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In the first days of September, Việt Nam's online sphere was consumed by a "witch-hunt style showdown" involving the celebrity Trấn Thành. This public cacophony, which also involves the police and commentator Đoàn Hương, has created a tense atmosphere of accusation.

This incident, centered on Trấn Thành's emotional reaction to the death of traditional music artist Phạm Đức Thành, occurred shortly after the Ministry of Public Security began threatening Vietnamese KOLs (Key Opinion Leaders) with criminal prosecution for their online posts.

From the perspective of the Communist Party of Việt Nam’s leadership, the press, literature, and art have long been used as ideological tools. They must serve political goals, especially during key dates like National Day or Reunification Day. As the Báo Nhân Dân (People's Newspaper) affirms: “Literature and art cannot stand outside politics, cannot be separated from the leadership of the ruling class. That is the law […]”

Should Art Be Tied To Politics? The 20th-century movement of Socialist Realism exemplifies this question, as it required art to serve politics and class ideals. Mao Zedong summed up this principle: “In practice, there is no such thing as art for art’s sake, an art standing above class, separate or independent from politics. Proletarian literature and art is a part of the whole proletarian revolutionary enterprise.”

This movement not only politicized art but also turned other channels, such as newspapers and radio, into instruments of the regime and servants of power. Lenin’s declaration offers a clear example: “The press is the sharpest and most powerful weapon of our Party.”

Political shadows seemed to cover the hearts of artists in 20th-century Communist countries, forcing them to “do the arithmetic” even before deciding to love. The following poem by Tố Hữu—an emblem of revolutionary poetry—offers a glimpse:

“And so I say: ‘My heart there

Is very sincere, divides into three lively red parts:

I give to the Party the greater share

The part for poetry, and the part for you to love…’”

Under the Communist banner, the artist’s heart is treated as if it can be assigned and appointed by the "outer machine" that governs them. The Party becomes the center, the supreme love. Private love for a partner or poetry is thus relegated to small, secondary fragments, all subordinate to the great "common love" reserved for politics.

The word “love” in this image is almost purely rational, not heartfelt. This creates an inherent tragedy: love—the most powerful natural human instinct—must yield space to dwell in the shadow of a “common love,” which is a guiding, imposed ideal. One could say that it is a version of “art for humanity,” in place of the motto “art for art’s sake.” But must this concept of humanity only be understood as a collective, leaving no place for the individual?

In the famous work “How the Steel Was Tempered,” a similar line exists about the communist ideal: “You first are a person of the Party, later you are a person of mine and others.”

In the early Soviet context, this statement expressed high public virtue. Communists were educated to place the interests of the Party—equated with the interests of the working class and laboring people—above personal love, family, and all private ties. Pavel Korchagin became the model “steel man”: ready to sacrifice youth, health, and private happiness for the common ideal.

This, however, can be seen as more of a human tragedy than a model to be celebrated, because a person is not merely a tool of ideals; they also carry natural longings for love, family, freedom, and personal happiness. When such a statement is promoted as a societal norm, it can lead to the total sacrifice of personal life and the suppression of emotional needs. At its extreme, this idea becomes the political instrumentalization of personal affection, where genuine feelings are measured by “ideological stance” and “Party loyalty.”

While one might argue that Pavel and Tố Hữu lived in wartime—when sacred aspirations for peace elevated collective ideals—the question remains whether art must serve politics in today’s world. Does individual creativity still have to suffer under the pressure of collective molds?

Art and politics belong to two different planes; a writer is not a statesman, and an artist is not a policy-maker. When art steps into that role, illusion can easily set in. It is perhaps no coincidence that the political views of Balzac, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, or Tolstoy often went astray. Lenin once advised Gorki not to delve too deeply into politics for this reason, writing: “Gorki is a great artistic talent… but why must he go into politics, whatever for?”

Politics and art cannot be conflated. Between these two domains lies a clear distance: politics aims at the majority’s interest through rules and reason; art is the voice that comforts the individual, born of freedom with materials of feeling and emotion.

Fidel Castro, a politician, once confided to Gabriel García Márquez: “If I could be born again, I would choose to become a writer.” Behind this remark is a tacit admission: politics standardizes humanity and channels it into rational action, whereas art preserves the private humanity concealed by socio-political life. While the politician sees the logic of “what must be done,” the writer cares about what happens beyond that logic, penetrating the hidden side of life where loss, sacrifice, and struggle dwell.

Unlike politics or morality, the power of art does not primarily lie in propaganda or direct “education,” but in its ability to awaken and stir conscience. Through profound, subtle, and humane inspiration, art can generate enduring effects on a society’s spiritual life—something politics finds hard to do.

Fastening an artist’s mindset, feelings, and emotions into a political frame is therefore neither advisable nor inherently correct.

Việt Nam-China: Shared Culture, Shared Fate? The four-line verse: “Mountains and rivers linked,/Ideals harmonised,/ Cultures analogous,/Fates interrelated” reads like a proclamation of neighbourly closeness between Việt Nam and China. On closer reflection, the political implications are clear: if geography, ideals, and culture are already shared, then fates may one day converge.

