the word "martial arts" into three worlds whose operating logic cannot be reconciled.

The first world is modern competitive combat sports: boxing, MMA, kickboxing, Muay Thai, wrestling, grappling. Here, the definition of victory is tied to physical outcomes — a knockout, a submission that forces the opponent to tap, or a points win over a set number of rounds. This is win-loss logic, where the record and finish rate are reliable measures.

The second world is traditional and performance martial arts: forms, weapon routines, and performances judged on a technical scoring scale. Vovinam — the school founded in 2026 in Hanoi by the late master Nguyen Loc — has a demanding system of forms and paired drills judged on precise criteria. This group also includes performances in karate, taekwondo, and wushu. Here, victory does not come from finishing anyone, but from executing movements precisely down to each height and each breath.

The third world is the hybrid zone — disciplines that allow both striking and grappling within defined rules, sanda being the clearest example. This is no one's territory, operating on combined logic, and also where the most disputes arise because the line between "permitted" and "forbidden" is thinner.

Three worlds, three scoring methods, three definitions of a winner. A system can only be fair when it knows which world it is scoring for. In Vietnam, the blurring between these three worlds leaves fans, fighters, and even organizers constantly talking past one another without realizing it.

Classification Determines How We Score

In boxing and MMA, judges score under the 10-point must system, meaning each round always gives one fighter 10 points and the other 9 or fewer. Criteria include effective strikes, impact, positional control, and initiative. In performance martial arts, judges score on a technical scale, deducting points for wrong height, loss of balance, or wrong rhythm. These two systems cannot be converted into each other, just as temperature cannot be compared with length.

When organizers mix the two systems in one event, controversy is inevitable. A fighter used to knockout logic feels wronged when losing to an opponent who performs more beautifully but creates no damage. Conversely, a traditional student finds it absurd when their textbook technique is undervalued simply because there was no contact.

Based on my experience following matches, most referee complaints in Vietnam stem not from referees scoring incorrectly, but from fans applying one rulebook to a match running on another. Viewers used to MMA scream that a fighter is "running" when in fact the fighter is following the point-scoring tactics of amateur boxing. Viewers used to performance call a wrestling match "brutal" when in fact it is a legal technique within the permitted framework.

This leads to a deeper consequence: a lack of classification prevents data from accumulating, and without data there can be no improvement. Data stays silent until someone asks the right question. If a fighter's achievement is recorded without clarity on which rulebook it belongs to, that number becomes meaningless when compared with the international stage. A performance medal and a combat medal cannot be placed side by side as two equivalent benchmarks.

Weight, Health, and the Price of Ambiguity

In combat sports, weight management is a life-and-death matter. Fighters often cut weight rapidly before weigh-in, then rehydrate within 24 hours. When weight classes are not standardized and closely monitored, the risk of acute dehydration, kidney failure, and brain injury rises sharply. This is where the blurring of classification becomes a real medical risk.

In performance martial arts, the risk shifts to another form: joint injuries from repeated high-intensity movements, cartilage degeneration, and silent cumulative damage that no one counts. A performance athlete may practice the same spinning kick thousands of times a month, and the body pays a price with no tracking table recording it.

When the system does not distinguish these two groups, regulators cannot build appropriate medical protocols for each. Medical confidentiality in martial arts is like in football: clubs and organizers only disclose injuries that benefit their image. Fans and media are kept in the dark, while fighters bear the long-term consequences.

A rarely discussed point is mental health. Young fighters in Vietnam often step onto the professional stage before they are psychologically mature, without a support system after defeat. In performance disciplines, the pressure comes from the expectation of absolute perfection. Two different pressures, yet lumped under one word "martial arts", so no policy serves either group's actual needs.

Organizations, Contracts, and the Governance Gap

At the organizational level, Vietnamese martial arts operate within an overlapping structure. National sports federations manage disciplines within the official competition system. Private events, domestic MMA promotions, and community venues operate on market logic. Between these two systems lies a gap: who has the right to recognize a championship, who has the right to rank, and who is responsible when a dispute arises?

