Nguyen Thuy Dan, researcher of Han Nom and East Asian history: “Academics must be refined, but not inhumane”

As a researcher of history and language, what is your view on the relationship between these two fields in shaping a nation’s identity? In studying Vietnam, what do you find most significant or challenging?

This is a complex question. In mainstream academia, particularly in the United States, there is often a critical and sceptical approach to national identity. The formation of individual and collective identities is a phenomenon that can be traced across many historical periods. Some of these concepts are commonly understood as national identity, though the term itself is often debated.

Rather than analysing the origins from a strictly academic perspective, I would say that, in Vietnam’s case, language serves as a gateway to deeper issues that are not easily dissected.

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After many years of living and breathing in the world of ancient thought—particularly in the archives of 18th- and 19th-century texts—I find myself increasingly uncertain about the extent to which we share a connection with our ancestors in terms of language and thought. Many figures, often the majority of the elite, appear never to have written in Vietnamese, using only Chinese. Some even criticised and condemned writing in the national language. Can we truly claim to understand the thinking of such individuals? Their language and spiritual lives were likely vastly different from our own. Even texts written in Nom—the script of classical Vietnamese—retain a certain distance from the modern language. This is precisely where the allure of such study lies, but also its greatest challenge.

To approach the past with sophistication and rigour, we must first acknowledge the gap between our world and theirs. Calling them by reverential terms such as ‘fathers’ or ‘ancestors’ is a comforting illusion that stifles our ability to imagine and think critically. Yet this awareness must not push us to the opposite extreme—one of cynicism and disdain, as often found in deconstructionist thought. Scholarship must be refined, but never inhuman.

If you could ask a question to an ancestor about Vietnamese history or culture, who would it be, and what would you ask?

No one has ever asked me this question before. At the moment, I am reading extensively about the scholars of Tu Duc’s era—a generation of extraordinary complexity that has not received the attention it deserves. They were born during the Gia Long period, served under Minh Mang and Thieu Tri, and witnessed the unprecedented historical upheavals of Tu Duc’s reign. In many ways, they experienced the greatest transformations of modern Vietnamese history.

I would want to meet a figure such as Vu Pham Khai or Vu Duy Thanh, often regarded as staunch conservatives who refused any form of compromise with the West—whether in religion or technology. Reading their writings—always in Chinese—one encounters an intellectual and aesthetic sophistication that represents a pinnacle in modern Vietnamese history. I long to understand their world more deeply: How were they educated? How was their spiritual life cultivated? And, most importantly, how did they define the civilisation they sought to defend?

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Throughout your academic life, has there been a teacher or a teaching that has profoundly influenced you?

On the last Tet before he passed away, the late Professor Dam Quang Hung wished for me to ‘become a great scholar of Vietnam.’ We were not teacher and student, but rather friends who lived beyond the confines of our respective generations. At the time, I had not yet considered pursuing a doctorate. Of course, I have also been deeply influenced by my family.

For various reasons, many young people in Vietnam today—and even some beyond their youth—seem less engaged with their own history and language. As someone who has taught history and Han Nom, what do you think is the most effective way to spark curiosity about origins and tradition at an individual level? I am not referring to broad institutional solutions, but rather to the role of an educator or mentor, much as your own teachers have shaped you.

I believe this very concern—or at least the way the problem is framed—will inevitably lead to a dead end. We need only look at the contemporary phenomenon of ‘ancient costumes,’ which has grown into a mass movement, to see the paradox at play. Historically, traditional dress was not a matter of personal choice but was strictly regulated according to the social hierarchy. Yet today, the Viet Phuc movement promotes an entirely different worldview, one that is, in some ways, the opposite of the culture it seeks to recreate. Moreover, the very concept of Viet Phuc is a modern construct, lacking a clear historical foundation.

Your question ties into my earlier point about the importance of acknowledging the distance between us and our ancestors. When we romanticise the past and interpret history through a modern lens, we risk using tradition as a tool for self-glorification. In my view, before we can engage deeply with tradition, we must first discard our preconceived notions. Too often, I find myself having to stop mid-discussion because the other person believes they already understand the issue—when in reality, they lack the necessary foundation to approach it properly. On a personal level, I am reminded of a Latin proverb: Nemo dat quod non habet—‘He who does not possess cannot give.’ If we ourselves have not truly immersed in tradition, have not grasped its value, how can we hope to inspire others?

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You are a father. Have you thought about the generational gap between you and your future children, especially considering how much of your life is immersed in ancient thought, while raising them in the United States?

To be honest, I already feel a generational gap with my wife, let alone with my children. There are concerns that the next generation will struggle to even imagine, let alone share with those who came before them. Being born at the intersection of multiple generations and historical transitions, and then grappling with what should—or even can—be passed on to the next generation, has always haunted me as a kind of existential sorrow. In many ways, this is the driving force behind my search for a contemporary poetic language—one that can articulate not only my personal anxieties but also the shared dilemmas of an entire era.

At present, my wife and I are considering homeschooling our children in the future. The world is changing rapidly, and many traditional models and assumptions have become outdated, even if nothing is ever entirely black and white.

As both a language researcher and a poet, how do you think Vietnamese poetry should evolve in the context of globalisation? How can it develop and integrate while still ensuring that readers immediately recognise it as Vietnamese poetry, rather than a translated poem originally conceived in a foreign language?

When placed in a historical context, this question requires an awareness that the notion of writing in Vietnamese independently, without reference to another language, is relatively new—barely a century old. We are both fortunate and unfortunate to live in such a turbulent period. English literature underwent a similar evolution over several centuries. Even the idea of English literature as a formal academic discipline only emerged in the 20th century.

To explore this question fully, I would need to write an entire essay. But if I were to distill it into a single thought, I would say this: Writers must read far more than they write—ten times, sometimes a hundred times more. Many of our limitations stem from not reading widely enough, from being unable to free ourselves from the constraints of our time and generation.

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