When Canh and Nghia stood beneath strings of red lanterns in late December, the scene unfolding around them looked unmistakably familiar to anyone who has ever attended a wedding in Vietnam. Elders waited patiently for the tea ceremony, incense curled upward from the ancestor altar, and relatives exchanged knowing smiles as trays of gifts—gold wrapped in red paper, envelopes of cash—were carried forward. The only detail that quietly unsettled convention was also the most obvious one: both people at the center of the celebration were men. Their wedding was joyful, lavish, and deeply traditional, and yet it existed in a strange legal limbo, celebrated by family and community but invisible to the state.
Over two days, ceremonies were held at both families’ homes, honoring a custom that emphasizes not only romantic union but the merging of lineages. Parents offered blessings, relatives applauded, and photographs of the two grooms circulated widely online. For many observers, the images felt both radical and reassuring. Radical because same-sex marriage is still not legally recognized in Vietnam; reassuring because everything else about the wedding looked so ordinary. In that ordinariness lies much of its quiet power.
Vietnam’s legal stance on same-sex relationships is often described as permissive but non-recognitive. Same-sex relationships themselves are legal, and since 2014 the country has no longer banned same-sex wedding ceremonies. Before that reform, local authorities could—and sometimes did—intervene to stop such celebrations. The revised law removed penalties and effectively allowed couples to celebrate openly. At the same time, it explicitly states that the state does not recognize marriages between people of the same sex. The result is a carefully balanced ambiguity: love may be celebrated, but it cannot be registered.
This legal halfway point has shaped a new social reality. Couples like Canh and Nghia can exchange vows, wear traditional dress, honor ancestors, and receive family blessings, yet they remain legal strangers when it comes to inheritance, joint property, hospital decision-making, or spousal protections. Many manage these gaps through private contracts, wills, or informal family arrangements, but the absence of automatic rights becomes painfully clear in moments of illness, death, or dispute.
What makes weddings like theirs especially significant is how deeply they draw on Vietnamese cultural norms. Marriage in Vietnam is not merely a personal affair; it is a public affirmation of filial duty and social continuity, influenced by Confucian values that place family at the center of moral life. For decades, LGBTQ people were implicitly told that such rituals were not meant for them, that their lives existed outside the narrative of ancestors, lineage, and social respectability. By performing these rituals fully, same-sex couples are not rejecting tradition but reclaiming it.
Canh and Nghia’s wedding is part of a growing pattern. In 2018, a gay couple in Hai Phong held a fairy-tale-style wedding that drew national attention and widespread online support. Earlier cases were more fraught. In 2012, a lesbian couple in the Mekong Delta saw their planned ceremony halted by local authorities, an incident that sparked intense media debate and helped push the issue of marriage equality into public consciousness. Since then, especially in urban areas such as Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi, same-sex couples have increasingly held full traditional ceremonies, often sharing them openly on social media.
These public celebrations have coincided with a noticeable shift in social attitudes. Pride events now take place annually in major cities, universities host discussions on sexual diversity, and more parents are willing to support LGBTQ children openly. Surveys over recent years suggest that a majority of Vietnamese people now support some form of legal recognition for same-sex couples, even if opinions vary on the exact shape such recognition should take. Acceptance, while uneven and often quieter in rural areas, is no longer confined to activist circles.
Still, progress remains fragile. Vietnam has no comprehensive anti-discrimination law explicitly protecting people on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity, and social pressure to conform to heterosexual marriage norms remains strong. Many LGBTQ individuals continue to come out selectively, balancing honesty with family expectations. In this context, a public wedding is not just a celebration but a calculated act of visibility, one that relies heavily on family support and local goodwill.
For Canh and Nghia, the decision to celebrate publicly was rooted less in activism than in belonging. They wanted their parents to be honored, their ancestors acknowledged, and their commitment recognized by the people who matter most to them. The absence of a marriage certificate does not erase the memory of parents smiling through the tea ceremony or relatives cheering as they posed for photos. In many ways, those moments carry more immediate weight than legal recognition.
Vietnam’s path toward marriage equality is unlikely to be abrupt. Change here tends to come through accumulation rather than confrontation, through lived examples rather than sweeping declarations. Each wedding like Canh and Nghia’s adds another familiar image to the collective imagination, making it harder to argue that same-sex love is foreign or incompatible with Vietnamese values. Long before the law changes, culture is already adjusting.
In that sense, their wedding was not only a personal milestone but a small marker in a broader social shift. Amid lantern light, incense smoke, and family laughter, two men affirmed their commitment in a language Vietnam knows well. The state may not yet have words for their marriage, but society, increasingly, does.
After thirty years of watching how societies pretend to change while laws drag their feet, I have learned one thing: culture always moves first, paperwork comes later. That’s why when I saw the images of two grooms standing proudly in a very traditional Vietnamese wedding, surrounded by parents, aunties, gold gifts, ancestor altars and smiling neighbors, I didn’t think, “How shocking.” I thought, “Of course.” Of course this is how change actually happens in Asia — not with rainbow flags storming parliament, but with families quietly deciding that love is not the problem.
Let’s be very clear: these weddings are not “Western imports” or some Instagram trend cooked up by urban elites. They are deeply Vietnamese affairs. Tea is poured. Ancestors are honored. Elders are respected. Families merge. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit the old script is that both people at the center happen to be men. And yet the sky does not fall. The family name survives. The neighbors still eat, gossip, and go home satisfied.
What makes these ceremonies powerful is precisely their ordinariness. No slogans, no megaphones, no demands shouted into the void. Just two people saying, “This is my partner,” and a family saying, “Fine. Sit down. Drink your tea.” In societies shaped by Confucian values, family acceptance matters more than any abstract legal debate. Once parents say yes, the rest of society slowly follows.
And yet — here comes the part where Auntie sighs deeply — the law remains stubbornly stuck in its favorite position: polite avoidance. Same-sex weddings are allowed, but marriage is “not recognized.” Translation: you may love, but don’t expect protection. No automatic inheritance. No spousal hospital rights. No legal safety net when things go wrong. Romance is permitted; security is not.
This legal limbo is exhausting. It forces couples to live as legal strangers while performing all the emotional, economic, and caregiving labor of marriage. It rewards silence and punishes visibility. And it relies heavily on family goodwill — which, let’s be honest, not everyone has.
But here’s the good news. Once families start throwing weddings, the law’s excuses look increasingly ridiculous. When aunties give gold and uncles make speeches, it becomes harder for lawmakers to pretend these relationships are hypothetical. These couples are not asking for special treatment. They are asking for the same boring protections straight couples take for granted.
So to the grooms, the brides, the non-binary lovers quietly rewriting tradition from inside it: keep celebrating. Keep inviting the relatives. Keep being unmistakably normal. You are doing more for equality with one wedding banquet than a hundred policy papers ever could.
And to the lawmakers still clutching their “not yet” language: hurry up. Society has already moved on.