Việt Nam Land Rights: Three of Trịnh Bá Phương’s Family Jailed, a Fourth May Be Next

On June 24, 2020, activist Trịnh Bá Phương was arrested. His wife, Đỗ Thị Thu, had given birth to their second child just four days earlier.

When police took Phương away and returned to read the arrest warrant, Thu remained outwardly calm, unable to believe what was happening. It was not until long after the authorities left that she burst into tears. Her father relocated Thu and her children to his home, where she remained in a daze for three months. 

Six years later, she uses a remarkably measured phrase to describe the event: “A tremendous psychological shock.”

Phương, his younger brother, Trịnh Bá Tư, and their mother, Cấn Thị Thêu, were farmers who became activists after their land was forcibly seized. [1] Angered by the authorities’ unjust land acquisition, they led residents of Dương Nội in Hà Nội to speak out. All three were arrested on that same day, receiving sentences totaling 26 years in prison for “propaganda against the state” under Article 117 of Việt Nam’s 2015 Penal Code.

That day divided Thu’s family into those who were free and those behind bars, transforming her from someone naive into someone who bore heavy responsibility. 

She now raises two young children alone, supports the family financially, and advocates for “the three members of [her] family.” While it might seem that the worst has passed, another storm may still be waiting. 

This is the story of Đỗ Thị Thu, a self-described “prisoner-in-waiting” who does not know on what “fine day” “they” may come to arrest her.

An Easy Story and a Hard One 

Thu was contacted for an interview just days after Phương’s second appeal hearing on Dec. 27, 2025. After exchanging only a few messages, she called.

“Yes, I can answer your questions now. Go ahead and ask me anything,” she said. [2]

Years of advocating for her husband may have trained Thu to be ready for an interview at any time, but that readiness vanished when she was asked the first question: 

“Could you tell me about your childhood?” 

Her unmistakable hesitation on the other end of the line provided a striking contrast to her earlier confidence.

After years of discussing her husband, mother-in-law, and brother-in-law, talking about herself proved difficult. She paused for several seconds, asked for the questions to be sent in advance, and arranged to speak another day. 

Nearly two months of postponed appointments and several pomelo harvests later, she finally had an interview filled with laughter late one night as Tết approached.

Memories From Age 11

Born in 1999 in what was then Dương Nội Ward, Hà Đông District in Hà Nội, Thu grew up in a farming family. Like many rural children, she enjoyed a peaceful childhood beside the village fields. However, those who follow land disputes in Việt Nam are likely already familiar with the fate of her hometown.

Located at the gateway to western Hà Nội along major transportation routes, Dương Nội had been marked for land clearance since the early 2000s for massive urban development projects. 

Although most of the land was agricultural and populated by farmers, residents were entirely excluded from policy discussions. Authorities moved swiftly to acquire and forcibly seize the land. [3] Given no opportunity to offer input and faced with inadequate compensation plans, the residents protested fiercely.

In March 2010, during a large-scale forced eviction, authorities used bulldozers to clear land belonging to numerous Dương Nội households, including Thu’s family. Even graves were bulldozed. [4]

Thu was only in the fifth grade at the time. While riding her bicycle home, she was told that an excavator had knocked her mother down at the eviction site.

“Have you seen the video of the Dương Nội land eviction where an excavator struck a woman?” Thu said. “That was my mother.”

“I really hated the police then,” she said, her frustration still evident. “Before I knew whether my mother was alive or dead, I hated them so much. Later, when I heard that she was all right, that feeling eased a little.”

That same year, authorities forcibly seized land belonging to Thu’s maternal family. Her relatives joined other residents of the former Dương Nội Commune in petitioning the government to recover their property. If the family had accepted the government’s compensation, they would have received slightly more than 200 million đồng, calculated at a rate of 201,600 đồng per square meter.

“That land could now be worth hundreds of millions of đồng per square meter,” Thu said.

More than 15 years have passed, yet Thu’s parents and maternal relatives, alongside over 100 other Dương Nội households, continue to file complaints with every available government agency. They usually send petitions by mail, though they occasionally gather to “talk” directly with authorities at the Central Citizen Reception Office at 1 Ngô Thì Nhậm in Hà Nội. 

After a decade and a half, nothing has changed, and the end remains out of sight.

