Vietnamese Traditional Martial Arts in the Era of Professionalisation: The Quiet Pulse of Nha Trang

On the morning of 12 March 2026, I was at a traditional martial arts training yard tucked deep in a small alley off Nguyen Thien Thuat Street, Nha Trang. The sky was not yet bright. Master Tran Dinh Khoi, 68, bent down to correct the stance of a young student. The boy, about twelve years old, had knees trembling from holding the stance too long, but he did not let go. I stood in the corner of the yard, opened my lined notebook and wrote down the time: 5:14 a.m. This was the boy's second session of the day — the first had ended at 4:30. People often ask me what I wait for at sessions like this. My answer is always the same: I wait for a breath.

At 61, after more than four decades holding a pen, I still believe that the pulse of a martial arts culture is not in the medals hanging on the wall, but in mornings like this. Every season has its own pulse; you just have to listen.

Over the past decade, Vietnamese martial arts have entered a cycle of professionalisation stronger than ever before. MMA, kickboxing, professional boxing and sanda arenas draw ever larger audiences. Nha Trang — where I live and work — is not outside that current. This coastal city has long been famous for its traditional martial arts movement, but in recent years the number of MMA and kickboxing gyms has risen markedly.

I track this change with my notebook. In 2026, I began carefully recording every training session at the martial arts yards of Nha Trang. In 2026, when the pandemic halted competitions, I watched many dojos close and many young fighters leave the trade. But it was precisely in that period that a new generation quietly grew up. These were people who never appeared in newspapers, had no sponsors, only a training floor and sweat.

Among the faces I follow, one name I have recorded the most: Le Minh Tam, born in 2026 in Dien Khanh, Khanh Hoa. Tam began traditional martial arts at eight, switched to sanda at fifteen, and in 2026 tried amateur MMA. He is not the most prominent in tournaments, but he is the most steadily improving fighter I have ever followed.

The first thing I noticed when reviewing the 47 fights of Tam's that I filmed over three years: he does not win by power, but by timing. According to statistics I compiled myself, of his 12 most recent wins, 8 saw Tam finish his opponent in the second round, after having trailed on points in the first. This is a remarkable pattern, because it goes against common intuition: people assume the one leading holds the initiative, but for Tam, trailing in the first round is part of the plan.

I asked Tam's coach, Nguyen Huu Phuoc, 41, about this. Phuoc said: "Tam learns to read opponents in the first round. He does not rush. He lets the opponent reveal habits, then exploits them in the second." This is an approach rarely seen in young fighters, who are usually swept along by their opponent's tempo.

Watching closely, I noticed an interesting technical detail. Tam habitually lowers his centre of gravity by about 15% in the third second before striking. In the 47 fights I filmed, there were 31 occasions when he lowered his centre and then threw the decisive strike right after. Opponents often cannot react in time because the strike comes from a lower angle than expected. This is not a new technique — it has roots in traditional martial arts, in the old forms Tam learned as a child.

What I want to stress is this: the traditional martial arts foundation does not hinder Tam at all — it is his advantage. This is the point outsiders often misunderstand. They assume traditional martial arts are outdated, unsuited to the modern arena. But looking at Tam, I see the opposite.

On the commercial side, professional martial arts events in Vietnam are still young. A mid-sized MMA event in Nha Trang might draw about 2,000 spectators, with tickets from 200,000 to 1,500,000 dong. A winning fighter earns between 5 and 15 million dong — not a large sum against training and living costs. Many young fighters must take second jobs to make ends meet. Tam, in his first two years of competition, worked evening delivery shifts to fund his morning training.

This is the paradox of Vietnamese martial arts: the more it professionalises, the clearer the gap between those at the top and those at the bottom. Top fighters have sponsors, support teams, media. But most young fighters still struggle with basic expenses.

On condition and career longevity, this is an area I care about deeply because it bears directly on fighter safety. In the past five years, I have recorded a rising trend in young fighters forced into long layoffs by head injuries. Amateur events often lack the strict medical screening of international professional circuits. This is a gap that needs closing before it becomes a systemic problem.

On governance, the absence of a unified ranking system makes it hard for fighters to build sustainable careers. A fighter may win one event but gain no recognition in another. This creates fragmentation, making it hard for fans to follow and sponsors hesitant to invest long-term.

The most common misunderstanding about Vietnamese martial arts is that it is only for performance. On forums, not a few claim Vietnamese traditional martial arts have no real combat value, that they are merely attractive forms for festivals. This view ignores a fact: many Vietnamese MMA and sanda fighters today come from traditional martial arts backgrounds, and they are quietly proving its value in the arena.

There is a memory I still hold. In 2026, in St. Petersburg, I once mispronounced an athlete's name on live television. St. Petersburg taught me that a stumble is the fastest way to learn to walk. I mention this because I think it also applies to Vietnamese martial arts: missteps in the professionalisation process are hard to avoid, but what matters is what we learn from them.

I write slowly because I want to remember for a long time, like someone keeping the rhythm for the whole field. In this trade, people rush to find new stars, peak fights. But I believe true value lies in the moments no one notices: a 5 a.m. training session, an old master's adjustment of a stance, a young fighter quietly lowering his centre before the strike.

The question for the future is not whether Vietnamese martial arts can produce a world champion. The truer question is: do we have enough patience to build a sustainable foundation, where the children trembling in their stances today can become fighters cared for both physically and mentally in ten years?

In closing, I think the most notable thing is not what happens in the arena, but what happens in silence. The 5 a.m. sessions. The children holding stances until their legs shake. The old masters still bending to correct each posture. Nha Trang's quiet stars never go out. And perhaps, looking back at this season in ten years, we will realise that the true pulse of Vietnamese martial arts began in these small training yards.