On Wednesday evening, the relentless downpour outside mirrored the charged anticipation inside the Powerhouse, where the audience waited to hear the music that had defied an entire government.

Khoi’s voice tore through the air, echoing with defiance. The Vietnamese artist and activist, often called the “Lady Gaga of Vietnam,” brought her unconventional performance to Amherst, filling the space with an intensity that left the audience in awe.

The event was organized by the Women’s and Gender Center and co-sponsored by the Office of Identity and Cultural Resources, the Asian Language and Civilization Department, the Office of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, the Music Department, the Southeast Asian Students Association, the Multicultural Resource Center, the Center for International Student Engagement, the Sexuality, Women’s and Gender Studies Department, and the Asian American and Pacific Islander Department. In a powerful duet performance with pianist Mark Micchelli, Mai Khoi’s set, “Bad Activist,” was a raw, unfiltered exploration of rebellion, resilience, and resistance, blending elements of folk, jazz, and punk music with avant-garde performance art. The set showcased her distinctive voice — unapologetic, emotive, and deeply political — capturing the audience with the power of her experiences.

So, who is this daring dissident, and what is the story she is trying to tell?

Khoi opened her musical performance and multimedia autobiography stage show, titled “Bad Activist,” by describing her experiences in Cam Ranh, Vietnam, where she grew up in poverty in the 1990s. The lingering effects of the “American War” meant that nights often passed with empty stomachs, dreaming of tofu her family couldn’t afford. Music, however, was a constant companion. She painted a vivid picture of her father drawing piano keys on a cardboard box so she could learn to play, of school days spent singing state-approved praise for Ho Chi Minh, the leader of Vietnam’s communist regime, and of the moment she realized that even music was not truly free in Vietnam. “At home, my father mocked the government,” she told the audience. “For that, he was sent to a reeducation camp.” When he returned, he was changed: no more jokes, no more bell-bottom pants that had once defied government bans. He had been silenced.

Khoi, however, was just getting started.

Despite the risks, she held onto her dream: “I always wanted to be a pop star,” she declared.

By age 12, Khoi was already earning money from small gigs. During her performance, she spoke of the years she spent working tirelessly toward her dream of being a famous pop singer, performing up to seven shows a night after graduating high school. After moving to Saigon, she was constantly racing across the city on her motorbike with her best friend, both chasing the shared dream of stardom. Success didn’t come easily. Her first two albums flopped, but they introduced her to the industry. Then, a breakthrough came when she was asked to sing the theme song for a soap opera. The song exploded across the nation, playing in cafes, bars, and radio stations nonstop. Her fame soared. Eventually, “VN” (meaning “Vietnam”), her song about her love for her country, even won the Vietnamese Song Award in 2010, the country’s highest award for songwriting. The government welcomed her into the fold, inviting her to perform at state events. She was given lavish gifts by government officials, including a cell phone covered in diamonds. On talk shows, she gave advice on beauty and staying young. But she soon found herself at odds with the very system that had embraced her. Life was easy — until it wasn’t.

Her voice turned solemn as she described her growing unease with state censorship. Her transformation from pop sensation to political dissident was catalyzed by the suffocating censorship imposed by Vietnam’s one-party state.

In contemporary Vietnam, music must be approved in advance by state censors connected to the Ministry of Culture before it is publicly performed, broadcast, or released. Rehearsing for performances, Khoi found herself scrutinized by government censors, who monitored every lyric and every movement. The exhaustion of artistic suppression grew unbearable.

A conversation with a dissident poet who opposed this structure changed everything for Khoi. His words ignited in her a desire for change. When she learned that Vietnamese citizens could nominate themselves for the National Assembly and create change from within the system, she made an unthinkable move.

On March 9, 2016, Khoi declared her candidacy, and the country erupted in controversy. “No celebrity had ever done this before,” she said, shaking her head. The room listened intently as she described how her campaign sparked debate across the world, with journalists lining up to interview her. For the first time, the people of Vietnam, long unaware of their political rights, began to speculate about the system.