Brought Together by the Loss of Their Land

Before meeting Phương, Thu was a carefree high school student who had enjoyed a relatively peaceful childhood. Their 14-year age difference meant that they had separate interests, and even after their marriage, she remained largely indifferent to his activism. 

Ironically, had both of their families not lost their land, the two might never have crossed paths.

During the height of the campaign to reclaim their property, displaced Dương Nội farmers regularly met to strategize. They initially gathered at the home of a local villager, but when his family accepted state compensation in late 2016 and withdrew from the campaign, the meetings relocated to the home of Thu’s parents.

Through his years of organizing alongside Dương Nội residents, Phương had built strong ties in the community, earning the high regard of Thu’s maternal grandmother. These shared circumstances and personal connections brought Phương and Thu together. They were married in late 2017, shortly after her high school graduation.

Leaving her carefree youth behind to become a devoted homemaker, Thu focused entirely on her family. Although Phương’s younger brother, Trịnh Bá Tư, repeatedly encouraged her to learn more about their activism, she showed little interest.

“I was young and inexperienced then, and I didn’t know much,” she said. “I needed time to observe things and experience them for myself.”

Because Phương respected her boundaries and never pressured her to engage in his work, she remained shielded from that reality. That is why Thu described his eventual arrest as “the first major shock of my life”—a violent awakening that changed her trajectory forever.

Two Halves of a Life

Thu’s life can be divided into two distinct parts: before her husband’s arrest and after it.

Before Phương and two other family members were imprisoned, Thu described herself as so “naive” that she thought, “If they came to arrest my husband, I could hold on to his legs and refuse to let him go, and then no one would be able to take him.” She was so terrified of the police that she did not dare ride a motorbike into central Hà Nội for fear of encountering traffic officers.

Following the arrest, she was forced to care for the family alone, manage their affairs, and become an outspoken advocate for her imprisoned relatives. 

Now, she says half-jokingly, “I’m not afraid of any of them.”

Phương has been imprisoned for nearly six years, appearing in court four times and receiving two separate sentences. In a rare occurrence for a Vietnamese political case, a new sentence was imposed on top of his existing one. 

In September 2025, while serving his initial 10-year term, Phương was sentenced to an additional 11 years for anti-state activity under Article 117. The evidence was a scrap of paper that “could not be authenticated,” which Phương explicitly denied writing.

His family appealed the decision in late December 2025, but they were unsuccessful. If nothing changes, his combined sentence will total 21 years, and Thu will remain separated from her husband for another 15 years.

Every year since the 2020 arrest, security officers have “invited” Thu in for questioning, sometimes multiple times a year. Recently, plainclothes officers have called her directly and visited her home, sitting down as though they were guests. 

During the Communist Party congress in late January, officers followed her for “seven days and seven nights,” preventing her from leaving Hà Nội. Occurring at the height of the pomelo harvest—the family’s primary source of income—the constant and intense surveillance forced Thu to send her older child to stay with grandparents. She described the ordeal as both “bothersome” and “exhausting.”

From “Naive” to “Activist”

Unlike her husband, Thu is not exactly a land rights activist, and she may not even consider herself one today. However, a review of her personal Facebook page reveals a clear dividing line: the notice of Phương’s pretrial detention, posted on June 25, 2020.

Before that date, her page was filled with photographs of joyful family gatherings and their chubby older child resting in their arms. After the detention notice, it transformed into a live feed of updates regarding Phương, Tư, and Thêu. She began documenting prison visits, advocacy efforts, and statements of support from international human rights organizations. 

Expanding her focus, Thu has also spoken out for other human rights activists, prisoners of conscience, and those she believes have suffered injustice.

She learned her advocacy skills entirely out of necessity following her husband’s arrest. She gathered knowledge from conversations during prison visits, letters sent home by Phương and Thêu, and an expanding network of contacts. During one visit to An Điềm Prison, her husband expressed surprise at her transformation.

“I always thought you didn’t know anything about what was happening outside,” she recalled him saying. “I never thought you could be this strong.”

Today, Thu’s Facebook page boasts 13,000 followers. Her profile picture shows her and her two children holding three signs: “My husband is innocent,” “My father is innocent” and “Free my father.” 

