Gratitude Culture and Politicized Education

Đan Thanh wrote this article in Vietnamese and published it in Luật Khoa Magazine on Sept. 5, 2025. Đàm Vĩnh Hằng translated it into English for The Vietnamese Magazine.

---

These days, people are rushing to thank the Party and the State for a modest allowance, though in reality, the money comes from the taxes every citizen has scraped together to contribute. At the same time, children are eagerly returning to class, looking toward lecterns and podiums covered with banners teaching them to be grateful to their teachers and schools.

As someone who has taught, I have never wished for my students to “remember their debt” or feel that they must be “grateful” to me.

This may sound strange as our education system constantly preaches about the “great debt” owed to teachers, framing the profession as sacred and teaching students an unconditional sense of obligation. 

To make my point clearer, perhaps I should tell a story.

The Thin Line Between Gratitude and Resentment

The story is of Han Xin (231–196 BC), who lived during China’s Han dynasty. In his youth, Han Xin was extremely poor, surviving on the charity of others. One of his benefactors was an old woman known as Piao Mu, a clothes-washer who, despite her own struggles, generously shared her meals with him.

Touched by her kindness, Han Xin promised he would one day repay her. But Piao Mu replied that she wanted nothing; she only hoped he would pursue great ambitions and grow up to be a true gentleman.

Years later, Han Xin rose to become a brilliant general under Liu Bang, the founder of the Han dynasty. Never forgetting Piao Mu’s kindness, he brought her gold to express his gratitude. She embodied the spirit of giving without expectation. In turn, Han Xin represented the spirit of receiving kindness without forgetting it.

But Han Xin’s story has a darker counterpart: ingratitude. The central figure of that story is none other than Liu Bang himself. Though Han Xin’s brilliance was instrumental in building his empire, the emperor saw gratitude to his “founding heroes” not as an honor but as a humiliation—a reminder of his own ignoble past. Once his throne was secure, Liu Bang systematically eliminated his benefactors—his brothers-in-arms—and Han Xin was among the first to fall.

Legend says that as Han Xin was led to his execution, Liu Bang laughed loudly, then burst into tears. Was this just theater? Or maybe, was it his truest moment? Perhaps his laughter and tears were not a contradiction but a pure portrait of a mind freeing itself from the weight of gratitude, yet tormented by its own betrayal.

I tell this story to say that I do not want my students, or anyone, to feel indebted to me. The reason is simple: so as not to wound their self-respect, so they can live fully under the banner of freedom, not enslaved to someone else’s thought or shadow. 

Education, at its core, is liberation. True gratitude arises voluntarily when someone becomes a lighthouse in our lives. That gratitude is voluntary, simple, pure, and most importantly, represents the nobility of the human spirit.

Whether my students choose to feel gratitude towards me or not, I do not mind. Gratitude, after all, is an inner reflex of the soul. It must not, and should not, be an imposed command under the banner of morality, manipulated and exploited by others.

Politicized Education and the Monopoly on Gratitude

Since I was a child, I have felt that mandatory “gratitude” toward teachers was nonsensical. Not everything a teacher imparts is enlightening, nor is every teacher’s philosophy worth adopting. Not every teacher is sincere in their duty, let alone deserving of eternal gratitude.

In Confucian-influenced societies, the teacher was elevated to a lofty status, second only to the ruler and even above the father. “Respecting teachers” thus became a faith-like devotion, a near-absolute reverence—with no room for doubt—that suffocates children and kills free will.

Why bring this up? Because the slogans ring familiar: “Forever grateful to the Party,” “Grateful to the State.”

This is the same mentality: an education oriented toward obligatory gratitude. Curricula are designed to implant these obligatory, unnatural sentiments, turning gratitude into a duty devoid of emotion. 

At what point does gratitude stop being an ethical matter and become a political instrument? 

For me, it is when “gratitude” is tied to an ideology, a party, or a regime, and students are taught that loyalty is repayment. This is the politicization of education; it is no longer about personal development but about reinforcing a political order wrapped in the language of gratitude. This is especially true when monopolized by a single ideology.

This system is a “feudal residue” from a time when teachers held a monopoly on knowledge—when education was the privilege of the minority. Teaching was no longer about duty; teachers could choose their students or reject them outright.

In that era, learning was framed from the start as an indebtedness. Today, this residue is used to teach students that everything—schools, roads, peace—is a gift of the ruling regime. This narrative erases the contributions of the private sector, civil society, and the international community. 

Once a matter of morality and conscience, gratitude was rationalized into duty. Repaying gratitude is no longer a free choice, but a prerequisite for being a “proper citizen,” binding individuals to an exclusive ideology. 

Dissent or even doubt is labeled as “ungrateful” or “treacherous.” 

Education has transformed into a psychological and social mechanism for enforcing compliance.

This approach is hardly new. Under Nazi Germany, Baldur von Schirach, leader of the Hitler Youth, declared: “The true, great act of education for a people lies in engraving upon its youth blind obedience, unwavering loyalty, unconditional comradeship, and absolute trust.” 

In North Korea, children are indoctrinated from kindergarten to revere the Kim dynasty. Textbooks such as Flower Petals describe Kim Il-Sung, Kim Jong-Il, and Kim Jong-Un as the nation’s eternal symbols [1]; every class, every activity reinforces loyalty to the Supreme Leader and the Juche ideology [2].

In Stalin’s Soviet Union, “gratitude to the Party” and “gratitude to Stalin” permeated all aspects of education. This kind of “gratitude education,” in any society, is the hallmark of authoritarianism.

The Heavier the Debt, the Deeper the Resentment

Returning to the story of Han Xin and Liu Bang, we see a psychological law: the greater the debt, the deeper the resentment, especially when gratitude is used as a tool of control. For Liu Bang, Han Xin’s victories were looming shadows over his own glory. The very sense of “owing” at a national scale became a wound to his pride. When gratitude becomes humiliation, betrayal often follows.

Seen this way, an education that forces gratitude is a double-edged sword. Anything artificial is bound to carry hidden dangers.

When a person or a political system constantly reminds you to “remember your debt,” you should ask: Do they truly care for you, or are they simply using gratitude as a chain? 

This toxic expectation weighs on those who receive, sowing guilt, resentment, and unescapable moral conflict. 

History itself bears witness to the bloodstained legacy of “toxic gratitude.”

In the 18th century, the notion of “grateful slaves” left an indelible stain. Africans in chains, stripped of freedom, were still expected to bow in thanks to “kind masters.” This reinforced white supremacy, turning even minimal kindness into oppression into supposed great benevolence, enough to demand eternal submission.

One might think such toxic gratitude belongs only to history. But it still exists today—woven into international relations, injected into education, deployed as a subtle instrument of control, or cloaked in the rhetoric of “kindness.”

So if you truly love someone, especially your students, do not burden them with a lifetime of “gratitude.” Do not bend their backs under the guise of morality and tradition. Learning, in the end, is about living with your head held high—to freely choose your own path and your own meaning. And when one learns to do that, one realizes that the wide, high sky above has always been free, not bestowed as a gift by any regime.