EXCLUSIVE: The £9.5B Gamble on Long Thanh International Airport and the People Left Behind
The official renderings are breathtaking. A colossal terminal roof, shimmering with 82 meters of glass, curves into the elegant shape of a lotus flower—Vietnam’s national symbol. Below it, a vision of the future: a bustling, state-of-the-art mega-hub with four runways, capable of welcoming 100 million passengers a year. This is Long Thanh International Airport, a £9.5 billion statement of intent etched into the landscape 25 miles outside Ho Chi Minh City. Set to open its first phase in 2026, it is designed to catapult Vietnam into the premier league of global aviation and transform its tourism industry. But beneath the gleam of architectural ambition lies a far more complex and sobering story—one of immense financial risk, environmental trade-offs, and the profound human cost paid by the very people who once called this land home.
For decades, travelers to southern Vietnam have been funneled through the chronically congested and overwhelmed corridors of Tan Son Nhat International Airport. Hemmed in by the urban sprawl of Ho Chi Minh City, its expansion is impossible, creating a bottleneck that has throttled the nation’s growth. Long Thanh is the audacious solution, a project of almost unimaginable scale designed not just to alleviate pressure but to dominate. The government’s ambition is clear: to create a regional nexus for Southeast Asia travel, directly challenging the supremacy of Singapore's Changi and Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi. Phase one alone is set to handle 25 million passengers annually, a number projected to quadruple by 2040, making it one of the largest airports on the planet.
This grand vision is the centerpiece of a broader strategy of economic development. Vietnam has been globally recognized as one of the world’s most affordable long-haul destinations, a haven for backpackers and budget-conscious tourists drawn by 30p glasses of Bia Hoi and £23-a-night hotel rooms. The new airport, proponents argue, will unlock the next stage of Vietnam tourism, attracting a wider, more affluent demographic and facilitating a boom in trade and investment. New motorways, a metro line, and a high-speed rail link are all part of the master plan, promising seamless integration with the economic heart of the country.
But progress on this scale is never without a price. The 5,000 hectares of land upon which Long Thanh is being built were not empty. For generations, they were a patchwork of villages, farms, and vast rubber plantations, supporting the livelihoods of thousands of families. According to official figures, the project required the relocation of more than 5,000 households—over 15,000 people. While the government established resettlement sites and offered compensation packages, the process has been fraught with difficulty and dissent. Reports from the ground, often overlooked in the triumphant official narrative, have detailed disputes over the valuation of land that had been in families for generations, and the struggle of farmers forced to adapt to new, often urbanized, livelihoods. The social fabric of entire communities has been irrevocably torn to build this monument to modernity. The empathetic question lingers: can a nation truly fly into the future by bulldozing its past?
Beyond the human toll, the project represents a colossal financial gamble. The £9.5 billion (approximately VND 336 trillion) price tag is a staggering sum for a developing nation. The funding is a complex mix of government capital and debt, placing immense pressure on the national budget. For this bet to pay off, the optimistic passenger projections must become a reality. If global tourism trends shift, if regional competition proves too stiff, or if the global economy falters, Long Thanh risks becoming a gleaming, and cripplingly expensive, white elephant. The history of large-scale airport infrastructure is littered with cautionary tales of projects that failed to meet their lofty goals, leaving nations saddled with debt for decades.
This development also forces a critical conversation about the identity of Vietnam as a destination. The very "cheapness" that has made it so popular is a double-edged sword, often leading to the strains of over-tourism in hotspots like Hoi An and Ha Long Bay. Will a massive new airport simply pour fuel on that fire, further overwhelming local infrastructure and diluting the cultural authenticity that visitors seek? Or can it be leveraged to promote a more sustainable, high-value model of tourism? The new airport will undoubtedly make Vietnam more accessible, but whether it makes it a better place for both tourists and locals remains the central, unanswered question.
As construction crews work around the clock to bring the lotus-shaped vision to life, Long Thanh International Airport stands as a powerful symbol of modern Vietnam: ambitious, forward-looking, and fiercely competitive. It is a testament to the nation’s desire to claim its place on the world stage. Yet it is also a somber monument to the hidden costs of mega-projects, a reminder that the path to economic development is often paved over the lives and lands of the vulnerable. When the first international flights touch down in 2026, it will be hailed as a national triumph. But its true success will be measured not just in passenger numbers or profit margins, but in whether the prosperity it promises is shared by all, including those who were asked to sacrifice everything for its creation.
