Dear Phạm Đoan Trang,
I have never had the privilege of meeting you.
I write this from an office—a conceptual one, at least—that you helped build. I am a part of Legal Initiatives for Vietnam (LIV), more specifically The Vietnamese Magazine. I only know you through your words, your reputation, and the countless stories I’ve read about you. All of these speak to your brilliance, your character, and a courage that I struggle to even comprehend.
I am writing to you in an act that feels both necessary and absurd—absurd because you cannot read it, and because the very act of writing it is a continuation of the work that cost you your freedom.
I want to sit down with you and talk. I want to ask about your books, about what it was like to build Luật Khoa and The Vietnamese Magazine from nothing. But as you wrote yourself, it is “too easy” to want simple things.
So instead, I write this letter, not just to you—in the faint hope that the words might somehow reach you—but to the world that needs to understand what is being done to you. And I do it with just a slight bit of anger, an emotion too commonly found in people from our line of work.
My anger is fueled by irony. Earlier this month, Svenska PEN announced that you are the recipient of the 2025 Tucholsky Prize, awarded for your “tireless fight for freedom of expression and democracy in Vietnam.” It’s another prestigious honor to add to your list of accolades. Clearly, the world sees you as a courageous writer and a staunch defender of human rights.
However, the government of Việt Nam sees you as a criminal.
You, who are celebrated by the global community for your intellect and principles are being held in a cell by your own people. They threw you in jail for journalism, not for “propaganda,” as much as they try to spin the narrative. Your crime was taking the rule of law seriously in a place that flagrantly ignores it. Your crime was publishing books designed not to overthrow, but to educate. You provided Vietnamese people with the language and the concepts to actually understand their own political system. And for that, the state has deemed you a menace, sentencing you to nine years in a cage.
I’ve read about the assaults. I’ve read about the police beating that left you with a permanent, painful limp. I’ve read about the constant surveillance, the harassment, the years of being hounded by the police. When your friends and colleagues begged you to flee Việt Nam for your own safety, you refused. You chose to stay despite the fact that you knew, better than anyone, what was coming.
You even wrote a letter to be published “just in case I am imprisoned.” Who does that? Who has that much foresight and that much acceptance of their own fate?
In that letter, you wrote the words: “I do not want freedom for just myself; that is too easy. I want something greater: freedom for Vietnam.”
They took you, but they could not take the ideals you carried. They could not take the institutions you co-founded nor the books that you wrote. You helped build a refuge and a platform for truly independent Vietnamese media. You laid the foundation for the journalistic integrity that you cemented with your own sacrifice.
Today, Luật Khoa continues to publish. The Vietnamese Magazine continues to bring important stories about Việt Nam to the international community. Legal Initiatives for Vietnam continues to advocate for a just and democratic society in Việt Nam. Despite your absence, the work continues.
This is the only way we know how to fight for you. We cannot physically break down the prison walls. But every single day, we try to make your life’s work even more meaningful.
This piece is part of that. It is my way of introducing myself to you.
The world gives you prizes, and we are immensely proud. But the awards remain hollow if they do not come with a sustained, deafening demand for your release.
I hope that one day our meeting will not be impossible. I hope to see you walk free.
And when that day comes, I hope I will finally have the chance to shake your hand.
In solidarity,
Someone You Have Not Yet Met