Her cover image also features a slogan frequently used by advocates for Vietnamese prisoners of conscience: “We do not forget, and we will not remain silent.”

Her relentless, peaceful advocacy for her three relatives has not gone unnoticed. Thu’s case was recently highlighted in a report from the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, which called on Vietnamese authorities to explain alleged violations against Phương’s family. 

This visibility places Thu at a remarkably high risk of arrest.

If That “Fine Day” Comes

On Dec. 9, 2025, Thu was summoned by the Hanoi Police Immigration Department. Officials returned her passport application fee of 180,000 đồng without providing any formal paperwork.

“You are barred from leaving the country until March 26 for security reasons,” they told her.

She was then escorted into a meeting room filled with waiting officials. Thu listed the representatives one by one: PA09, the Hanoi Police Security Investigation Division, which included Phạm Ngọc Linh, the officer who handled Phương’s case; PA03, the Internal Political Security Division; PA05, the Cybersecurity Division; and local Dương Nội Ward police. Together, they issued a warning about her activities, ordered her to cease posting on Facebook, and threatened her with arrest if she continued.

Despite her considerable experience dealing with security officials, Thu noted, “This meeting was quite tense.”

The officers declared that this meeting would be the last time they summoned her. “We have your complete file,” they warned, adding that the next encounter would result in her arrest for “engaging in illegal conduct.”

The confrontation escalated as they demanded her phone’s SIM card and attempted to confiscate her device. She refused to surrender either. When they threatened to hold her overnight, she boldly told them to do what they believed they had to do. Realizing intimidation was failing, the officers adopted a gentler, more manipulative tone.

“Think it over,” they told her. “Call me when you change your mind. You have to think about your children. Their father has already been arrested. If you are arrested, too, who will raise them? If you keep doing this, one fine day we will arrest you.”

As of late August 2026, Thu still had not reapplied for her passport. “They said that even if I went back, they would just extend the travel ban, so I stopped going,” she explained.

Since March, the necessity of supporting her family has left Thu with less time to speak out publicly. As a result, security officials have “bothered” her less frequently.

When asked whether she was afraid, she answered frankly. “Who wouldn’t be afraid of going to prison?” Thu replied.

However, because “the three members of my family” are already imprisoned, she feels compelled to act. If she does not speak for them, no one will. “If I had not spoken out, they might have died in prison by now,” she said.

Recently, Trịnh Bá Tư was held in solitary confinement for several days. His family believes that Prison No. 6 in Nghệ An used the punishment to “retaliate” after he and other prisoners of conscience protested the facility serving moldy rice. 

Furthermore, Thêu was ill at the time of the interview but had not received appropriate medical treatment.

“She gets sick several times a year, and each time it takes her months to recover,” Thu said.

Finding Joy Amidst Hardship

Thu laughed often during the conversation. Somehow, an interview that could easily have been somber—dominated by discussions of prison, forced land seizures, and security officers—was filled with more laughter than silence.

When asked if she ever regretted marrying Phương, given how difficult her life became afterward, she sidestepped a direct answer.

“Marriage is fate,” she said. “Phương is gentle and calm. He loves his wife and children very much.”

Believing that Phương did the right thing, Thu maintains that if given the choice, she would marry him all over again. In fact, she views his arrest as the catalyst for discovering her own resilience.

“Before Phương was arrested, I was just an ordinary homemaker,” she said. “After his arrest, I had to make myself stronger. Sometimes the storms we face make us stronger. That is when we discover everything we are capable of.”

Today, her older child is 8, while her younger child’s age mirrors the exact number of years the child’s father, uncle, and grandmother have spent behind bars. Thu cares for both children every day on behalf of herself and Phương, though she sometimes feels “guilty” that the demands of her advocacy leave her with less time for them.

When asked if she had made contingency plans for the children after security officers threatened to arrest her on “one fine day,” her answer was stark.

“I don’t know what I am supposed to prepare, and I don’t know when they will arrest me,” Thu said.

There is truly no way to know. 

In Việt Nam, it is difficult for anyone to know exactly when they might be arrested—regardless of whether they have committed a crime.

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Hoàng Nam wrote this article in Vietnamese and published it in Luật Khoa Magazine on August 31, 2026. The Vietnamese Magazine translated it into English.