The government, however, saw Khoi as a threat. Two weeks after the announcement, police raided one of her concerts. Overnight, her shows were canceled. Friends began distancing themselves. Even her best friend, someone she had once shared dreams of being a pop star with, warned others to stay away from her. And then, the final blow: “I was erased,” she said simply. Her name was missing from the official candidate list. The government had made their decision for her.

But she wasn’t done fighting. Khoi’s performance intensified as she recounted her shift to international advocacy.

In 2016, Former President Barack Obama was set to visit Vietnam that year, so Khoi made a video urging Obama to use his influence to help Vietnam’s political prisoners. Her message went viral, and the United States Embassy reached out — her plan had worked. But now, the police followed her every move. In Vietnam, one in six working adults is either a police officer or an informant. Khoi couldn’t sleep, fearing her arrest. On the day of the meeting, she navigated multiple police checkpoints before entering the conference room, where Obama introduced her as a courageous artist fighting for freedom of speech. Sitting beside him, she made her case: “If you want to be our hero, use your leverage to release political prisoners,” she said. But his response was diplomatic and vague: “Just be patient,” he responded. Khoi left the meeting disillusioned, realizing she couldn’t engage in the colonial mentality any longer; the audience murmured as she shared, “Vietnam had to fight for itself. The West wouldn’t save us.”

And so, Khoi reinvented herself once again. She formed Mai Khoi and The Dissidents, a band dedicated to unfiltered artistic expression and activism. Their music tackled themes of oppression, human rights, and state control — an audacious act in a country where free speech is criminalized. Police raids became routine. “We played underground. We played until we couldn’t anymore,” she said. Still, Khoi refused to give up.

Her activism reached a boiling point when she staged a bold protest against President Donald Trump’s visit to Hanoi in 2017. Her sign reading “P(iss)eace on You, Trump” provoked backlash from all sides, from nationalists who supported Trump for his stance on China to conservatives who despised the audacity of a woman confronting power. Abandoned by allies and hunted by police, she found herself isolated, questioning her own capabilities.

“I thought that maybe I’m just a bad activist,” she admitted, her voice tinged with remorse and sadness. “Maybe all I do is make people angry.” Instead of building a movement, “all I do is make people angry. Maybe I should just go back to music.” But no matter how hard she tried, the music wouldn’t come. Not a single note.

Then in 2018, Khoi received an email: she had won the Václav Havel Human Rights Prize. She flew to Oslo to collect her award, but in Vietnam, news of her award was censored. When people tried to read about it online, all they saw was: “This content is not appropriate.”

When she landed back in Vietnam, she handed her passport to immigration officials, and the government made its stance clear. “The scanner beeped at immigration. Four officers surrounded me. I had just enough time to send one text to my family: ‘Detained.’” The audience sat frozen as she described the windowless interrogation room, the chilling silence, the realization that many activists never made it out. She was released, but the writing was on the wall.

Since 2019, Khoi has lived in exile in the U.S.

As her performance neared its end, Khoi’s voice softened. “I think about Vietnam every day,” she said. But she warned against waiting for a hero: “That’s a lie told by the powerful to keep the powerless from rising up.” Real change, she insisted, comes from ordinary people taking small but courageous steps.

Khoi’s presence was commanding; her music visceral. As she sang, her voice carried the weight of a thousand untold stories — the experiences of suppressed activists. The audience, transfixed, witnessed not just a musician, but a woman who had risked everything for her truth.

Khoi served as a stark reminder of the cost of speaking out in an authoritarian regime but also of the indomitable spirit of those who refuse to be silenced. Her message was clear: activism is for everyone. Even if it means being a “bad activist,” what matters is standing for the truth.

Jayda Ma ’28

The True Meaning Behind Being a “Bad Activist”