Like many Samoans, I felt a deep heaviness reading the news that two young men from Samoa had been arrested in Vietnam over the fatal shooting of a Samoan Australian man in Ho Chi Minh City.
Vietnamese authorities have reported that the two Samoan nationals were arrested after the shooting on 21 May 2026. They have also alleged that the men acted under instructions from someone overseas. The matter is still before authorities, and it is important that the legal process is allowed to take its course.
But as a Samoan woman and mother, born and raised in Samoa, and now living and working as a criminologist and researcher in Australia, I cannot read this story as just another crime report.
I see young men from our islands caught in something far bigger than themselves. I see a man whose life has been taken. I see families on all sides grieving, shocked and searching for answers. I see shame, anger, confusion and fear moving through our community.
Most of all, I see a warning.
This piece is not written to defend violence. A life has been lost, another person has been seriously injured, and that must never be minimised. It is also not written to shame Samoa, demonise Pacific men, or add to the harmful stereotypes already placed on our young people.
I write this because we need to look beyond the headline and ask the harder question: who is reaching into our communities, who is targeting our young people, and who is hiding behind them while they carry the blame?
If the reports are correct that these young men were taking instructions from someone overseas, then we must look beyond the two Samoan faces now shown in the media. We need to ask who planned this, who paid for it, who held the power, and who was left to carry the risk.
In organised crime, the people we see are not always the people in control. Too often, it is the young men at the bottom who are left exposed. They are the ones arrested, named in the news, locked away, and remembered with shame by families and villages. Meanwhile, those who recruit them, pay them, direct them, and profit from their actions often remain out of sight — protected by money, distance, silence and influence.
This is how organised crime protects itself. It places the greatest risk on those with the least power. Young people become useful because they are visible, replaceable and easier to abandon. They carry the public shame, the court case, the prison sentence and the pain left behind in their families. Those who benefit most often carry none of it.
That is why we must look beyond the faces shown in the media and ask who is really in control, who is making money, and who is being sacrificed.
That is what worries me most.
This may be the new face of organised crime in the Pacific. It does not always arrive with obvious warning signs. It can come quietly — through a phone call, a message online, travel, debt, fast money, false promises, fear, pressure from others, or the simple need to belong. By the time parents, churches or villages realise something is wrong, a young person may already be caught in something dangerous.
That is what makes our young people vulnerable. They can be targeted not because they are bad, but because they are seen by others as useful, desperate, and easy to discard.
As a criminologist, I do not believe crime happens in isolation. People make choices, yes. But those choices are often shaped by poverty, inequality, racism, unemployment, trauma, migration, and the global systems around us. Organised networks understand this. They know who is struggling. They know who needs money. They know who wants status. They know who feels forgotten.
That is why we must be careful not to punish only the young brown bodies left at the end of the chain, while ignoring the powerful hands that may have pulled the strings.
Our Pacific history has taught us this lesson many times.
Pacific people have often been welcomed when our labour, bodies or talents were needed, and blamed when political or economic conditions changed. In New Zealand, many Pacific families were encouraged to migrate during labour shortages. They helped build factories, industries, churches and communities. But when the economy shifted, Pacific people became easy targets. The Dawn Raids remain one of the clearest examples of this — families were questioned, raided and humiliated, not because they were the only overstayers, but because they were visible, brown, and politically convenient to blame.
That history matters because it shows a pattern. Pacific people can be celebrated when useful, blamed when convenient, and criminalised when society refuses to confront deeper problems. We must not allow that pattern to continue — not in Samoa, not in New Zealand, and not anywhere across the Pacific.
Today, the Pacific is facing pressures our parents and grandparents could not have imagined in the same way. Drugs, organised crime, money laundering, online networks and cross-border crime are no longer distant problems happening somewhere else. They are already moving through our region.
The Australian Federal Police recently warned that drug trafficking through the Pacific has become a serious national security concern, with 17 tonnes of illicit drugs, mostly cocaine, seized in the Pacific since January 2026. The AFP has also acknowledged that much of this movement is driven by Australian demand and the high prices paid in Australia.
That matters.
If wealthy countries help create the demand, the money and the market, they cannot leave small Pacific nations to carry the damage alone. Samoa, Fiji, Tonga and other Pacific nations must not be treated as soft targets, transit routes, or recruitment grounds for global criminal networks.
We are not powerless, but we must be awake.
Samoa has already recognised the growing concern around drugs and young people. In April 2026, the Government of Samoa, Japan and UNICEF announced a four-year project to strengthen prevention and support for children and adolescents affected by drug use. UNICEF also raised concerns about drug use, mental health, and young people coming into contact with the law.
This is important work — but it cannot stop there.
We need prevention before prison. We need family support before shame. We need village awareness before recruitment. We need real opportunities for our young people before organised crime offers them a dangerous one.
Government, churches, schools, villages, police, health services and families all have a role to play. We need to speak openly with our young people about drugs, organised crime, online recruitment, debt, violence and the false promise of fast money. These conversations must be led with love, not only anger.
Young people will not come forward if they believe they will only be judged. Families will stay silent if shame is the first response. And communities will miss the warning signs if we continue to say, “this is not our problem”.
It is our problem now.
But it is not Samoa’s problem alone.
Australia, New Zealand, the United States and other powerful countries must also be honest about their role in the region. If their drug markets, border politics, organised crime conflicts, economic interests and wider security agendas are affecting Pacific communities, then they have a responsibility to work with us properly — not only when crime reaches the headlines.
We are already seeing what can happen when organised crime and drug markets take hold in small Pacific nations. Fiji is a painful warning. Its growing drug crisis is now tied to a serious HIV outbreak, with health authorities and international agencies warning that unsafe injecting drug use is driving new infections. This is not simply a “drug problem”. It becomes a family problem, a health problem, a youth problem, a justice problem and a national problem. It brings stigma, silence, fear, untreated illness and more pressure on already stretched services. Samoa and the wider Pacific must learn from this now, not later.
That means investing in Pacific-led prevention, youth development, intelligence sharing, rehabilitation, mental health support, harm reduction, border protection and culturally grounded justice responses. It also means listening to Pacific communities, not speaking over us.
This is not about blaming one country or one group of people. It is about recognising a hard truth: global crime follows global inequality. Powerful people often profit, while vulnerable people are left to carry the cost.
The Vietnam case should make us pause. Not to panic. Not to shame Samoa. Not to feed racist stereotypes about Pacific men.
It should make us ask: how do we protect our young people before they are recruited, used and discarded?
They are young men with families, villages and futures that should never be reduced to one headline or one moment of public shame.
If wrongdoing has occurred, there must be accountability. But accountability cannot stop with the young men left standing in front of the world. It must also reach those who recruit, direct and profit from organised crime. It must reach the systems that allow poverty, silence and vulnerability to grow. And it must reach governments that speak of Pacific partnership, while failing to protect Pacific futures.
Samoa must respond with courage. The Pacific must respond together. And the world must stop treating small island nations as easy places to exploit.
This is not about fear.
It is about love.
Love for the man whose life was taken, and for the family now grieving him. Love for the families carrying shame, pain and unanswered questions. Love for our young people who may be struggling quietly, unseen by those around them. Love for Samoa, and for the Pacific generations still to come.
If we truly love our people, we cannot look away. Organised crime is no longer a distant problem. It is moving closer, changing shape, and finding ways to reach our young people before we do.
We must wake up, speak honestly, and act early — before more of our young men are lost.
Disclaimer: Dr. Emma Tufuga is a Samoan criminologist and researcher based at the National Drug Research Institute in Perth, Western Australia. The views expressed are her own.
