A Teacher’s Reflection on Loyalty, Love, and the Story “Làng”
Đan Thanh wrote this article in Vietnamese, published in Luat Khoa Magazine on July 3, 2025.
First and foremost, I want to express my deep gratitude to Thúc Kháng, author of the article, “When Patriotism Demands Hate in Việt Nam.” That piece was able to articulate so fully the unease I’ve long felt whenever I revisit Kim Lân’s short story, Làng (The Village).
I’m still young, yet I’ve been a literature teacher for several years. Year after year, I find myself teaching Làng—a required text for students preparing for their final secondary school exams in Việt Nam. My academic path was shaped by countless literature competitions, so I understand, perhaps more than most, that I’m not allowed to teach anything beyond the official scoring rubric if I want my students to succeed. Still, I often ask myself in quiet frustration: What am I really teaching them?
An Act of Compassion, A Haunting Question
This question haunts me, especially when I think of my own students. Last year, I began tutoring a child with a neurological disorder—a child whose family couldn’t find anyone else willing to teach them. I never once saw them as lesser, or thought of their condition as a burden. I came to teach them simply because they were a child—and above all, because they were my fellow Vietnamese.
Still, I wonder: if one day that child is cured, if they return to a so-called normal life and learn that I hold political views different from the majority—would they still show me the same compassion I once showed them? Or would they call me an “enemy” of the state, the same person who once traveled 20 kilometers a day, rain or shine, to teach them?
Deconstructing the "Noble Spirit"
UNESCO’s four pillars of education are: learning to know, learning to do, learning to be, and most importantly, learning to live together. But the kind of education I was taught—and now teach—often seems to destroy that final, sacred pillar. Each year, when I teach the story of Làng, I’m required to emphasize this famous line from the character Ông Hai (Mr. Hai): “I love my village deeply, but if the village follows the French, I must hate it.”
Ông Hai’s decision to ‘hate’ his own village for siding with the French can be seen as an extreme reaction, reflecting deep inner conflict rather than a purely noble act. Can such hatred for one’s birthplace truly represent patriotic virtue—or does it instead reveal the pain of being torn from one’s roots?
Nevertheless, the official explanation I must deliver, per the exam rubric, is that “no matter how deep and passionate one’s love for their village, it must never outweigh love for the nation,” representing the Vietnamese noble spirit of sacrificing personal emotions for the greater good of the community. But to me, this explanation idealizes and absolutizes a collective spirit while minimizing personal feeling—a vital component of our humanity.
The narrative of “sacrificing personal feeling for the nation” may unintentionally encourage blind self-erasure and teach people to suppress their inner voices. It denies individuals the space to grow as full human beings—with the right to love, to grieve, and to belong.
The Dagger of Loyalty
When I taught that child with the neurological disorder, my quiet hope was that one day they might speak and communicate like any other person. But then I witnessed another child—a perfectly healthy student on the TV show Đường lên đỉnh Olympia (To the Top of the Olympia)—whose future was crushed simply for expressing an honest opinion. My heart shattered.
And I asked myself: if I am ever publicly denounced for my political beliefs, will the child I once taught be allowed to express their love and gratitude for me? Or will they be forced to say, “You turned your back on the Party, so I must hate you,” in the name of some higher patriotic duty?
If that tragedy ever comes to pass, will I be paying the price for the very thing I’ve been teaching? Have my lessons become a knife I’ve handed to others—only to have it driven into my own chest?
And if one day that same student picks up that knife to sever all bonds of gratitude between us, choosing loyalty to the Party over affection for their teacher—would their moral clarity be considered a blessing for me as an educator, a triumph for the nation?
True compassion begins with respect: for flaws, for differences, for individual thought. If our love insists that others must be this way or that way, then it’s not really love—it’s just self-interest disguised as virtue.
As I reflect on Làng and its message, I wonder: has that unconditional loyalty been weaponized by a politicized education system to become a tool of control? Worse, could it be used to justify the betrayal of those who once nurtured us? In that case, loyalty ceases to be a virtue—it becomes a shackle. And I can’t help but ask: does the Party rejoice in such loyalty, when both sides are forced to hold daggers to each other’s conscience?