What COVID-19 & Vietnam Taught Me About Collectivism

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When I was 15 and living in Missouri, my world history teacher introduced me to new terms to describe societies: “collectivist” and “individualist.” 

As a sophomore, I felt these concepts were intuitive. An individualist society has people who focus primarily on themselves and personal rights. A collectivist society tends to focus on the broader group. 

Individualistic = individuals are #1. Collectivistic = the group is #1. Easy. Done. 

Over the following ten years, I’d leave Missouri and spend long stretches living in societies that my history textbook labeled as “collectivist:” China, Taiwan, and Vietnam. Yet, when I looked at my friends there, I found it difficult to distinguish between my peers in the US and in Asia. My classmates in Taiwan didn’t feel particularly selfless, just like I didn’t think my US friends were entirely self-centered. 

Only living in Vietnam during the age of coronavirus have I started to understand what “collectivism” really means. As I’ve learned these past few months, it’s quite different from the simple “group vs. individual” distinction I’d made in high school. One society is not “selfless,” and the other is not “selfish.” Instead, different norms manifest themselves. Below, I lay out some of my learnings about collectivism since the coronavirus outbreak in January. 

Collectivism can be as much about social shaming as social selflessness 

In high school, I thought that the only mechanism to be collectivist was to reward people who prioritized the group. However, what I didn’t realize is that punishment – usually social punishment – can play as large of a role. 

In Vietnam, gossip plays an essential role in maintaining social cohesion and alignment. During the Coronavirus outbreak, I’ve heard numerous people – from taxi drivers, to professors, to CEOs – openly shame or complain about people who don’t follow norms that protect others. For example, in Vietnam, a few patients have been the subject of viral criticism in the country. One example is a patient, whose number I leave anonymous, who traveled to Europe in early March, and developed a mild cough before their flight back to Vietnam. At the time of flight, they did not appear to have a fever. When they returned, their coughing increased and they admitted themself into a hospital. Later on, numerous other cases would be linked to this individual and that flight back to Vietnam. 

What followed for this patient is what I’d consider a public shaming. The person’s contact information was found and shared online – and dozens of media articles lambasted their lack of public consciousness. Why did they come back to Vietnam if they were coughing? Gossip about the patient was rampant with even their name and address leaked publicly. What this patient did, when viewed from an individual perspective, was not intentionally malignant. However, society in Vietnam made them into an example and warning for others. A collective ethos was achieved not by praising selflessness, but by shaming someone who inadvertently hurt others. 

In collectivist societies, social norms spread and are universally adopted more quickly 

During the coronavirus outbreak, I’ve noticed that my Vietnamese friends seem to be more in-tune with social norms and their change. When I spoke with my friends in the US in early March, I saw a wide staggering of opinions and actions about COVID-19. Some of my friends were self-isolating; many were not. The norms of what was “right” and “wrong” were not yet clear and not yet adopted. 

In Vietnam, however, I’ve seen new norms emerge and spread quickly within days. For example, the use of facemasks became almost universal within the first few weeks of March in Vietnam. Meanwhile, in the United States, I’ve seen my friends openly debate their efficacy with one another. Regardless of what facemasks do and don’t do, it was clear that a new norm quickly embedded itself into society in Vietnam. This sensitivity to new norms reflects a trait of collectivism that I hadn’t appreciated before entering this tumultuous period. 

Personal “liberties” are a weaker concept and sit morally below “public consciousness” 

Language often reflects what does and doesn’t matter in a society. In Vietnamese and Chinese, for example, there is a widely used word to describe “public consciousness” – a somewhat awkward-sounding concept in English. 意识 in Chinese or Y Th?c in Vietnamese describes someone who thinks and acts with society in mind. A phrase in Vietnam you’d hear is “Anh ?y kh?ng có y th?c” or “That man does not have public consciousness.” Though awkward sounding in English, the phrase is very clear in Vietnamese. This person isn’t morally-oriented towards others and society.  

In English, on the other hand, conversations about personal liberties are built into the language. Words like “personal rights,” “freedoms,” and “privileges” are all widespread and commonly used in English settings. Though these words can be easily translated into Vietnamese or Chinese, they tend to feel just like that – translations. 

The result is that personal liberties can be broken more easily and with less protest in a collectivist society. Whereas a lockdown in Texas is often described as an “extreme” but perhaps necessary action, the same government decision in Vietnam is not seen nearly as excessive – a person with Y Th?c would likely already be self-quarantining. 

People readily make decisions that helps others with little benefit to themselves

(e.g, facemasks, self-quarantine, etc.) 

In February, one of the most common debates I’d have with my Vietnamese or Chinese friends would be the use of general surgical facemasks. “They have no use,” I remember telling one friend repeating what I’d learned from Western media, “they don’t protect you from contracting the virus and only stop from spreading it slightly.” 

My friends would often look at me strangely and then offer a simple counterpoint. “So, why don’t we all wear it to slow the spreading?” I’d try to retort with another point on personal protection and hoarding, but I’d often find myself stumped. Why was my first impulse to think about masks as useless if they didn’t provide protection to me? 

For decades now, the wearing of masks in public has been common in many parts of Asia. Often times, this is to reduce personal exposure to pollution, but commonly it’s also because a person feels sick and does not want to spread their sickness to others. Even though wearing a mask indoors might single you out, the norm is that you do it because it’s helpful for those around you. The norm is about others not about yourself.

This point, I think, affirms my initial understanding of collectivism. When people make decisions, the norms of society make them seriously consider how it might affect others alongside themselves. It’s not that people become selfless, but rather that their thinking often starts with the impact on others before returning to oneself. 

If there is one positive outcome of the coronavirus, it is that I have learned about the depth and power of these cultures in Asia. My sense is that after this is over, or at least abated, we will return to the question of “What did the nations in Asia do right?” and “What can the rest of the world learn?” Long-term, I expect many societies around the world – including the US – will want to inject some of this “collectivism” into the national ethos.  

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