This interpretation raises a question worthy of reflection: Is Việt Nam on a path to becoming a mini-China, sharing the same political trajectory, one cultural space, and ultimately a “community of shared fate” under Beijing’s trajectory? Recent signs add to this doubt.

On August 18, Lieutenant-General Lê Xuân Minh, Director of the Department of Cybersecurity and High-Tech Crime Prevention, asserted that KOLs have become a “special force” in guiding and moderating social trends. The Vietnamese government has since launched the “Trustworthy Influencer” program and the “Digital Confidence Alliance” initiative.

These moves are seen as efforts to weave ideological and political responsibilities into cultural and media life, making social media a “frontline” alongside the official press in managing public perception—a model with a striking similarity to China.

In this context, Trấn Thành’s incident is framed as a "low note" amid the excitement of major holidays. Because he did not "sing in tune" with the heroic historic narratives, his actions were deemed “out of sync” or a “lost melody.” This, however, raises a counter-question: Why should an individual be labeled unpatriotic for choosing to be quiet while others are loudly celebrating heroic history?

This mindset may be perplexing, yet for many, it seems to have become second nature, as if instilled by the educational system. Studies on cultural life in China show this phenomenon is not unfamiliar.

The public reaction to Trấn Thành parallels observations by Dr. Gao Gengsong (University of Richmond, USA) about cultural life in China. There, celebrities are encouraged to show loyalty to the Communist Party and its ideology, receiving roles in state-directed films or invitations to national-level events in return. In other words, the artist not only acts on stage but must also “act” before power.

In a 2021 study, Associate Professor Jian Xu (Deakin University, Australia), a communication and celebrity expert, introduced the concept of “fake neoliberal reasoning.” This is a variant of “neoliberal subjectivity” in the contemporary Chinese context. According to his analysis, Chinese artists are forced to operate under two contradictory logics: they must follow neoliberal market principles to satisfy audiences while simultaneously submitting to socialist ideology and moral norms to appease the Communist Party.

This “fake neoliberal reasoning” suggests the subject is merely a facade: artists are encouraged to act according to market logic (to attract audiences, earn money) while being coerced to comply with the Party’s value system. The model is a “hybrid”: art is driven by market forces and public choice, yet it is also guided and directed by the state. It is not a purely free market, as political hands are shaping it.

This mechanism forces artists to wear two hats. On one side is market pressure: production companies demand “blockbusters,” and an artist’s livelihood is governed by views, likes, and revenue. On the other side is political pressure from propaganda departments, censorship regulations, and ideological “reference frameworks” that oblige the artist to show the “correct politics” by demonstrating loyalty and avoiding sensitive topics.

This system works via a dual path of reward and terror. Rewards for the loyal include state projects, funding, national stage invitations, and awards. The penalty for the disloyal is banishment, cancellation, and official black-listing.

The approach of blocking or black-listing artists is also common in South Korean entertainment, but there is a fundamental difference in its handling. In China, “cancellation” typically proceeds via administrative commands, resembling a state sword. In contrast, an artist’s ostracism in South Korea usually arises from social reaction—a natural civic action in public life. This distinction makes China’s approach far more politically tainted than the norms in Japan, South Korea, or Singapore.

Given the similarity of political systems, a comparable model is beginning to emerge in Việt Nam.

Patriotism, Extreme Nationalism, and Xenophobia Extreme nationalism and xenophobia have occurred in China while applying this model of controlling artists, and it is no surprise they are also unfolding in Việt Nam. Recently, there have been many incidents where certain artists and educational organizations, including Fulbright University Việt Nam, were attacked online with accusations of lacking patriotic spirit, indifference to the passing of a leader, or fostering a “colour revolution” plot.

Social media, when placed under political direction, turns the audience into “guards” of an artist’s loyalty. This creates a culture of suspicion, where any openness to foreign values may be labeled betrayal. This is the bitter price paid for using celebrities to amplify nationalist spirit.

Moreover, the government should be careful that propaganda of the form “I give the Party the largest share”—turning the collective will into the supreme ideal and eliminating personal feelings—is a way of impoverishing humanity. This can act as a boomerang. In an environment where authorities regularly encourage and exploit nationalist spirit, the people will expect the state to act decisively. If the state fails to meet those expectations, they may turn and mistrust the state’s competence or firmness.

This occurred in 2022 when Nancy Pelosi visited Taiwan. Some netizens in China expected the government to respond militarily (like scrambling warplanes), but it did not happen. Immediately, many expressed disappointment, saying the government had been “accommodating” and considered it a failure to defend the “One China” principle.

It is clear: when the state places the collective ideal above all and turns it into the sole standard, not only does the individual lose their voice, but the state itself becomes trapped in the very expectations it has created.

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Đan Thanh wrote this article in Vietnamese and published it in Luật Khoa Magazine on Sept. 12, 2025. J. Miu translated it into English for The Vietnamese Magazine.