Exclusive contracts are a typical barrier. A fighter signed to one promotion may be restricted from competing elsewhere, while the national ranking system does not count those matches. As a result, a fighter may top one organization's rankings but not be recognized on the official stage, or vice versa. This is the kind of title fragmentation that leaves fans unsure who is truly number one.

In a system lacking an independent arbitration mechanism, power belongs not to the best but to the one who holds the clause. Broadcast rights are like rules — whoever holds the clause controls reality. In Vietnam, major events are often tied tightly to a few media entities, making audience access depend on commercial relationships rather than professional quality.

Market, Media, and Expectations

In terms of business model, Vietnamese martial arts relies on three sources: ticket sales and live events, sponsorship, and broadcast rights. All three are fragile because there is no star big enough to draw a mass audience. Without a star, the commercial value of an event depends on the number of bouts and the level of drama, which inadvertently encourages organizers to create high-entertainment, low-quality matches.

The media loves underdog stories, because an upset generates traffic. But only by following a weak fighter year-round can one understand the price of a miracle: training sessions lacking nutrition, medical care, and quality sparring partners. A surprise win in the media may be the result of a year of proper preparation, or of luck that cannot be repeated. The media does not distinguish the two, and that is the biggest blind spot.

At the expectation level, the gap between image and reality is often wide. Fans expect a young fighter to soon win a continental title after a few impressive wins, while the real path requires years of accumulating quality opposition. When expectations far exceed the foundation, defeat stops being a lesson and becomes a collapse of belief.

A Contrarian View: Ambiguity Can Be an Advantage

At this point, I must challenge myself. For years, I have stood on the side of structure and clarity. But seen from another angle, the ambiguity of the word "martial arts" in Vietnam may actually be a competitive advantage few martial arts cultures possess.

Imagine a martial arts scene with only MMA. It is strong and clear, but also easily replaced by any country with a better MMA system. Vietnam is different. We have Vovinam — an indigenous school with nearly a century of history, its own system of forms and paired drills, present in many countries. We have a diverse traditional martial arts base, sanda, and amateur boxing with regional medals.

Diversity is not automatically a weakness; it only becomes one when there is no mechanism for each branch to develop according to its own logic. If Vietnam builds a system that lets performance martial arts compete on their own scale, lets combat martial arts follow their own win-loss rules, and defines a hybrid zone transparently, then this diversity becomes an advantage: a full ecosystem rather than a single discipline.

However, I must admit the opposite is also true. In reality, ambiguity usually does not produce an ecosystem; it produces chaos. Resources are scattered, talents are wasted, and no branch is strong enough to compete internationally. This is the insider's trap: believing that keeping many options means keeping many opportunities, when in fact it means refusing to choose.

The strategic blind spot lies here. Vietnam does not lack fighters, schools, or fans. Vietnam lacks a decisive choice about which branch to prioritize for limited resources. A martial arts scene that wants to reach the world must choose one path as the spearhead while keeping the others sustainable.

An empty pitch still keeps its rules; people simply see more clearly when there is no noise. During the period when events were suspended due to the pandemic, I reviewed the data and realized something: with no fans and no media pressure, the true quality of each branch was most exposed. Disciplines with proper training systems maintained their form. Disciplines living off event glamour collapsed.

Conclusion: A Rulebook Before a Dream

If I must offer a progressive judgment, I believe the most important step for Vietnamese martial arts in the coming decade is not organizing more events, but building a transparent classification system with three separate branches: combat, performance, and hybrid. Each branch needs its own rulebook, scoring system, medical protocol, and ranking standard.

Alongside this, an independent arbitration mechanism is needed for disputes between fighters and organizations, so that power does not belong only to the holder of the contract. And a transparent injury policy is needed, so fighters no longer pay the price in the dark.

Data stays silent until someone asks the right question. The right question here is not "are Vietnamese fighters good enough to be world champions", but "which world are we scoring for". Answer that, and everything else — from training to health to commerce — will find its place.

The three worlds behind one word "martial arts" do not need to become one. They need to be named correctly, judged by the right rules, and respected for their true nature. That is the first condition for a martial arts scene to step onto the big stage without losing itself.