An election implies a choice. It implies a contest of visions, a debate over the future, and a mandate granted by the governed. Việt Nam’s recently concluded 14th National Party Congress offered none of these. Instead, it was a meticulously choreographed absurdist play where the script was written months in advance, the actors knew their lines by heart, and the audience—the Vietnamese people—was strictly barred from the stage.
The National Party Congress is theoretically the country’s most significant political event and is held every five years to select leadership and determine the nation’s trajectory. On paper, it is the mechanism by which the Communist Party of Việt Nam (CPV) manifests the collective will of the people into policy. However, upon the conclusion of this year's proceedings, it becomes glaringly evident that the purpose of this Congress was to uphold and safeguard the entrenched power of a select few.
Tô Lâm's victory as General Secretary was rigged from the start. His retention of power was absolute, securing 180 out of 180 votes—a unanimous 100% approval rating. Such a number belongs in the annals of authoritarian history, not in the records of a modern nation seeking legitimacy. Furthermore, his victory required the party to violate its standards. Tô Lâm exceeded the mandatory age limit of 65 years old for re-election. This hurdle was cleared only because the Central Committee conveniently deemed his situation a “special case.”
This "special case" signals a terrifying change in the fundamental nature of the regime. As a creature of the Ministry of Public Security (MPS), Tô Lâm has brought the security apparatus with him. His victory, alongside the rapid ascent of his protégé, current Minister of Public Security Lương Tam Quang, marks the creation of a "super-ministry" of police officials who now hold key positions across the government.
20 members of the new Central Committee—a staggering 10% of the total seats—now hail from Hưng Yên Province, Tô Lâm’s home turf. This Hưng Yên clique includes figures like Lương Tam Quang and Hà Nội Party Secretary Nguyễn Duy Ngọc. While this faction continues to rise in power, Prime Minister Phạm Minh Chính and President Lương Cường were excluded from the new Central Committee entirely. They were quietly ushered out, their tenure at the top of the power pyramid effectively put to an end.
The party loves to speak of "unity" and "solidarity," but the unanimity present in the voting results is a product of fear. The Congress functions merely as a "ratification chamber" for decisions made in backrooms long before the delegates ever arrived in Hà Nội. The National Assembly, which will technically vote to confirm state positions later this year, is legally bound to follow the party’s lead. There is no debate. There is no choice.
The paranoia of this new leadership was put on full display during the event itself. While the party preached the slogan that "the people are the root" (dân là gốc), their actions betrayed a deep fear of that very root. Mobile signals around the convention center were jammed. Delegates were stripped of their personal phones and issued tablets with no internet connection, ensuring that no unscripted information could leak out—and more importantly, that no dissenting opinions could creep in. Outside the convention hall, the state machinery was busy arresting critics and silencing Facebook users under the guise of "preventing anti-state content," proving that the regime’s definition of "unity" is simply the silence of its critics.
The 14th Party Congress was a masterclass in smoke and mirrors. The party documents—dense, repetitive texts often ignored by the public—reveal the regime's deep-seated anxieties. They speak of complex developments and the fear of "self-evolution," coded language for the terrifying possibility that party members might start thinking for themselves.
The regime claims to be preparing Việt Nam for a "new era" of prosperity, yet it is doing so by choking off the remaining avenues of dissent. They have promised to revise the party charter "right from the beginning of the term," a move that suggests an urgent desire to institutionalize this new, harder-line discipline before any opposition can coalesce.
Việt Nam is inching its way towards personalized autocracy. The "special cases," the jammed signals, the Hưng Yên consolidation, and the 100% approval ratings—these are not the hallmarks of a confident, powerful nation. They are the symptoms of a regime that fears its own people, hiding its machinations behind a curtain of red flags and hollow applause. The 14th Congress may be over, but for the Vietnamese people, the performance is just beginning, and they are forced to watch from the back row seats, silent and disenfranchised.
Aerolyne Reed is a writer and she does not consider herself as anyone special. She thinks she is just another sound, lost in a multitude of voices, just another soul adrift in the aetherial sea. Yet,
